Their names, or worknames, were Michele, Roland, and Pierre. Pierre, Case decided, would play the Bad Cop; Roland would take Case’s side, provide small kindnesses–he found an unopened pack of Yeheyuans when Case refused a Gitane– and generally play counterpoint to Pierre’s cold hostility. Michele would be the Recording Angel, making occasional adjustments in the direction of the interrogation. One or all of them, he was certain, would be kinked for audio, very likely for simstim, and anything he said or did now was admissible evidence. Evidence, he asked himself, through the grinding come-down, of what? Knowing that he couldn’t follow their French, they spoke freely among themselves. Or seemed to. He caught enough as it was: names like Pauley, Armitage, Sense/Net. Panther Mod- erns protruding like icebergs from an animated sea of Parisian French. But it was entirely possible that the names were there for his benefit. They always referred to Molly as Kolodny. “You say you were hired to make a run, Case,” Roland said, his slow speech intended to convey reasonableness, “and that you are unaware of the nature of the target. Is this not unusual in your trade? Having penetrated the defenses, would you not be unable then to perform the required operation? And surely an operation of some kind is required, yes?” He leaned forward, elbows on his stenciled brown knees, palms out to receive Case’s explanation. Pierre paced the room; now he was by the window, now by the door. Michele was the kink, Case decided. Her eyes never left him. “Can I put some clothes on?” he asked. Pierre had insisted on stripping him, searching the seams of his jeans. Now he sat naked on a wicker footstool, with one foot obscenely white. Roland asked Pierre something in French. Pierre, at the window again, was peering through a flat little pair of binoc- ulars. “Non,” he said absently, and Roland shrugged, raising his eyebrows at Case. Case decided it was a good time to smile. Roland returned the smile. Oldest cop bullshit in the book, Case thought. “Look,” he said, “I’m sick. Had this godawful drug in a bar, you know? I wanna lie down. You got me already. You say you got Armitage. You got him, go ask him. I’m just hired help.” Roland nodded. “And Kolodny?” “She was with Armitage when he hired me. Just muscle, a razorgirl. Far as I know. Which isn’t too far.” “You know that Armitage’s real name is Corto,” Pierre said, his eyes still hidden by the soft plastic flanges of the binoculars. “How do you know that, my friend?” “I guess he mentioned it sometime,” Case said, regretting the slip. “Everybody’s got a couple names. Your name Pierre?” “We know how you were repaired in Chiba,” Michele said, “and that may have been Wintermute’s first mistake.” Case stared at her as blankly as he could. The name hadn’t been mentioned before. “The process employed on you resulted in the clinic’s owner applying for seven basic patents. Do you know what that means?” “No.” “It means that the operator of a black clinic in Chiba City now owns a controlling interest in three major medical research consortiums. This reverses the usual order of things, you see. It attracted attention.” She crossed her brown arms across her small high breasts and settled back against the print cushion. Case wondered how old she might be. People said that age always showed in the eyes, but he’d never been able to see it. Julie Deane had had the eyes of a disinterested ten-year-old behind the rose quartz of his glasses. Nothing old about Michele but her knuckles. “Traced you to the Sprawl, lost you again, then caught up with you as you were leaving for Istanbul. We backtracked, traced you through the grid, determined that you’d instigated a riot at Sense/Net. Sense/Net was eager to cooperate. They ran an inventory for us. They discovered that McCoy Pauley’s ROM personality construct was missing.” “In Istanbul,” Roland said, almost apologetically, “it was very easy. The woman had alienated Armitage’s contact with the secret police.” “And then you came here,” Pierre said, slipping the bin- oculars into his shorts pocket. “We were delighted.” “Chance to work on your tan?” “You know what we mean,” Michele said. “If you wish to pretend that you do not, you only make things more difficult for yourself. There is still the matter of extradition. You will return with us, Case, as will Armitage. But where, exactly, will we all be going? To Switzerland, where you will be merely a pawn in the trial of an artificial intelligence? Or to le BAMA, where you can be proven to have participated not only in data invasion and larceny, but in an act of public mischief which cost fourteen innocent lives? The choice is yours.” Case took a Yeheyuan from his pack; Pierre lit it for him with the gold Dunhill. “Would Armitage protect you?” The question was punctuated by the lighter’s bright jaws snapping shut. Case looked up at him through the ache and bitterness of betaphenethylamine. “How old are you, boss?” “Old enough to know that you are fucked, burnt, that this is over and you are in the way.” “One thing,” Case said, and drew on his cigarette. He blew the smoke up at the Turing Registry agent. “Do you guys have any real jurisdiction out here? I mean, shouldn’t you have the Freeside security team in on this party? It’s their turf, isn’t it?” He saw the dark eyes harden in the lean boy face and tensed for the blow, but Pierre only shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” Roland said. “You will come with us. We are at home with situations of legal ambiguity. The treaties under which our arm of the Registry operates grant us a great deal of flexibility. And we create flexibility, in situations where it is required.” The mask of amiability was down, suddenly, Roland’s eyes as hard as Pierre’s. “You are worse than a fool,” Michele said, getting to her feet, the pistol in her hand. “You have no care for your species. For thousands of years men dreamed of pacts with demons. Only now are such things possible. And what would you be paid with? What would your price be, for aiding this thing to free itself and grow?” There was a knowing weariness in her young voice that no nineteen-year-old could have mustered. “You will dress now. You will come with us. Along with the one you call Armitage, you will return with us to Geneva and give testimony in the trial of this intelligence. Otherwise, we kill you. Now.” She raised the pistol, a smooth black Walther with an integral silencer. “I’m dressing already,” he said, stumbling toward the bed. His legs were still numb, clumsy. He fumbled with a clean t-shirt. “We have a ship standing by. We will erase Pauley’s con- struct with a pulse weapon.” “Sense/Net’ll be pissed,” Case said, thinking: and all the evidence in the Hosaka. “They are in some difficulty already, for having owned such a thing.” Case pulled the shirt over his head. He saw the shuriken on the bed, lifeless metal, his star. He felt for the anger. It was gone. Time to give in, to roll with it…. He thought of the toxin sacs. “Here comes the meat,” he muttered. In the elevator to the meadow, he thought of Molly. She might already be in Straylight. Hunting Riviera. Hunted, prob- ably, by Hideo, who was almost certainly the ninja clone of the Finn’s story, the one who’d come to retrieve the talking head. He rested his forehead against the matte black plastic of a wall panel and closed his eyes. His limbs were wood, old, warped and heavy with rain. Lunch was being served beneath the trees, under the bright umbrellas. Roland and Michele fell into character, chattering brightly in French. Pierre came behind. Michele kept the muz- zle of her pistol close to his ribs, concealing the gun with a white duck jacket she draped over her arm.