The limousine was state-of-the-art, a power ride paid for by one of the Union’s countless megacorps or government bureaucracies. Plush leather seats ran for about half of its considerable length. There were other seats adjacent and to the rear of the vehicle. The lighting was blue halogen from an ornate flat chandelier in the car’s roof, punctuated by the glow of a dozen computer and television screens and filtered daylight from outside. Below the screens a row of consoles of various shapes and sizes. Caldwell was familiar with none of them. They looked like custom Japanese and Chinese decks.

What the hell did these people want with him? Through the huge tinted windows of the electric he saw the gray Docklands streets gliding by silently. Caldwell felt his fingers clutch the knapsack, holding the console tightly to his tense body. Since it had arrived in the post, his whole life had been turned upside down. First, there was Kenzo Yamamoto’s avatar that had vanished into thin air, then the message from Glyph, who was now very much dead. Next there was the appearance of the two Japanese and now these two Union heavies in their expensive Paris cuts and the decked out limo full of fancy computer equipment. All this within the space of hours.

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