He smiled, counted the number of pillars to the right of the two silhouettes, counted the number to the left, checked his watch, wrote it down on his pad. He leaned back toward the binoculars while reaching for the orange. Both silhouettes remained motionless.
Still watching, still smiling, he inserted his right index finger under the lacerated skin of the orange and pushed it down toward the base, as far as it would go. Then he pulled his finger slowly outward, away from the heart of the fruit.
The skin bulged and ripped and released its life in a dense, fragrant spray.
Chapter Twenty
ODYSSEUS
Sounion National Park’s meeting facility was hardly what Caine pictured as the setting for a rendezvous with global destiny. Collages of photographs sent by appreciative visitors took the place of the somber busts of statesmen. Simple prefab construction did not deliver the sense of dignity that would have been imparted by well-varnished wood paneling and brass fixtures. No, to judge from the surroundings, the fate of the world was going to be determined in a trailer-park meeting hall.
But first, the facility would host a brief session with disgruntled representatives from Indonesia. Nolan, who had told Caine about the meeting the night before, had openly resolved not to let it spoil their walk up to the Temple of Poseidon. He had been successful: as they stood in the twilight calm and watched the stars come out, he had not uttered one word.
The Indonesian delegation had already arrived, dominated by a squat, late-middle-aged man. As they approached the central table, another, ethnically mixed contingent emerged from the alcove that housed the automated coffee dispensers.
“Bloody hell,” Downing whispered.
—which was fortuitously—or was that carefully?—drowned out by Nolan’s loud and expressive, “Vassily! You’re early today—and you brought company.”
Vassily Sukhinin—Nolan’s Russian equivalent, and old comrade from the Highground War, if Caine remembered his reading—frowned apologetically. “I bring this company like a sheep brings wolves.” He jerked his head vaguely to the rear. “I apologize, Nolan, but I did not bring them. I forced them to bring me.”
Nolan turned toward the leader of the new and apparently unexpected group: a spare, immaculately tailored man of youthful middle age, flanked by two nondescript aides. The man wore a tie sporting what looked like a modernized heraldic pattern. Nolan’s tone was interrogative: “Mister—?”
“Robin Astor-Smath. It’s rather pleasant not being known on sight.”
Astor-Smath. Robin Astor-Smath. CoDevCo. From the news in the car just yesterday.
Nolan gestured toward a seat at the table. “To what do we owe the honor of this unexpected visit?”
“That is a gracious question—particularly since I must assume you had a hand in ensuring that corporate entities were excluded from the proceedings.”
“The proceedings, Mr. Astor-Smath, were initiated on behalf of the citizens of the world’s nations. And it is solely on that basis—the lawful and sovereign representation of citizens—that the leaders of the five blocs are meeting to discuss matters of state. Mr. Astor-Smath, I believe you represent shareholders, not citizens.”
“All of those shareholders are citizens with equal rights.”
“True, but not all of the world’s citizens are equally privileged shareholders—and that is the crucial difference. You represent the interests of a very privileged few, far less than one-tenth of one percent of the world’s population.”
“Well, Admiral, we’ll see if that distinction holds up after you hear what my friends from Indonesia have to say this morning. I imagine you may have met Indonesia’s Minister of Finance, Mr. Ruap.”
The squat, late-middle-aged man nodded.
Nolan returned the nod. “I haven’t had the honor until now. And while I am unsure how Mr. Sukhinin—Russia’s Minister of Foreign Affairs—learned of our unofficial meeting, I am most grateful that he came along. Vassily, where is all your security?”
“If one would move quickly, one must carry few bags.”
“Moscow is not going to be happy, my friend.”
“Shto? I care? There was no time to send a message—and it would have attracted too much attention.”
“It’s your career, Vassily.”
“Yes, and it would be a kindness to be asked to retire.”
Nolan smiled—Caine saw a flash of the same gentleness that he had seen yesterday—and then Admiral Corcoran was on stage again: “I’m sorry to rush things along, but we don’t have much time. Mr. Ruap, what can I do for you?”
The Indonesian Finance Minister folded his hands. “I am here to serve notice to the five blocs that, if the Parthenon Dialogs are to be truly global in nature, then the blocs need to provide a place for the many nations that are inadequately represented by them. Therefore, on behalf of these nations, Indonesia is demanding that these underrepresented nations be included as the World General Assembly bloc, which wishes to ensure that any global confederation will remain secondary and subordinate to the legal authority and primacy of the United Nations.”
Nolan leaned forward. “Mr. Ruap, as the Dialogs’ mediator, I am charged with assessing whether your World General Assembly is genuinely a sixth bloc. And here’s what I’ve learned: as of this morning, almost all the nations you claim to represent remain committed to one or another of the five blocs. Similarly, the General Assembly has not charged nor endorsed any sixth bloc to become a watchdog over our proceedings here.
“So I can only think, Mr. Ruap, that you are here on what we Americans call ‘a fishing expedition.’ You don’t have a committed bloc behind you: rather, you’re a purchasing agent for a collection of nations that want to do some comparison shopping. You are free to do so—but not here. This is a meeting for duly constituted blocs. You do not have one yet, and therefore, we cannot accommodate you with a seat at the table.”
Ruap spread his hands. “It is hard to see how Indonesia can continue to work with its American partners on the Mass Driver Project, then. It is a great shame, given all the joint work and expenses that have been incurred to date. However, our friends in CoDevCo will help us bring the project to swift and successful completion.”
Sukhinin’s shoulders came forward sharply: “I can no longer sit here and watch this charade. This is not about UN preeminence, or a sixth bloc, or even your mass driver: this is an attempt to scare us into helping you improve Indonesia’s standing in the TOCIO bloc.”
The rapid change in topic disoriented Caine, but Ruap’s reaction told him that the Indonesian Finance Minister certainly felt the relevance of Sukhinin’s words. Ruap sat very erect, face impassive: “Mr. Sukhinin, your implications are an insult to my gov—”
Sukhinin waved his hand in the air as if he were brushing away a fly. “Gospodin Ruap, it is your government which insults us—by wasting our time and recruiting this vulture”—he jerked his head at Astor-Smath—“to help you in your petty bid for more power within the Trans-Oceanic Commercial and Industrial Organization. Let us speak plainly: Indonesia was disappointed when Japan acknowledged Brazil and India as its two most important partners in the TOCIO bloc. So here you are today, trying to prove them wrong by showing how much trouble you can make: leading your own bloc, getting access to CoDevCo’s big bank account and finishing the mass driver with their money. But tell me, if Tokyo called and said, ‘Oh, do not leave us: we were wrong not to recognize you as equal to Brazil and India,’ would you still be so eager to argue for a sixth bloc? It is all a farce, and the audience for whom you have staged it isn’t even here. They are sipping sake and, I hope, laughing at you. Bah.”
Ruap was still: his face had grown very dark. “Mr. Sukhinin, my nation shall remember your nation’s slander.”
Astor-Smath leaned into the space between them. “Gentlemen, please. These harsh words are unproductive and unbecoming. Let’s get back on track. Clearly, Admiral Corcoran and Mr. Sukhinin are not willing to recognize Indonesia’s
leadership, or even the existence, of a sixth bloc. However, that doesn’t alter the fact that we have agreed to fund the completion of the Equatorial Mass Driver.”
Downing shrugged. “Mr. Astor-Smath, you might want to examine the history of the Mass Driver Project before you become overly sanguine about its completion. After talking about it for twenty years, Indonesia finally persuaded China to help with construction and funding. When Beijing withdrew from the project, America got involved. That was fourteen years ago, and it has now cost the Commonwealth’s governments and industrial investors about one hundred twelve billion c-dollars. I hope CoDevCo is prepared to take on that kind of job—and debt.”
“We are ready to do so—because we believe it is not only a good investment, but is an important step towards global economic and social equity. The mass driver will give Indonesia and its bloc a monopoly on low-cost, high-capacity launches to low Earth orbit.”
Caine watched Astor-Smath’s chin rise into his topic, recalled the bio: born in Wichita, then enrolled in private schools—from daycare onward—in Madrid, Rio, Hong Kong, Johannesburg. A thoroughly heterogeneous background: Anglo-American, Chinese, Indian, Afrikaans, Polish, Bantu. Astor-Smath was a man for all seasons—and a mercenary for all occasions.
“With the political leverage provided by the mass driver,” he was saying, “the Developing World can not only begin to compete in space commerce, but can pressure the Developed Nations to redress the imbalance of wealth throughout the globe.”
A different voice jumped into the pause in Astor-Smath’s speech: “I’m curious: at what point in the last twenty-four hours did you have a transforming moral epiphany?” Caine was somewhat surprised to find that the voice was his own.
“I beg your pardon?” Astor-Smath was not able to thoroughly mask his surprise. Nor was Nolan, who had turned to look at Caine: his left eyebrow was raised, as well as the left corner of his mouth.
“Well, you see, just yesterday, I was listening to your apologetics for CoDevCo’s mistreatment of workers from the Developing and Undeveloped Nations. So I can’t help but wonder at what point in the last twenty-four hours you decided to become a crusader for those very same downtrodden peoples?”
“That is a separate matter. Those are isolated complaints—”
“Really? That doesn’t match up with what I’ve read recently. Your ghastly working conditions on gray worlds and asteroids are experienced almost solely by laborers from the Undeveloped World, whose contracts resemble letters of indentured servitude. You talk about the wonderful revenues they send back to their families, but thousands of those families have filed class-action suits complaining that the payments are already five years in arrears, and are reduced to pennies on the dollar after you subtract the life-support charges that were in the small—or would that be invisible?—print of the worker’s contract. So, since you don’t appear to have the money to pay your workers, I’m curious how you plan to finance the Mass Driver Project?”
Astor-Smath did not appear to have an answer at the ready. No one spoke: the silence dragged on until it became sharply uncomfortable. Nolan rose. “It appears that we are done. Oh, and Mr. Ruap—”
Ruap, halfway to his feet, paused.
“It’s possible that if you pull the plug on the mass driver partnership, Congress and American industry might be tempted to reexamine other deals they have with you.” Nolan opened the door to leave, smiled; it could have been a wolf displaying his teeth. “Just a thought.”
Caine had planned on remaining quiet until they reached their vehicles, but halfway there, Nolan took his arm. “I thought you already had breakfast.”
“Huh? I did.”
“Then I guess you were still hungry enough to eat Astor-Smath alive.”
“Hope I didn’t make any trouble.”
“I doubt it. He didn’t get any policy surprises here—although I suspect you caught him off guard when you put him on the spot personally.”
“Which was not wise,” added Downing at Caine’s other elbow. “Astor-Smath seems unflappable, but he’s got an ego—and the memory of an elephant.”
“Okay, Rich,” Nolan scolded, “stop scaring the new guy.”
“I’m scared enough as it is.”
“Why?”
“Because CoDevCo must have foreseen this outcome.”
“Naturally,” agreed Corcoran.
“Then what was their real purpose in coming here? What are they up to?”
Nolan shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. But right now, we don’t have any way to find out. So we wait, watch, and—above all—remain completely focused on today’s business.”
CIRCE
The Sun, almost exactly overhead, duplicated itself in the man’s wraparound sunglasses, which were aimed skyward as if he were scrutinizing the details of the stellar disk. He returned his attention to the small earthenware bowl that had three small black olives left in it; a white dish beyond it sprouted a modest heap of well-chewed pits at its approximate center. Their brine still glistened on his index finger; he licked it tentatively. He smiled, stretched, sighed, checked his watch.
“More black olives, sir?”
If the man was startled by the young waiter approaching quickly from behind, he gave no sign of it. He shook his head, pointed to a jar of green olives: each was larger than the top half of his thumb. He paused. “Today, I may also have some wine. Red wine.”
The waiter smiled: the man tipped well and was not like most foreigners, who were constantly inquiring about different dishes, Greek food in general, the local sights. This man was quiet and very still, unusually so. And always alone. “I will get your order,” the waiter said with a nod, and was gone.
The man kept looking through the space the waiter had just vacated, kept looking up at the end of the Sounion headland.
Chapter Twenty-One
ODYSSEUS
Upon reentering the meeting hall several hours later, Caine expected to find it a hive of activity. What he found, when the security guard on his left opened the door and the one on his right ushered him in with outstretched hand, was an utterly still tableau made up of concentric rings of expectant humanity.
The innermost ring of ten persons was incomplete: seated about a round table, their circle was broken by two empty chairs. The next ring was that of the advisors, aides, assistants, and chroniclers who were seated behind their delegates. The last ring—as numerous as the other two put together—were (mostly) men whose eyes could not be seen: square-jawed and sunglassed, the security personnel projected the aura of waiting automatons, creatures who had long ago ceased to move in accordance with their own will. Caine could see the eyes of the other two rings, however—and they were all on him.
Nolan had been waiting beside the door, smiled when Caine noticed him, accompanied him to the two empty chairs at the round table, indicated the one on the right. Nolan stood behind the other, cleared this throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have all heard about Mr. Riordan, and what he found and experienced during his three weeks on Delta Pavonis. Please remember that Mr. Riordan is not here in a political or official capacity. His credentials today are those of a well-regarded researcher and writer who, on the advice of Senator Arvid Tarasenko, was sent to assess conflicting reports regarding advanced life forms and structures found on Delta Pavonis Three. You already have his report—except for one footnote that he will now present to you himself.
“Mr. Riordan, allow me to introduce the bloc representatives gathered here today. Starting on your right: Ms. Hollingsworth of the UK and Mr. MacGregor of Australia; Mr. Sukhinin of Russia and Ms. Durniak of the Ukraine; Mr. Ching of China and Mr. Demirel of Turkey; Mr. Karagawa of Japan, and Mr. Medina of Brazil; and Ms. Visser of Germany and Mr. Gaspard of France.”
Caine noted which delegates offered a nod or some other sign of recognition: both of the Commonwealth delegates, Sukhinin of Russia, Visser of Germany, Medina of Brazil. The last he dismissed: at this point, i
t was impossible to distinguish warm but impersonal Brazilian cordiality from a sign of personal receptivity. He was similarly undecided about Durniak’s lack of response: she was somewhat young and very intent, probably too focused to even think of personal interaction, at this point. No surprise in Ching’s silence: he was the Great Sphinx of international relations. China’s Foreign Minister for almost eighteen years now, one journalist had quipped that Ching could go days without speaking—even if he was China’s sole representative at a two-nation summit. An exaggeration, but not by much: according to Nolan, Ching had not spoken a word during the first day at Parthenon.
All five blocs. Two representatives from each. The US was conspicuously absent, probably because the mediator—Nolan—was a fairly famous American, and also in deference to providing a seat at the table for the Commonwealth’s newest (and still probative) member state: the UK. Was this the shape of things to come? The first de facto sitting of the Confederation Council, meeting to will itself into existence, to midwife its own birth? Ex nihilo—a new world order. For a moment, Caine felt himself as the watcher, not the watched, immersed in the surreal quality of being present for the unfolding of a historical moment, and sharply aware that the neat beginnings and endings of history as reported had nothing to do with history as made.
Nolan’s voice was gentle. “Mr. Riordan, whenever you’re ready.”
“Uh, yes—sorry.” Wonderful beginning. Ass. He glanced down at his palmtop, at the notes he knew by heart, and calmly decided to ignore them. “Ladies and gentlemen, one hour before departing from Delta Pavonis on July 10, 2118, I returned briefly to the main ruins at Site One—”
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