“A boatload of … mercenaries, I don’t know … arrived on the island overnight. They’ve occupied the airport.”

Jwala had come back to check on Kuwale; he caught the last part of the conversation, and interjected derisively, “ Agents provocateurs . Every few years a different pack of apes in designer camouflage show up, try to make trouble … fail, and go away.” He sounded about as concerned as someone from an ordinary democracy, complaining about the periodic irritation of election campaigns. “I saw them last night, landing in the harbor. They were heavily armed, we had to let them pass.” He grinned. “But they’re in for some surprises. I’ll give them six months, at the most.”

“Six months?”

He shrugged. “It’s never been longer.”

A boatload of mercenaries, trying to make trouble – the boat which had rammed the ACs? In any case, Twenty and her colleagues must have known by morning that the airport had been seized – and that my testimony would make little difference to Mosala’s chances.

The timing could not have been worse, but it was hardly surprising. The Einstein Conference was already lending Stateless too much respectability – and Mosala’s planned migration would be an even greater embarrassment. But EnGeneUity and their allies wouldn’t try to assassinate her, creating an instant martyr. Nor would they dissolve the island back into the ocean, and risk scaring off legitimate customers worth billions of dollars. All they could do was try, one last time, to bring the social order of Stateless crashing down – proving to the world that the whole naïve experiment had been doomed from the start.

I said, “Where’s Violet now?”

“Talking to Henry Buzzo. She’s trying to convince him to go with her to the hospital.”

“Good idea.” Immersed in the schemes of the “moderates”, I’d almost forgotten that Buzzo was also in danger – and Mosala was at risk on two fronts. The extremists had already triumphed in Kyoto – and whoever had infected me with the cholera, en route from Sydney, was probably on Stateless right now, looking for a chance to make up for the botched first attempt.

De Groot said, “I’ll show them this conversation immediately—”

“And give a copy to security.”

“Right. For what that’s worth.” She seemed to be holding up under the pressure far better than I was; she added wryly, “No sign of Helen Wu in flippers, so far. But I’ll keep you posted.”

We arranged to meet at the hospital. I signed off, and closed my eyes, fighting the temptation to sink back into the lingering opiate fog.