“And why should they have more?” Bo Jintao asked, his hands rising in frustration. “A ‘billion flowers’, really? Has that worked so well for India, or is it more like a billion weeds? A country still crippled by corruption? That hasn’t conquered poverty almost halfway through the twenty-first century? Has it worked so well for the Americans? Where ‘voting’ means two sides in near-permanent paralysis? Or for Europe, still trying to decide if it’s one country or thirty, or thirty countries each splitting in half, and all the while sliding decade after decade into irrelevance?”

Bao Zhuang chuckled at that.

Bo shook his head. “We’re the richest nation on Earth, Bao. That’s proof enough. Our way works. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

He stood to leave, this conversation was pointless.

Bao Zhuang’s words caught him at the door.

“Bo Jintao,” the old man said in his rich baritone. “People don’t demand a say in how they’re governed because they want to be rich. They demand it when they already are rich and crave something more. And they demand it mostly to keep power out of the hands of people like you and me.”

72
Audacity

Sunday 2041.01.06

Breece closed the door of their meeting place after the Nigerian.

“You weren’t followed?”

His friend shook his head.

They’d taken up separate hidey holes and each kept a low profile. Kate was still out there. Her plans were unknown. She may not know their new identities, but she knew their faces, knew their operational patterns, knew how they thought. Safest to not have all their eggs in one basket.

It still hurt.

It would be even safer to just leave, the Nigerian had told him, by way of the thin thread of throwaway contact addresses they’d given each other.

But Breece wasn’t ready for that. There was one more op the hacker had pitched to him. And it was a doozy.

He waited for the Nigerian to take a seat, here in neutral territory, in this spot that was neither of their hidey holes.

Then he laid out the plan for his old friend.

“It isn’t possible,” the Nigerian said, when Breece had finished.

“Anything’s possible, my friend,” Breece replied. “If you have the right resources.”

“The cameras,” the Nigerian said, pointing at a diagram. “The sensors. All these spaces are highly secure.”

“So was Maximilian Barnes’s home,” Breece said.

The Nigerian nodded at that, thoughtfully, still studying the diagrams in front of him.

“And this would be the best mission ever,” Breece went on.

The Nigerian looked up at Breece, and a shockingly white smile split that broad, dark face. “Yes. The best.”