Quaid watched flight crews prepping choppers from the helipad lobby. He wore a suit like the other men, and helped himself to coffee from an urn and scones and sculpted melon balls off the adjacent platter. He ambled back to a plush chair in the corner, watching his phone for texts from Durwood.

He feigned indifference to the frizz-haired older man reading Le Monde.

There was no "safe" air travel, the kernel having rendered public air traffic control ineffective, airspaces governed by a byzantine patchwork of private parties whose protocols made the Massachusetts tax code look simple. Helicopters could skirt these nuisances, and had become the preferred transport for executives whose companies could afford it.

A message arrived from Durwood.

Rivard helo gassed up, any sec now.

Quaid thumbed away the message and glanced across the pad. He couldn't tell which of the blue-gray maintenance uniforms was Durwood's.

The man reading Le Monde flipped the page with his right hand.

Yves Pomeroy's left hand rested against the leg of a female companion. The hand palsied constantly, two fingers skittered over the brunette's thigh, coming to rest in what might've been a squeeze before skittering back.

They were accompanied by two obvious security personnel, brawny men wearing guns and sunglasses.

Durwood wrote, still just the two guards?

Quaid left a heavy roller bag at his seat to refill his coffee at the urns—though he would've preferred a nip from the flask, given what they were about to attempt.

Three other groups were waiting to board. Nobody was floating about the lobby or lingering in the restrooms, everyone clearly associated with a departing team.

still two, he tapped back.

Durwood did not respond. Quaid didn't need eyes on his partner to know the ex-solider's lips were pressed dubiously.

Why was he being such a ninny? They had chosen this chopper flight specifically because it was the weakest link in Rivard's security chain. Over ground, Pomeroy traveled by bulletproof convoy. In satellite offices, he enjoyed a phalanx of muscle. (At Roche Rivard, of course, he and everyone else were untouchable as goblin's gold.) For transcontinental flights, he took one of Fabienne Rivard's custom-built personal jets—which married luxury with countermeasures equivalent to those of a B1 stealth bomber.

So what if Yves Pomeroy only had two guards? Quaid believed you didn't look gift horses in the mouth.

Piper's "French dude" must work for Yves Pomeroy, whoever he was. Rivard's Enterprise Software division was the single largest supplier of business software in the world. Something like 80 percent of all offices used its antivirus software—U.S. and European officials were regularly bribed to ignore antitrust concerns—and Piper's descriptions of how easily the kernel had slithered into systems guarded by Rivard's CyberSafe suite strongly suggested it'd originated from Yves' group.

The fact that he'd been at Fabienne Rivard's side in Davos, in the firing line of technical questions, further proved his importance.

Quaid found "M McGill" in his contacts and texted, Piper close to the phone in case?

Molly took a while answering, and Quaid wondered whether she and Sue-Ann were having trouble keeping the natives in line at the hotel.

Finally her response came.

yep, she's here and we are ready!

Quaid wrote, everyone behaving?

mostly.

what does that mean? escape attempts?

no. not really.

Quaid sent three questions marks in response.

Molly said, I have it under control.

Having witnessed "under control" in the McGill household, he was less than reassured.

They were detaining Hatch, Piper, the longhair with a thing for Molly, and Josiah. The first three had been angry after Shop-All, but were persuaded to cooperate by Quaid—who recounted Fabienne's Davos speech and grand plans for corporate dominion over all.

It hadn't been hard. They were ready to concede—Quaid had read it in their skulking eyes. Josiah's nonsensical violence in the megastore had carried them to that point.

For his part, Josiah had been persuaded of nothing—but feared Sue-Ann something awful. On the way out the door today, to be safe, Quaid had let slip a mention of the coonhound's near castration of a crooked Saudi prince during the Dubai job.

Now a mellifluous voice called over the intercom, "Yves Pomeroy and party, please report to the flight deck for departure."

Pomeroy struggled up, using his shapely companion for balance. As they flashed their tickets and left by accordion doors for their helicopter, Quaid bussed his food.

He texted Durwood, coming your way.

Stretching tall, Quaid extended the handle of his roller bag and gave the Rivard foursome a healthy head-start before heading for the exit himself.

The gate agent poised her scanner. "Ticket?"

Quaid held his tie stuffily against his chest, producing his document. This and Durwood's mechanic credentials had come from a buddy of Quaid's, the former head of the Federal Aviation Administration who now consulted for private transport companies like the one operating this facility.

The agent pointed out that he didn't depart for another hour.

"I like to get myself situated," Quaid said, pulling a neck pillow from his bag. "I slept exactly twelve minutes—bikers shooting outside my window all night."

The agent twisted her mouth in sympathy and scanned his ticket.

Quaid strode surely across the helipad. A half-dozen choppers were about, making it easy to approach the Rivard group without seeming suspicious. Their chopper was large, squat, and dark: a crow with rotors. The logo, R over the spinning globe, was black on black and barely visible.

Pomeroy mounted the cabin by a rail, assisted by all three of his companions. They handled his waist and frail wrists like teacup handles, them climbed aboard themselves.

A lone man in blue-gray emerged from an equipment shed.

The Rivard pilot, after conferring with controllers by corded mic, started his engine. Rotors roared alive, their wind whipping Quaid's hair and pinning his suitpants to his shins.

The lone man in blue-gray waited until the helicopter was coiling to leap before knocking on the nose glass.

The pilot sprung his ladder hatch.

Quaid hastened his steps in order to hear the exchange.

"...look at that there altimeter," Durwood was saying. "Should read six-forty, give or take."

The pilot crinkled his brow.

Durwood gestured for permission to mount. The pilot nodded. Durwood dropped his head with a put-upon air, simultaneously reaching back to pull a gun from within his workpants.

Quaid jogged to follow him inside.

He couldn't see the cabin for four seconds. By the time he cleared the ladder, Durwood had incapacitated one guard—who sat slumped in his jumpseat—and relieved the other of his firearm.

Yves Pomeroy threw an arm gallantly across his companion. "What is the meaning of this? Identify yourself!"

Durwood ignored the demand, leveling his gun on the pilot. "Take 'er up. Now."

The pilot blubbered, "Wh—where? Where are you taking us?"

Quaid said, "Same destination, don't worry. All we're after is information. Everything's gonna turn out fine."

The pilot complied, throttling up, pulling his stick. It seemed an unsteady takeoff—Quaid wobbled like a honeymoon surfer—but they kept gaining altitude and had soon cleared the city skyline.

Yves Pomeroy had begun inching toward a red button on the wall.

"Non, non, monsieur," Quaid said, producing his own gun from the roller bag. "One more move and this place gets some brand new ventilation."

Pomeroy inched back to his companion, his palsy newly violent. "You are from the enemy. This will not stand." His wrinkled tongue made every th into a flamboyant z. "The price will be high."

Durwood, continuing to ignore the man, tore through Quaid's bag until he found the infrared scanner. He waved it above Yves' and his companion's heads, along a solid wall. The cabin's interior size did not match its exterior. Something lived behind the wall.

The scanner's face remained blank.

Durwood said, "What's back there?"

Yves Pomeroy glared back with contempt. "It is an empty bay."

Durwood cut his eyes to the woman.

She blinked and nodded and blinked. "Empty, oui!"

Durwood looked between them. "Maybe a sleeping chamber." To Yves, "See you wear a ring. Don't seem much point."

The old man reared back in offense.

Quaid said, "We could have heat on the way—let's not waste time getting our moral cackles up."

He told Pomeroy, "Don't sweat Maude back home. As long as you cooperate, your secret's safe with us. Be back using the love den in nothing flat."

Pomeroy's wiry eyebrows shook. "You can not scare me. I will tell you nothing."

The helicopter banked, providing a distant view of a subdivision and lake.

Durwood said, "Long way down, person were to fall."

"Threats, boff," Pomeroy spat. "Far worse I have endured. For three days in February, Dutch students kidnapped me, a group blaming Rivard for the Anarchy. They knew of my weakness for foie gras and force fed me corn boiled in fat until I would agree to reveal my secrets. What did the dogs receive? Nothing but my contempt, and quite a mess in their salle de bains."

As the helicopter's ascent continued, Quaid held his stomach.

"Be that as it may," he said, "this is different. We can protect you." He pulled another device from the roller bag and extended its antenna. "This here is scrambling all wireless microphones. Nobody can hear a word we're saying. Fabienne, back at Roche Rivard? She's blind."

Yves Pomeroy shuddered at the name. "Blind," he scoffed. "Spiders have fewer eyes than this woman."

Saying this, he shied ever so slightly from his female companion: He was worried she'd report back to Fabienne.

Quaid held out his hand to her. "Come, let's have you help the pilot up front. I'm sure he could use a hand."

He ushered her to the cockpit, then returned to Pomeroy.

"Now. Let's discuss this kernel."

"I do not know this word, kernel."

"It's a piece of software that's infecting data in your systems."

He wriggled his nostrils, from which stray white hairs protruded. "We are having a translation issue, I fear. Perhaps you can give your meaning in a different way?"

Quaid did his best to recall specifics from Piper Jackson's accounts, and tried articulating what he know of the malicious software.

Yves Pomeroy continued to stare at him like he was speaking gibberish.

"You understand fine," Durwood cut in, storming into Pomeroy's face. "Rivard is right in the center'a this data loss, and you run the whole damn kit and caboodle. You must know."

"I—but I, mais non, I am only in my position due to my association with Henri," Pomeroy said. "Now I am surrounded by his daughter's lackeys. I am undermined at every turn."

The flesh of his neck quivering, he launched into an account of how Fabienne had decimated the old guard—how she'd fired half her father's management team her first week and missed no opportunity to humiliate Yves himself. She had taken away his expense account. She'd subjected him to demeaning career reviews, at which every innocent gesture and politeness came under scrutiny.

"Henri's leadership is sorely missed," he said, winding down. "We are not told of his whereabouts. Has he died? Where is the funeral then? There are rumors he is held underground at Roche Rivard. He is vegetative, he is not vegetative. One is filled with sadness."

Quaid had it on good authority Henri Rivard had been no saint in his younger days, but saw no advantage in a rigorous debate. They'd scared Yves off his red button, but no telling what the pilot had access to. A squadron of F-18s could be five miles out and closing.

"Let's shift gears," Quaid said, beginning to fear they'd taken this giant risk for nothing. "How could it work? Presupposing the data loss originated in Rivard systems. If somebody wanted to sneak in with a Trojan horse, where would they put it?"

Pomeroy's eyes lost focus.

Durwood gripped him by a starched shirt collar. "Quit playing the old goat, we seen you talk in Davos. Now think!"

"It is not a matter of thought," Pomeroy said. "Even if I were inclined to help, I have not read a line of code in decades. I am versed in none of my team's implementations."

Durwood's fist continued to tighten at Yves Pomeroy's throat—shrinking, purpling, until Quaid pulled him off.

"Forget code, forget the whats and hows and whys," Quaid said. "Let's start from the whos. Who's in charge of CyberSafe? You must know that, right?"

Yves rolled his head from one slight shoulder to the other, recovering from Durwood's grip. "Of course."

"Who?"

"CyberSafe is the responsibility of Thérèse Laurent."

Quaid swished the name around his brain. "I feel like I know her, or have heard her mentioned..."

"It would not have been in the press," Pomeroy said. "She is private in that regard, but none the less quite important at Rivard. You see, she is the best amie of Fabienne Rivard."

In a flash, that night at Hotel Zauberberg returned to Quaid. The buxom blond with a PhD in Organizational Behavior.

Yves Pomeroy seemed to read something into and Durwood shared a Quaid's silence.

"You do not suspect..." Horror blanched his already pasty face. "It is not possible! You can not believe the minx has sabotaged her own product?"

Quaid looked to Durwood, then both men fixed their gazes on Yves Pomeroy.

"Can you?" Quaid said.

Pomeroy's horror accelerated. His palsy came in waves, great spastic jolts. He tried to cover his own eyes but poked himself, and flailed onto his side in despair. His right arm shot forward above his head. Quaid and Durwood both lunged to stop him, but too late.

He'd hit the red button.

With a depressurizing sigh, the center of the wall split. Armed fighters poured into cabin.