“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” She didn’t open her eyes. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Giving me a home.”

“That’s okay.”

“I think I’ll enjoy being Irish.”

“At least you’ll be able to remember it. No more mind-wipes. Promise.”

“That’s good. Thought of something?”

“Yeah. Doing it now.” He leaned back, wedging his knees against the steering wheel. “Divide and conquer. I’ve called everyone with relevant experience here, regardless of nationality. There are a whole bunch of nikkeijin who were cops, and the Japanese riot police were yebani nails. I’ve extended the call to everyone in Sonja’s security teams—it’s the only message they’ve had on them for a while, so they’ll notice. I’m also giving them the Al Jazeera interview, because they’ll have missed that the first time around.”

“And if they don’t come over?”

“We’ll seal the whole block off: it’s easily done, as there are major roads bounding the tower on each side. Then I’ll give them another call and appeal to their better natures.”

“Still sounds like we’re going to have to fight.”

“Maybe we will. There’s one thing I can try before that point though.” He closed his own eyes. It was tempting, so very tempting. Five minutes, that was all he’d need. “I’m just going to walk in and dare them to shoot me.”

Now she was awake. “What?”

“The one constant factor in all of this has been that Sonja will not let me be harmed. The arm thing, while that wasn’t going to kill me, I think she was genuinely angry with those who’d done that to me. It wasn’t meant to happen. Everything else—the bomb, Iguro—she could’ve had me finished in half a dozen different ways, but they’ve always held off. I bet you that if I’d announced my presence back at Container Zero just now, I could have walked out and no one would have fired. I didn’t have the yajtza to do it then, but I’m just going to have to man up and do it this time.”

“You really think Madeleine’s going to let you do that?”

“She’s not in charge,” said Petrovitch. “I am.”

“And you’re worried about Oshicora’s crew shooting you?” Tabletop pursed her lips and stared out of the windshield. “It’s your wife you need to be scared of.”

“Me and Michael have killed tens of thousands of people between us. If you think that’s inured me to killing a few hundred more, you’d be wrong. If anything, it’s persuaded me that victory doesn’t automatically go to the side with the lowest body count.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sometimes there’s a better way of winning.”

“Good luck with that. I only know one way.”

“That’s because of the way you were made. Strange: there are a bunch of cardinals closeted in a room trying to work out if Michael’s alive, and yet none of them question our humanity, no matter how badly we’re put together.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the activity outside. The ambulances that had arrived earlier, bounced and swayed their way back out, and a group of workers congregated to watch them go.

“There are days,” said Tabletop, “when I wonder who I was. Because I have no memories, all I have is how I react, and I don’t… I don’t like what I see. What was it that the Agency saw in me that made them think I’d make a good assassin? What did I do? Torture animals? Hurt people? Or did I just destroy them with a well-placed piece of gossip and watch while their lives imploded?”

Petrovitch shifted in his seat, counting the number of volunteers who’d responded to his call. He felt humbled. “Maddy says I’m wrong to call you Tabletop. Tina calls you Fiona, and I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked you which you’d prefer. I just assumed.”

“You’re not really Sam Petrovitch, are you? It’s not what your mother called you in the cradle, but you seem happy enough with what you have.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll pick a new name, one I’ve chosen myself. For now, I’ll stick with what I’ve got. It’s fine.”

“Okay.” He reached for the door handle. “Here they come.”

“Who?”

“The new republic.” He glanced in the wing mirror, and frowned. “Yobany stos.”

He kicked the door open and stepped out onto the footplate. There was a column of cars and trucks slowly rumbling down Marylebone. Valentina was at the head, and Lucy was sitting in the open window, holding a roof bar with one hand and a flag with the other.

The flag was red, and it wasn’t alone.

There were others, fluttering from aerials, wipers, radiator grilles, held by hand or tied to makeshift poles. A sea of red.

Petrovitch dropped to the ground, and Valentina pulled up next to him.

“What the huy have you done?”

“Hmm,” she said, not looking apologetic for a single moment. “We are having revolution, da?”

“Do you know what this looks like?”

“Looks like popular uprising of people against oppressors. Red is traditional color for such occasions. Is most visual, and does not show blood.” She turned the engine off and pointed to the back seat. There were boxes of black spheres, all chased with thin silver lines. “Since we have bombs, perhaps anarchist black would have been more appropriate.”

“But I like red,” said Lucy, scrambling out of the window. She headed for the back of the flatbed to raise the standard there.

“It’s as if a whole world of cultural meaning has cried out in terror and been suddenly silenced.” He tilted his face to the sky and groaned. “When this gets broadcast, I’m going to have some really difficult questions to answer.”

Valentina got out and looked back at the row of vehicles coming to a halt behind her. “When? They are already here.”

“Terrific.” Petrovitch watched people streaming onto the road and toward him. Mixed in with them was the glint of camera lenses and the parasol shadows of held-high satellite dishes.

He looked at the traffic patterns, the density of mobile phones, the bandwidth use across the Freezone. He turned around to greet another cavalcade coming down Euston Road.

They all had red flags too.

“Tina?”

“No. Is good. Shows we are united. Speak with one voice, act with one mind.” She took him by the arm and led him toward where Lucy stood, a modern-day Marianne. “Also, not shooting friends is good. Flag means we recognize our own.”

“At the risk of polarizing the rest of the planet.” Petrovitch accepted the bunk-up onto the truck. “This is not meant to be political.”

“Then you are deluding yourself,” said Valentina. “This has always been political. All this getting rid of old order, standing up to capitalist aggression, rights for artificial intelligence, starting own country…”

“My own country?”

“Of course. That is why we all have Irish passport, da? You will have freedom to do whatever you want.” She climbed up alongside him and reached back down into the pressing crowd for another hastily made flag. “This is revolution. Where is end? I do not know. All I know, this is beginning and we must be brave.”

28

They had enough people to seal off the streets: down Portland Place and along the Euston Road, covering Tottenham Court Road, and the south side of the square, Mortimer Street and Goodge Street.

It meant that everyone was set back from any immediate confrontation while confining the Oshicora loyalists to a small area. There’d been defections to Petrovitch, but not as many as he would have hoped. He’d have preferred them all to come over, and that would have been that, but no.

And Madeleine wasn’t happy at all.

“There is no good reason for you to do this.”

“There is every good reason for me to do this. She is not going to shoot me.” Petrovitch watched as Madeleine reloaded his gun for him.

“All it takes is one—just one—nervous kid with his finger on the trigger and I’m a widow. I’m not going to let that happen.” She slapped the magazine back home and presented him with the pistol’s butt.