Sinclair brightened, and Jonah immediately added a point to the good side of the ledger. “That’s great! Hopefully he can help clear things up. He’ll tell you I haven’t hired him for years, he can confirm everything…” Sinclair’s voice faded as he saw Heather and Jonah’s dour expressions. “He didn’t confirm anything, did he? In fact, he probably told you exactly the opposite.” He nodded to himself. “Okay. That’s why I’m here. I think I understand.”

Right then, in his mind, Jonah crumpled the ledger on which he’d been keeping track of points into a little ball and threw it away. He’d never liked playing the game, and now was precisely the wrong time to start. He had Sinclair here, and he looked willing to talk. Jonah just had to listen.

“It gets worse,” Heather said. “We’ve found evidence that you helped funnel some money to the Kittery Renaissance.”

“I helped funnel money to what?” Sinclair exclaimed. “Kittery Renaissance? I’d never fund terrorists, but especially terrorists I don’t agree with! How can you think I’d do that?”

Heather started to speak, but Jonah interrupted. “We don’t,” he said, and Heather looked at him in surprise. “We have evidence that your bank accounts were involved, but I don’t think you were.”

Sinclair looked even more surprised than Heather. “You don’t? Is Morten backing me up?”

“No,” Jonah said. “Morten is acting like you’ve been one of his best employers recently. But his fingerprints are all over both Victor’s assassination and this transfer of money to Kittery Renaissance. I don’t trust him. I trust you. All I need is for you to help us figure out why things look the way they do.”

The atmosphere in the room changed completely, as if Jonah had just opened the curtains to let sunlight in. Sinclair’s stiff posture relaxed, and his face took on an expression of thoughtfulness instead of defensiveness. Heather, seeing this, relaxed as well.

Jonah didn’t. Most of him believed he could trust Sinclair, but there remained a small part of him warning that the moment he relaxed was the moment Sinclair would make his move.

“Okay,” said Sinclair. “Tell me about this money transfer.”

“What time is it?” Jonah asked when Sinclair stifled a yawn.

Heather checked her chronometer. “2:30.”

“It’s election eve. We convene in thirty-one hours.”

“Is there any chance we’ll get some sleep between now and then?” Heather asked.

“Very little,” Jonah said.

Heather stood, stretched and smiled. “You know what the good thing about this time of morning is? I haven’t heard from Duncan for almost seven hours.”

“Which reminds me. Aren’t you supposed to be preparing some sort of strike? How much of your time have I wasted?” Jonah asked.

“Santangelo and Koss are on it. They’ll bring me up to speed on that side of things in the morning. And believe me, this wasn’t a waste.” She turned to Sinclair. “Although I have to say, Gareth, I’m a little disappointed in you.”

“Why?”

“A small part of me—a very, very small part—hoped you’d have actual connections to the Kittery Renaissance. Then we could get you to smoke out their leaders, and our strike tomorrow would smash the whole organization.”

“It still might,” Jonah said, “if you’ve connected the dots right.”

“I hope so,” Heather said, then tilted her head. “Do either of you know if the training room is open this time of night? Er, morning?”

“I’ve never had reason to check,” Jonah said.

“We have a training room?” Sinclair asked.

“Thanks. You two are very helpful. Well, one way to find out. Good night, gentlemen. And good luck. Let me know as tomorrow’s plans evolve.”

“We will,” Jonah said, and she left.

That left Jonah and Sinclair alone. They had a tremendous mountain to climb before the newly born day had ended, but for the moment they just sat.

“You know the papers I had back in my hotel?” Sinclair said. “Do you know what word kept popping up in your dossier?”

“‘Bastard?’” Jonah said.

Sinclair grinned, the first fully open smile he had offered all night. “Yes, actually. Usually right after the word ‘tough.’ But that’s not the one I was thinking about. Over and over again, people who dealt with you said you were incredibly fair.”

Jonah didn’t know if he should say “Oh, good,” or “Thank you,” so he said nothing.

“It’s good to know my sources are accurate. There’s a lot of people who would have had electrodes under my fingernails the minute they took me in.”

“I know. I’ve seen too many of them.”

“I just want to—thanks. That’s all.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jonah said. “Thank me when we’re out of this.”

“Right. And we have plenty to do. Let’s move.”

Jonah pulled his keyboard to him. He typed a brief message, which flew through the air to a small, sparse apartment in Les Rues-Basses.

It began:

Hall of Government, Geneva

Terra, Prefecture X

19 December 3134

Support staff arrived at the offices of the Senate of the Republic starting at six a.m. This was usually a skeletal group, a few custodians and the cafeteria staff. More arrived at seven, including members of the senatorial staffs. By eight, the building would hold nearly its full complement of personnel.

It was four o’clock. They had two hours to work before things started to get dicey.

This was the sort of job Jonah would desperately have liked to farm out to someone else, as a Paladin being caught breaking and entering into government buildings could cause an unfathomably long line of complications. Horn, though, already had his hands full, and Wilson Turk, most likely fast asleep, wasn’t responding to any calls. Time was too short to travel to Turk and wake him personally, or to find anyone else. He and his new partner in crime, who had been his prime suspect until a few hours ago, would have to do it themselves.

The one advantage they had, their rank, would help a little. It would get them past any automated checkpoints, but not past any humans. The way the political situation stood, flashing identification at the guards might not be the best idea. If their suspicions were correct, any guard who connected a name to their face would likely make several phone calls, and there was a good chance that the sort of people often employed by Henrik Morten would show up to interrupt Jonah’s work. He had to get in unseen.

Jonah wasn’t entirely comfortable with cloak-and-dagger actions, but it was better than meetings. At least it got his adrenaline flowing.

The night was purple, the endless streetlights bouncing their glow off the high clouds hanging over the city. Under the clouds, the air was clear, and visibility was good. Spotting an intruder in these conditions would be scarcely more difficult than seeing them in daylight.

In the end, it looked like one of Jonah’s favorite battlefield tactics—diversion—would suit him well.

The guards heard a rumble first, like distant thunder. They paid it little mind, as the entire day and night had been cloudy.

But the rumble continued, slowly growing closer. It was going on for too long, and it was too muted. It wasn’t thunder.

One of the guards checked with their counterparts posted at the main door.

“You hear that?”

“What?”

“The rumble?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I was going to ask you.”

“Probably protestors. They’ve been out all night, probably working on some damn fool stunt.”

“Have we been issued a shoot-to-kill order yet?”