Observer W's message dropped like a chunk of ice into the still lake of my heart, stirring only a cold ripple before fading away. My hands were shaking? They had noticed. They had seen that behind this precise "surgery," the surgeon was slowly dissecting himself.
I did not reply. Any response might reveal more. I slipped the encrypted phone back into my pocket and returned my gaze to the map and the file on General Marcus Thorne. As the founder of the Iron Curtain, his death demanded a more spectacular finale, a drama that could shake the foundations of the "legal violence" embodied by private military companies.
But W's intervention forced me to pause. An observer hidden behind the curtain of reality could pose as great a threat as the Name-Catchers. The Name-Catchers followed some inhuman set of rules, while W represented the prying and scheming of human intelligence.
I left the capsule hotel, replacing my hideout as casually as changing a disposable component. This time, it was a small apartment booked for a short stay under a false identity, in a noisy residential building. The bustle was the best cover.
I erased every possible trace that could be used to track me, like a seasoned operative-what blurred memory had that knowledge come from? A movie I had watched, or a spy novel I had happened to leaf through? There was no way to trace it anymore.
For the next two days, I stayed put, using only public networks to keep a close eye on the continuing fallout from the Winslow Incident, as well as... any unusual activity that might point toward me. The news overflowed with analysis, condemnation, and applause. The judicial authorities were scrambling, and the financial markets were still feeling the aftershocks. It all looked like a