Liberation (U.K. Edition)

1

EYES AND IDEAS

Harsh daylight burned through my eyelids. I opened my eyes.

A beach. A bleak, barren beach. Bodies lay all around, sodden and dead. I scrambled to my feet and began searching. Familiar faces, all of them, from the flight from the Vatican. Bane, where’s Bane? I couldn’t be the only one alive. Jon, oh Lord! He couldn’t swim, he was injured…but he had a life jacket. Bane…Bane, where are you?

Running now, running along the beach, my eyes scanning the sand for coal black hair… I ran and ran ‘til I tripped and fell—sat up, panting in terror. A woodland glade. Dappling sunlight. Beautiful. But I had to find my way back to the beach and Bane…

Someone was blundering through the trees—my heart rose in an absurd wave of hope. Bane?

But the slender figure who stumbled into the glade had blond, blood-soaked hair. Not Bane.

The man turned empty eye sockets to me and rage choked my heart.

Major Everington.

"Is there someone there?" he asked politely.

The rage imprisoned me and the cold, angry not-Margaret who suddenly controlled my tongue made no reply.

"I’m looking for my eyes, said the bedraggled blind man. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them?"

Not-Margaret looked down. My hands held two slick round things. When I opened my fingers, emerald green pupils stared up at me like reflections of my own.

"Please? Have you seen them anywhere? I really need them back."

I wanted to give them to him. Wanted it so much. But trapped in the back of my head, I couldn’t.

Not-Margaret eyed the Major with cruel eyes.

"Sorry, I heard myself say, I haven’t seen them."

My hands closed viciously around those precious orbs. They burst, liquid dripping over my fingers as agony exploded in my eye sockets and the world went black as night. I reeled, slimy hands clutching my slimy face. I could see nothing…

A hand brushed my arm, gripped it.

"I hear soldiers! The Major’s voice—an urgent hiss. We should go."

He wanted me to lead us to safety. Inside, I moaned in horror, floundering in the darkness, helpless as he was, but not-Margaret laughed in my head and didn’t move. She wanted him to be caught.

"Please? Let’s go…" A thread of fear finally touched his calm voice.

I felt myself shake him off, heard myself say, Burn in hell!

Who are you? His voice moved as though he’d stepped back suddenly.

Heavy boots rushed into the clearing all around us, harsh hands wrestled me to the ground, my cheek pressing into soft grass—beside me the horrible, horrible sounds of a man being beaten to death with rifle butts…on and on…and finally…silence.

Something struck me—on the back of the head—blackness swallowed me…

…I could see again! Laudamus Domine! But…

I lay on a gurney.

…My lungs were heaving in enough air for a scream that would easily wake the whole corridor—I’d proved that often enough already. Grabbing the pillow, I buried my face in it and managed to let out the breath in more of a shuddering moan.

My lungs promptly began dragging air in for another try.

Silly little whimpering sounds crawling from my throat, I grabbed my dressing gown and bolted out into the passage, darting past Jon’s door and grabbing the handle of the next without doing more than brush my knuckles against the wood.

Moonlight streamed through carelessly drawn curtains and I saw Bane start upright, his too-black hair (according to his parents, anyway) askew.

His hand, even after several weeks of blissful—well, comparatively blissful—safety, automatically slipped underneath his pillow for his knife. "Who… Margo? Oof!"

I’d just launched myself on him, flattening him against his pillows and burying my face against his chest, still fighting back those screams.

His golden-skinned arms wrapped around me—also ‘too-dark’ according to Mr and Mrs Marsden. It’s okay, Margo, it’s okay. Just a nightmare. Nothing’s going to hurt you.

He held me and rocked me and rubbed my back, and I began to cry. Quieter than screaming, at least. Turned out there’d been unexpected advantages to being too hungry and exhausted to remember my dreams while we were hiking across Europe. But now we no longer had half the EuroArmy on our heels, my partial dismantling in the Facility’s Lab kept playing a starring role.

Get a grip on yourself, Margaret Verrall. You escaped, remember? You and Jon and all the others. With Bane’s and Father Mark’s help—okay and a little assistance from the Resistance. You all got away. You crossed Europe. You even made it out of Vatican State before the EuroGov annexed it. You’re free.

But still only comparatively safe.

Bane went on pouring quiet comfort into my ear until my tears trailed off into smothered gulps, then groped for his dressing gown.

Come on, he said. Let’s go to the TV room and I’ll get you a hot drink from the kitchenette.

…Voices in the corridor. Speaking Latin, of course. I blinked in the morning light.

Seen Margaret, Jon? That was Father Mark.

Nope. Not ever.

Ah…you know what I mean.

Wasn’t in Mass, was she? I’m guessing she’s in here, then.

Oh, bother. There was a cushion under my cheek, not a pillow—I was in the TV room. Bane was slumped in the armchair opposite, just raising his head—and my alarm was back in my own room, unheard.

Jon’s head appeared around the door. Margo?

Thanks, Jon. You could’ve just said, ‘I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.’

Father Mark looked around the door as well, glanced at Bane, and raised one eyebrow. More in an appeal for caution than in censure.

Blushing, I scrambled off the sofa and headed for the door, tying my dressing gown cord, but Bane made it into the passage ahead of me and punched Jon in the arm hard enough to make him drop his cane.

Ow! What was that for? Fully dressed, his autumny-russet hair combed, and leaning heavily on the thicker stick in his left hand, Jon poked around rather ineffectively with his foot, trying to find his ‘long eye.’

Father Mark retrieved the thin stick for him, laughing. Margo’s former parish priest just caught her spending the night in a room with a young man not yet her husband, and you have to ask?

Jon pulled a face. "It’s not like they’re doing anything."

Your faith in their self-control is touching and, ah…potentially rather optimistic, I imagine. Anyway, the Holy Father would like to see you three.

Right now? I said, aghast.

Well, I think that’s what he had in mind. Of course, I’m sure he thought you were dressed already. So let’s just say ASAP.

Argh! I headed along the corridor towards my room.

Is it about my idea? demanded Bane. The last three weeks or so had brought his Latin, already pretty good for a nonBeliever, up to the level of near-fluent.

I suspect so, replied Father Mark emotionlessly. He said I might want to sit in on the meeting.

Only one of his skill sets made Father Mark speak in that tone. I shut my door behind me and hastily scrambled into a light cotton blouse and skirt. It was so hot here. When I hurried back out, Bane had beaten me to it. We headed off along the passage at Jon’s slow pace, my stomach rumbling audibly.

You two go on ahead and grab something from the canteen, said Jon. You’ll still be there before me.

True. Okay, see you there.

Bane and I quickly left Jon and Father Mark behind. The bullet hole in Jon’s leg was almost healed—the one in his side had a bit further to go. He was getting around, now, slowly and painfully. At least the Citadel was tiny.

Munching on Mediterranean sausage slapped between two slices of bread, we caught them up again as they crossed the sunken square. The little cathedral towered on our right, facing the wall and the gates at the lower end. Behind us was the old chapter house, now being used as living quarters for the staff of this miniaturised Holy See. Ahead loomed the ancient Law Courts and administrative buildings of the former island state, being used by us for much the same purpose—the administrative purpose, anyway.

Not too bruised, Jon? I asked him.

"I’m fine. Was a little tactless of me, wasn’t it?"

A little. I gave him my arm as we started up the steps on the other side of the square. Bane took his other arm and he didn’t protest, pausing at the top and leaning on the rail, breathing hard.

Okay? I checked.

Fine. Fine. Let’s go.

We trooped along the walkway and in through the main entrance. Two Swiss Guards stood on either side just within, recognisable only by their ramrod-straight poise. Their cheerful red, orange and blue uniforms were packed away somewhere—Eduardo, the Head of Security, didn’t want anything bright or distinctive on show. Even excessive loitering outdoors was discouraged.

Father Mark slipped off the long lightweight coat he’d thrown on over his cassock. He hung it on a hook with several others, which would be used by people going back the other way. Sooner or later the EuroGov would figure out that the mother lode of the Vatican State hadn’t arrived in Africa, and satellite pictures were one of the first things they’d be scrutinising.

Pushing the EuroGov to the back of my mind, I’d just eaten my last few bites of breakfast when we reached Pope Cornelius’s office. He rose to greet us as we entered, smiling. An energetic seventy-something, he had kindly blue eyes and almost a complete head of snow-white hair.

Margaret, you look tired, he said, fixing those eyes on me now.

He looked weary himself. The few weeks since the loss of his old friend Cardinal Hans had graven extra lines onto his weathered face.

I just didn’t sleep very well, Your Holiness.

Nightmares again?

He slept one floor up, but nothing was secret in a community of barely sixty people.

Yes.

"Well, I pray they go away soon. Oh my, Jonathan. I’m a fool, I should’ve come across to you…"

I’m fine. Jon lowered himself into the nearest chair. The exercise is good for me. And now I know where your office is.

Well, you’re here now. Bane, Mark, good to see you. Sit down, everyone.

Pope Cornelius settled himself behind his desk as I took a seat in front of it. Bane and Father Mark grabbed Jon’s chair and had moved it into our circle before he could finish protesting again just how all right he was, then pulled up chairs and sat as well.

So, Bane, said the Holy Father. "We’ve been so busy getting set up here—and you three definitely needed some recuperation time—but I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten about the idea you so briefly laid out on board the Freedom II. Emptying Facilities of all those poor young people waiting to be dismantled for their organs, yes?"

That’s right, said Bane. Jon and Father Mark listened without surprise. Bane had spent most of the last couple of weeks discussing the idea with anyone who could conceivably help, intellectually or practically.

Pope Cornelius spread his hands invitingly, so Bane took a deep breath.

"Right. Well. Way I see it, the thing we need above all is for people’s consciences to be stirred up enough for them to actually act on them. And I noticed as we crossed Europe that emptying Salperton Facility to save Margo had pricked rather a lot of consciences.

But everyone will be saying to themselves, ah, yes, but she had a Resistance cell helping her out. So we need to do it again. As many times as possible. Without any Resistance cell. Prove if you want to save someone enough, you can.

And if we start doing it, I put in, it will spread hope. And that will end the silent acceptance of Sorting almost overnight.

"And that will hugely undermine the EuroGov, said Jon. Okay, so the EuroBloc Genetics Department may be the ones actually responsible for sorting the ‘imperfect’ out of the population, but the EGD and the EuroGov are pretty much one and the same, really."

Pope Cornelius listened attentively and now nodded slowly. Yes. This is how I see it as well. Eduardo too. So the question is, how will you do it?

Talk about cutting to the difficult questions.

We’ll need nonLethal weapons, said Bane firmly. Margo is adamant we mustn’t injure any guards if we can possibly help it and I think she’s right. We can’t go around hurting people’s sons, husbands, and fathers for doing something all of society is responsible for. Actually, I think we could, morally, use lethal weapons to save innocents—unless I’m misunderstanding you people’s ideas—but it won’t help overthrow the EuroGov, will it?

The Holy Father raised a hand, palm downwards, and tilted it from side to side. "You could, with a strict application of the duty to save the lives of the innocent, make a case for killing or injuring Facility guards in that cause. But with the social situation, I would find it an unpalatable interpretation—harming the guards would be too much like harming innocents in itself. And the practical-political reason for using nonlethal force is indisputable. So how will you acquire these weapons?"

I think we know someone who can help. Mostly with advice—we’re not killing anyone to get the weapons either. His name’s Luciano Viscenti and he’s the leader of the Milan Resistance.

You really think he’ll help us? The Italian Resistance haven’t exactly distinguished themselves recently, said Father Mark.

"The Roman cell got in bed with the EuroGov, not the Milanese, pointed out Bane. Luciano tried to stop them."

The Holy Father nodded. "Ah, this is the man who brought you to Rome? I still think this is a totally different kettle of fish. They don’t like us, they don’t understand us and they don’t do nonlethal. The Resistance, regrettably, have always used the most vicious means to make their point."

"I won’t say Luciano loves us, because he doesn’t, but he’s got a heck of a lot more appreciation for…uh…our methods than most of his lot. I reckon he might just consider helping us to get suitably equipped to be worth a little time and effort."

Pope Cornelius shrugged. "Well, providing we are all agreed on the nonviolent nature of this enterprise, I’ve no objection to you getting in touch with the man. So, where do you plan on acquiring these weapons?"

Bane opened his mouth to reply—and hesitated, as though spotting an unexpected fly in his ointment. Well, um, I think the only way is to take them from the EuroGov.

"You mean steal them from the EuroGov?"

Bane spread his hands. "They own the factories. We can’t buy them."

Actually, put in Father Mark, "we can’t arrange a purchase. But isn’t it true that the EuroGov owes the Vatican rather a lot of money? Starting with the Forbidden Square tours? I heard that the Vatican Treasury was still sending invoices to the EuroGov finance department up until last month."

Yes, said Pope Cornelius dryly, and the EuroGov finance department has been shredding them and using them as bedding for their children’s pet hamsters, for all the response we’re getting. Everyone in the EuroBloc knew that although the EuroGov had agreed to pay the Vatican for the privilege of giving the outrageously-priced tours around the interior of St Peter’s Square, the Vatican had never seen a cent.

Father Mark shrugged. So add the rent for Vatican State to the St Peter’s Square tour balance and whatever else we’re already billing them for all the Church property they’ve occupied throughout the EuroBloc over the years—as planned—and once we’ve helped ourselves to what nonLees we need, deduct the value, taking into account any damages caused acquiring them, print it up on the invoice, nice and official, and send it to them. Then it’s not stealing. Just an unofficial transaction.

Pope Cornelius smiled slightly. That…might be acceptable. I will pray about it. But I think the answer will be yes. So make your plans accordingly.

Bane had his permission to proceed. Part of me was more sorry than glad. But Bane was saying thanks, eyes gleaming with excitement, and we were all getting up to go.

Keep me up to date, appealed the Holy Father. "And be careful."

Of course, said Bane. How many times had I heard that?

He won’t be careful, said Jon, but we will.

"I will," objected Bane.

Well, there’s a first time for everything, said Father Mark, holding the door open.

Bane and I left Jon to make his way to a suitable, empty phone room, while we went down the stairs to the basement room where the Head of Security had made his lair.

Can we make an external call, Eduardo? asked Bane from the doorway. No point making plans ‘til we knew if Luciano would help, and no one made calls out-of-state without the Head of Security’s permission.

Yes. Eduardo picked up a code card from the desk and held it out without looking up from his computer screen.

Bane crossed the room and took it. Well, that’s very obliging of you. Who shall we ring, Margo?

"If it’s the one you just discussed with the Holy Father," clarified Eduardo, still busy with his screen.

Have you got the whole place bugged already or something?

The Holy Father called down to me just now, not that it’s any of your business. Go and make your call.

Oh. Right.

Is there any news about Juwan and Doms? I asked. There was surely little hope for the star-crossed couple—that was, mixed race couple: same thing, thanks to the EGD’s breeding laws—who’d risked their lives to help Jon, Bane and I on our journey across the EuroBloc—but I kept asking.

Eduardo turned from the screen at last. Nothing yet. They’re still being held in Reims Detention Facility until their traitorous friend Louis recovers enough to testify against them.

Will he recover? Juwan had tried to silence Louis, but only succeeded in giving him a serious concussion.

Eduardo grimaced. I’m sorry, but they do seem to think he will. Sooner or later.

I bit my lip. Bane’s plan wouldn’t help Juwan and Dominique. Not at once, anyway. First we needed the weapons. And then…well, a Detention Facility really was a different kettle of fish.

I’m monitoring the situation as a priority, said Eduardo, unusually softly, and turned back to his work.

Thanks.

Yeah, thanks, said Bane seriously.

When we’d joined Jon, Bane went straight to the phone and typed in the number from the code card, then the phone number he’d retrieved from the omniSIM of his old phone. He put it onto speaker setting so we could all hear, but it rang and rang and rang. Luciano might not have his phone on him, might have it on silent whilst he went about his bloody work. We’d have to try again later…

"Si?" A woman’s voice.

Uh, who is that? asked Bane in Esperanto.

"Who’s that?" snapped the voice in the same language. And why are you calling this phone?

It’s Carla, Jon mouthed at Bane.

He nodded and winced slightly. Carla was not fond of us. Hi Carla, how are you?

Who is it? she asked more warily.

Bane.

A long silence. Then, "What the diavolo do you want?"

We want to speak to Luciano.

"You can’t."

Oh, come on, is he there?

"No, she means can’t, not won’t let you," said a male voice—Carla had the phone on speaker too.

"Francesco? Why not?"

Silence from the phone, then Carla spoke in a hard, tight voice.

He’s dead.

2

THE TWO HEADED SNAKE

What? I gasped. Okay, so Luciano and the others, like all the Resistance—and many of the Underground, come to that—were on a fastTrac to the grave, but to have reached it in the brief time since we parted in Rome a couple of weeks ago? What happened?

"Ah, Signorina Silver-tongue, Carla hissed. You might well ask what happened."

Gino stabbed him, said Francesco flatly.

Straight in the heart. He didn’t even have a chance to defend himself.

Oh no… Ice was forming in my stomach—I could hardly get the next word out. Why?

"Why do you think, you stupid Pregatora? Gino wanted to turn you three in, diavolo, and Luciano wouldn’t let him. Stalled for so long Gino lost it and went for the phone by force—Luciano ripped the cord out of the wall, flung the phone across the room, and wham, Gino killed him."

I swallowed, picturing those great steel gates closing. I think he saved our lives.

What?

"By stalling so long. They shut the gates to the square just after our bus went in. If Gino had called the EuroGov even a minute sooner—we’d have been caught."

Well, at least he didn’t die completely for nothing!

He wouldn’t have died for nothing! Francesco’s voice was sharp. "Gino was about to betray everything we stand for. Luciano died opposing that. That’s not nothing."

Carla was silent for a moment, then went on bitterly, "If that’s how it happened. It’s the version we had from those mewling vigliacchi—I guess it is true, Luciano having that little streak of you lot’s weakness—seeing the best in people. He’d never have expected it."

I hadn’t known Luciano well, but I knew what she meant. He’d have trusted his own people in the Resistance—just like me and Bane and Jon trusted one another. He’d have expected blows, but never a knife.

My mind wallowed in that sense of ringing shock you get when you hear something terrible has happened. Luciano, dead. Brave, clever, passionate, reasonable Luciano, killed by one of his own side.

I’m so sorry, I said at last. We never imagined any harm might befall him.

I thought he’d have a bit of a fistfight, perhaps, said Bane grimly, and get stuffed back in that taxi. Or we wouldn’t have left him.

"Gino was on his side…" Jon sounded stunned.

Gino had the self-control of a rabid wolverine, and the honour of a dead dog, said Carla. Only reason he was still in command was because no one wanted to be the one to tell him he was demoted.

And he was good at raids, Francesco added grudgingly. Very good at those.

Pah, spat Carla. Well, he’s very good food for the Tiber fishes, now. And his mewling cronies with him.

What? I said.

"What?" mimicked Carla. We’re in Rome, as if it’s any of your business. We were very, very happy to be part of the clean-up squad sent to deal with this vile and outrageous offence to everything honourable. Anyone who collaborated is dead, end of story. We made it pretty quick for most of them but not for Gino. Got a problem with that?

I swallowed. Could you just hold on one moment?

I pressed the mute button and turned to Bane. Bane, I don't care how much we need their help. They have to come over to us for this: we can’t join them. Luciano was different but they’re not. It's too like making a deal with the devil.

That's going a bit far, objected Bane.

No. It’s not. The EuroBloc and the Resistance are two heads on the same blood-stained snake and you know it. Deep down, you do.

Bane was silent for a moment, then glanced at Jon, who was frowning.

He sensed Bane’s gaze. "We can’t work with these two, Bane. I won’t, okay? We didn’t have much choice before and Luciano was just that little bit different, but Margo’s right. They’re not. No joint mission. They have to join us for this."

Or nothing doing, I said.

Bane sighed and rubbed his forehead, the struggle visible on his face, ideals wrestling with need. Okay, he sighed at last. The EuroBloc and the Resistance are two gory heads on the same gory snake—I know it. Happy?

I reached out and squeezed his hand briefly, then sat back in my chair as he reached for the mute button. Hi, are you still there? Sorry about that.

"Mopped up Signorina Silver-tongue’s tears over worthless Gino and his craven comrades?" asked Carla mockingly.

I don’t give a toss about Gino, I snarled into the mic, the truth, alas, "but torturing people is always wrong. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done. It. Is. Wrong."

Bane glared at me and put a finger to his lips.

Look, snapped Carla, what do you three want? Tell me quick before I hang up.

We were actually hoping you might join us for a little enterprise, said Bane calmly.

A deafening snort from Carla and the line went dead.

We looked glumly at each other.

Call back, said Jon.

She just laughed in our faces and hung up, I pointed out.

Yes, but…well, I didn’t get to know them as well as you, but it seems to me Carla always acts first and thinks afterwards. And Francesco was always more ready to listen, wasn’t he?

Jon’s got a point, said Bane. He dialled again.

Francesco picked up almost at once. Say that again?

We were hoping you might join us for something.

"Join you? Carla can’t decide if she finds the idea more amusing or more offensive, and I know how she feels."

Look, we’d like you to join us in something that will cause the EuroGov untold amounts of trouble. We mostly want you in an advisory capacity. We’re not going to line up EuroGov employees in front of you and then not let you kill them—I think that would be stressful for all concerned.

What is this enterprise?

We’re not discussing that over the phone, are we?

A long silence, broken only by angry mutters of Italian from Carla.

Untold amounts of trouble for the EuroGov, you say? Francesco asked.

Think of the sort of trouble they’ve had since Margo escaped and times it by, ooh, ten, say.

Hmm. Silence. We’ll give you a hearing, at least.

We will not! Carla.

"I’ll give you a hearing, then, said Francesco. When can you be in Rome?"

Could you come to Ostia or preferably Naples? Or Civitavecchia? All ports.

Civitavecchia, then.

Thank you. I appreciate that.

The hair was standing up on my arms. I’d known this was coming, because no one talked details over a phone. ‘Untraceable’ wasn’t the same as ‘uninterceptable’ and the Ministry for Internal Affairs had the best decryption computers in the world. But I’d not been letting the knowledge pop to the surface.

Don’t bring the silver-tongued witch, snarled Carla, "and I’ll listen to you. Just you."

Margo isn’t going anywhere, said Bane firmly. She’s far too recognisable.

My hand rose to my forehead, tracing the cross-shaped scar, a little memento from Major Everington, the Facility Commandant—he’d carved it into my flesh while interrogating me about the escape. Doctor Frederick said it would be years before it faded, if it ever did. At this moment, I could almost be grateful for it. Except…Bane was talking about going off alone, into EuroGov territory.

Can’t he bring anyone? I asked.

"He can bring anyone, said Carla nastily, he just can’t bring you or the eyeless wonder."

Francesco muttered something in Italian that sounded like the Latin for, ‘Be nice’—Carla snorted and went quiet again.

Don’t worry, said Jon dryly, I have absolutely no desire to come and visit you.

Seems to be mutual, murmured Francesco. Okay, when?

Three days, said Bane. He’d thought this all through already.

Okay. In the main square in Civitavecchia there’s a central statue. I’ll be there at midday. If it’s safe, I’ll be wearing a shirt the colour of the sofas in the house at Milan. If this call’s been picked up, and they’re waiting for you, I’ll be wearing a shirt the colour of the kitchen curtains. Remember the colours?

Yes. Sensible precautions.

Okay. Walk past me and chuck a cent in the fountain if it’s safe, or don’t chuck one if you think you’re being followed, and we’ll see if we can do anything about it. I’ll stroll off, you follow. I’ll take you somewhere where we can talk. Okay?

Yes. Is there a better number to use now?

Francesco hesitated. No, use this one. We won’t put the phone away again. No wonder it’d taken them a while to answer the first time. A painful reminder of Luciano, they’d probably buried the phone in the bottom of a suitcase or something. Good job it was modern enough to have autoOn.

Okay.

Wednesday, statue in Civitavecchia central square. See you there. Francesco hung up.

I sat very still, feeling like an ancient alarm clock ready to scatter its springs everywhere if touched.

Margo? Bane sounded wary. You, uh, knew this would be necessary, right?

I nodded. Couldn’t look at him. I stared at the wall, fighting to hold myself together. Why did I seem to be made of jelly these days?

It’ll be okay, Margo, said Jon. You know Eduardo will make him a fake ID, programme it into the EuroGov system and everything.

With a safe ID, I can go anywhere, said Bane lightly. Takes away at least ninety-five percent of the risk. Completely safe.

He slipped an arm around me and I turned, my fingers twisting into his shirt. Rested my forehead against his neck and drew in deep, deep breaths. Wasn’t going to cry. Not again.

With safe IDs, the three of us could’ve travelled across Europe by train in twenty-four hours instead of hiking for three and a half months like we had. Bane was right. A day trip to Civitavecchia was no cause for alarm.

The next day was so busy with planning and preparations it went in a flash, even though each minute seemed to crawl by like an eternity. We went over every possible argument Carla and Francesco would use against joining us, but the biggest fear was that they wouldn’t think it worth doing anything involving nonLees—for anyone or for any reason. The Resistance liked their firepower lethal.

This should help, said Bane on Monday evening, flicking the ID card declaring him to be Michael Walters from York with his finger.

How? I went over all the useful things laid out on the sitting room table yet again: penknife, wallet full of Eurons, omniPhone—not as good as Bane’s old one…

Well, as a last, last resort, Eduardo cleared me to offer them both one of these.

Jon whistled. New IDs. Now that really might tempt them—they’re almost impossible to fake, unless you can access the EuroGov system. Eduardo must be keen on this project.

Yes, I think he is. Bane glanced at me. It’s all there, Margo. Seriously, sit down and relax, hmm?

Settling on the sofa beside him, I cuddled close, though I’d not had much time to sit around thinking today and didn’t really want to start now. Bane was leaving in the morning. He’d insisted on going alone—if the EuroGov caught him or the Resistance turned on him, an extra person would just be an extra corpse.

After a wholly sleepless night, I went down to Mass with Jon as though it was just a normal day. Bane came too, which was rare. But although he didn’t believe, he found Mass relaxing.

Make sure I set off calm, anyway, he said airily, as we headed to breakfast afterwards.

Margo! A Vatican Secret Service agent we’d first met during the flight from the Vatican and another young VSS agent caught us up in the corridor. We greeted them cheerfully, since we already counted our fellow Brit as a friend. Unlike the Swiss Guards, who had to be Swiss, the VSS was open to committed young people from any country.

Could I trouble you for a moment? Our British friend offered me the clipboard he was carrying—I still couldn’t get over just how blue his eyes were. I was hoping to catch you before Bane left. Eduardo wondered if you’d like to sign this.

What is it?

It’s a petition got up by a Human Rights organisation based in the United States of South America calling for the retrial of Major Lucas Everington and an investigation into the original trial.

Bane and I might have engineered the escape, but it’d suited the EuroGov to blame it all on a supposed inside man. Served them right that Major Everington’s televised show trial had not gone as they planned. They’d broken his sanity in the end but not before his innocence had been made inescapably clear to everyone. Of course, the jury had gone right ahead and found him guilty, just the same.

Once the purpose of the petition managed to penetrate the Bane-obsessed haze of worry that enveloped me, I plucked the pen from its mount at once. Yeah, I’ll sign it. Bane bristled, but I ignored him.

"The boss doesn’t think for un moment that the EuroGov are going to pay the blindest bit of attention to a human rights petition, said the other agent quickly, as I started filling in the top line of the form. His French accent always brought a lump to my throat—I couldn’t help thinking about Dominique and Juwan. Unicorn forgot to mention that petite élément d'information."

I didn’t forget, Snail,