One Day Later

In his penthouse suite, Hannibal Mago was surveying a party from a second-floor balcony. A giant diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling. Servers moved about the white carpeted floors like water, carrying trays with alcoholic beverages and hors d'oeuvres. Guests lounged on lush purple couches and armchairs. On the western side was a pool table, as well as shining mahogany tables where games of blackjack and poker were in progress. On the eastern side, there was a door leading to a hallway, where far more lecherous activities were going on. And directly across from Hannibal, on the southern side, the floor-to-ceiling window showed the city of Tokyo. This late at night, its lights looked like a sparkling crown, something for him to reach and pluck and pocket if he only had the power.

His fingers tightened around the flute of his wine glass. Soon.

He returned his attention to his two companions: a Russian with a large, round stomach, and a whip-thin Chinese man. The former went by Anatoly Kozlov, a crime lord who specialized in the rings of prostitution and drug trade. He had a jovial, friendly attitude that Hannibal genuinely liked. He was glad he hadn't had to shoot the man.

The second man couldn't have been more Kozlov's opposite. His face was serious, and gambling was his choice of trade. Li, he called himself. While Kozlov was flirting with the women, Li was standing rigid-backed, routinely sweeping the floors for danger.

As for Hannibal...well, weapons and technology were his corners of the black market. Whores and casinos were lucrative enough, yes, but at the end of the day war and espionage were the best producers of money. And Hannibal had very expensive desires. This suite, this luxury, everything he had was well-deserved after the swill and shit he grew up with.

He, Kozlov and Li had been meeting to strike deals, of course; both wanted to purchase the tech that cloaked one from surveillance cameras. Hannibal wasn't willing to let that go cheaply. Their debate had lasted some hours. Tempers had come close to breaking. Veiled threats had been made. But at the end of the day, it was Hannibal who triumphed, as he always did. And now, with business done, it was time for pleasure.

"Sir?"

Speaking of pleasure… He turned to see his assistant Hera climbing up the balcony steps. All her hair was gray, but her face was still free of lines. Even though she was in her late forties or earlier fifties-older than him-he had a fondness for calling her "my dear". After all, she was a dear treasure. She was more than his assistant, she was one of his top R&D workers. Her help had lead to countless breakthroughs and new developments, which helped secure the Green Phoenix as one of the major players of the underworld.

Alas, she had never been able to deliver what he longed for the most: Project Carthage, or any of Hopper's work. She was intelligent, but Hopper was on a completely different level, and his work was locked up tighter than a miser's purse.

He smiled. "Hera, my dear, what can I do for you?"

"Sorry to bother you, sir. But there's an important call for you."

"It can't wait until the end of the party?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. It's Agent Grigory. Very urgent."

"Very well," he sighed. He gave nods to his fellows, who were observing the exchange with thinly-veiled interest. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me…"

Hannibal preferred to always wear a mask of civility and good nature. Fools would lower their guards before it, and the wise would be even more unsettled. Those here were wise; the crowds shied away so he could traverse easily. No one met Hannibal's eyes or asked where he was going. They feared him, and he loved it.

He stepped into his bedroom, which had four guards by the doors. They saluted sharply upon seeing him. He nodded slightly, took hold of the doorknob-made of pure gold and embalmed with the image of a bird in flight-turned it, and stepped inside. Emerald greens and amethyst purples, with the occasional white, made up his room's color palette. Priceless paintings hung on the walls, expensive vases stood on marble stands, and an antique grandfather clock watched a lavish bed. It was more akin to a museum than a bedroom-a veritable hoard of culture and treasure, just the sort of opulence he liked.

The only exception was a large, thin monitor on a large table in the center of the room. On it was the face of Grigory Nictapolus, frozen and awaiting his order to accept the conference call. Before he did, Hannibal pressed a certain button to activate his voice-masking program. "Ah, Grigory. I trust you wouldn't call me over a trifling matter?"

The words were light, but the unspoken threat lurked beneath like a shark in the water.

"No, sir, I wouldn't. The kids told some of their friends about the supercomputer, and last Saturday, I extracted certain memories from the Ishiyamas. With both those pieces of information, I triangulated an area where it should be. For the past three days, I've searched and conducted research within that area, and now I've pinpointed the supercomputer's location."

He inhaled sharply. Yes.

"The supercomputer is located in the underground of an abandoned factory on a small island in the center of the Seine. It's connected to Kadic by a secret passage through the sewers. On the iron manhole to access the passage is the symbol of the Green Phoenix."

Hannibal slammed the desk with his fist, both exultant and furious. "I knew it! That traitor Walter built it with our money! And this supercomputer, have you seen it? Is it activated?"

"I have, and no, sir, it isn't. Do you want me to turn it on?"

"Don't even think about it. Prepare me a warm welcome, Grigory. I'm leaving immediately."

He ended the call and rose, trembling with eagerness. He knew he would have to leave the party early. Kozlov and Li might take it as a slight, but let them. He had more important matters to deal with, and if he got his way, no one would ever dare stand against him again.

ACT II END