He stepped in close, and struck the bottom of the man’s chin with the heel of his hand. The man collapsed.

Something moved in Jonah’s peripheral vision. It was the man who had come up behind him, now on Jonah’s right. He was lifting his arm, raising a firearm of his own before Jonah could move or react. A shot sounded.

Jonah braced himself for the burning pain. It never came. Instead, the gunman lowered his arm, sank to his knees, and fell to his face on the sidewalk.

“Good evening, Paladin,” Burton Horn said. The former GenDel messenger stepped out of the shadows and replaced his own handgun in his pocket. “The Countess of Northwind sends her greetings, and begs me to inform you that she wishes to discuss the matter of Ezekiel Crow with you, in private, as soon as possible.”

“I have her to thank for your timely arrival, then.” Jonah was not going to let Horn outdo him in the sangfroid department, even though the voice of reason—sounding, as it so often did, very much like the voice of Anna—would not be stopped from pointing out the foolishness of such a reaction. “Do you know who these men are?”

“I saw them in Belgorod not too long ago,” Horn said. “They were trying on hats. My contacts tell me that they work for Alexei Suvorov.” He glanced over at the trio of dead or unconscious men. “Some of his more expendable talent, at a guess. Not up to your weight, anyhow.”

“I don’t know. If you hadn’t stopped that last one, I’d be dead by now.”

“Maybe,” said Horn. “But you didn’t look like a guy who was getting ready to give up.”

“If you say so. But I’ve gotten shot before, and believe me, the experience doesn’t get any more enjoyable with repetition.” Jonah looked down at his attackers where they lay on the pavement. The one with the broken knee was starting to groan and twitch feebly. “Suvorov’s men, you said. Am I supposed to know that name?”

“I don’t think so,” Horn replied. “But I get the feeling that someone you do know, does know it. And right now, we should probably go someplace else before the police arrive and start to ask us a lot of awkward questions.”

Hotel Duquesne

Geneva, Terra

Prefecture X

April 3134; local spring

The last time that Tara Campbell had stayed in the Hotel Duquesne, she had been a five-year-old girl following in her Senator mother’s wake. She remembered the marble pillars in the main lobby as being much bigger, like stone trees holding up the sky, and the concierge as an enormous and godlike figure in gold braid and a majestic waxed mustache. The current concierge had to be the same man—you couldn’t possibly find two mustaches like that, even in Geneva. But he was shorter now than she was.

Tara pushed away an inexplicable feeling of disappointment. She was aware of Captain Bishop at her shoulder, trying very hard not to appear impressed by the surroundings. She didn’t think her aide would be cheered by the information that the Countess of Northwind had paused to mourn the loss of another bit of her younger self.

“Countess!” The concierge was beaming at her over the sweep of his mustache. “It’s an honor to have you with us again! Will you be staying here long?”

“I’m sorry, Emil. I’m just here for a conference. I’m in Belgorod, with the rest of the Northwind Highlanders.” She saw his face start to fall, and couldn’t help herself. “Though if things run late, my aide and I may need rooms for the night.”

“It would be our pleasure, Countess,” Emil assured her. “Alas, your mother’s usual suite is currently occupied.”

“That’s all right. Whatever you have will do if we end up staying. For now, if you could let Mr. Bannson know that I’m coming up—”

“Of course.” Emil bustled off.

Captain Bishop, in the wake of his going, murmured, “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, just what was your mother’s usual suite?”

Tara felt her face reddening, and was grateful for the dim lighting of the Duquesne’s lobby. “The penthouse,” she admitted. “Captain, the way things look, whatever’s going down may well be above even my rank, let alone yours. But I’m in it already, and you’re not. Go buy yourself a drink in the hotel bar and keep yourself safe from guilt by association. I’ll call for you if I need you.”

She headed on up to the penthouse suite where Jacob Bannson was waiting. The business tycoon rose from the couch to greet her. She’d seen his image often enough in magazines and on the tri-vids, but this marked the first time she had ever met him in person. She’d thought he would be taller—another disappointment, like the sadly shrunken Emil.

“Welcome, Countess,” he said. “We’ve got lots to talk about, so let’s get down to business.”

“Not yet.” She sat down in the armchair beside the couch. It had been big enough once to hold her younger self and her father both, but as with everything else, it was smaller now. “There’s a third party I want to see involved in this discussion. Not the person we spoke of, but someone else.”

Bannson’s face hardened. “Tell me who. If I don’t like him or her, the whole deal is off.”

Tara reminded herself that behind the outward appearance of the nouveau riche poseur was a ruthless entrepreneur and hardened negotiator, rumored to have more than just metaphorical blood on his hands. “Fair enough,” she said. “Paladin Jonah Levin.”

She waited for several long moments while Bannson played with the hairs of his full orange beard, his eyes squinted half closed in contemplation of something invisible. Finally, he said, “All right. Levin’s no particular friend of mine, but he’s honest. Better yet, everybody in the whole Republic knows that he’s honest. This business can use somebody like that.”

Tara said, miffed, “And I’m not honest enough for you?”

“Countess, you’ve got problems of your own or you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

She couldn’t come up with a counterargument, and was spared the need to think of a reply by the sound of a knock on the penthouse door. Bannson went to the door and admitted Jonah Levin. The Paladin took the second of the room’s two armchairs, leaving Bannson with the couch as before.

“I see that Mr. Horn found you in time,” Tara said to Levin.

“Just in time, as it happened.”

Levin didn’t explain the remark any further, but Tara received the impression that the Paladin, while still maintaining his sober demeanor, was faintly amused about something.

“Mr. Bannson,” he continued. “I understand you have some information that you’re interested in sharing.”

“That’s right.”

Bannson moved over to the antique secretary in one corner of the suite—Tara remembered her mother drafting speeches at it, years ago—and took out a bulky paper envelope. He emptied the contents out onto the inlaid ebony and mother-of-pearl surface of the low table in front of the couch: papers, photographs, letters, and a battered paperback book with a slip of paper marking one page.

“All of these are copies, of course. The originals are kept safe elsewhere.”

“Of course,” Levin said.

I get the point, Tara thought. Jacob Bannson would have brought a copy of that data disc with him on his private DropShip, instead of giving one to poor Lieutenant Jones and leaving the other one in a safe back at The Fort on Northwind. And Paladin Levin would have hand carried the disc all the way from Northwind.

She swallowed her irritation and joined Levin in going through the stuff on the table. Within minutes, her awareness of being the youngest and most inexperienced person in the room had faded away entirely, replaced by a profound sense of shock.

“This is—”

She stopped, words failing her. Even the pain of Ezekiel Crow’s first betrayal on Northwind hadn’t felt like this. Here was evidence not of one single act, but of an entire life and a career of public service based on the most heinous treason imaginable.