by Love, John
THREE: SEPTEMBER 2060
1
Anwar was not entirely unacquainted with Brighton.
One of the UN’s VSTOLs had flown him from Fallingwater to a small private airfield on the Downs, where he was met by a car that took him into Brighton. The car dropped him on Marine Parade, at the gateway to the New West Pier at the end of which, two miles into the ocean, stood Brighton Cathedral. It was late September and the summit was more than two weeks away: October 15, for nine days. He’d spend the two weeks in briefings with Archbishop del Sarto and her staff. But today—it was early afternoon—he wanted sometime to himself.
The New West Pier stood near the site of the original West Pier, which had mysteriously burnt down last century. Less than a mile away along the beach stood another old pier, which still survived: the Palace Pier, a traditional structure of wooden pilings and dark wrought-iron Victorian filigree, totally unlike the swooping white New West Pier, which dwarfed it.
The New Anglicans were originally going to have traditional pier entertainments (gambling arcades, fairground rides, a musical theatre) halfway along their New West Pier. They decided against it, not because it was inappropriate— they liked the fusion of Church and Mammon—but because it would take trade away from the Palace Pier, owned by a local family. The New Anglicans knew when to step lightly.
Brighton Cathedral was a full-size replica of the Royal Pavilion, standing at the end of the New West Pier. Around the Cathedral was a complex of other buildings, architecturally matching, which housed conference facilities, hotels, function suites, and media centres; also commercial offices, studios, shops, restaurants. The Cathedral and its matching complex was pearlescent white, unlike the buff-colured mixture of stucco and Baths and stone which made up the original Royal Pavilion. It was the best, and most expensive, business address in Europe.
The New West Pier stretched out to sea on elegant arching supports. It was made of metallic/ceramic composites, reinforced internally by carbon nanotubes. At its far end two miles away, it rose high and widened out massively to accommodate the Cathedral complex, which soared above the Pier and faced back to the shore. Maglevs ran its entire length, with a station at the Pier’s gateway and another at the far end.
The Pier looked beautiful by day, with its clean white lines and swooping arches. But at night, Anwar thought, when it was lit…
He was standing on Marine Parade, the main road running parallel to the beach. He wore a light grey linen suit, with a darker grey shirt, the colour almost of the ocean. On the other side of Marine Parade was Regency Square Gardens. Eighteenth and nineteenth-century buildings made an elegant frontage to the road, including the Grand and Metropole Hotels. There was also one newer development, standing on the shore line near the gateway to the New West Pier: the i-360 Tower, built about 2015. It had a large observation pod, in the shape of a ring doughnut, going up and down the central spike of the five-hundred-foot tower.
He decided to walk along the foreshore. His luggage had gone on ahead of him, to the suite the New Anglicans had reserved for him in the nine-star New Grand Hotel in the Cathedral complex at the far end of the New West Pier. So much was called New, but Newness could be a mask. There you go again, looking for pockets of darkness.
The foreshore and beach were almost unchanged from last century. Marine Parade was on an embankment about twenty feet above the level of the foreshore. Staircases were set at intervals along the embankment, their railings painted green, with rust spots bubbling underneath.
He had been to Brighton a few times before, and remembered it for the sounds of conversation and music, and the smells of things being cooked and substances being smoked. His previous visits had been in summer months, and this was late September, with fewer people around; but something of that atmosphere still remained. The beach was pebbles, not sand. As the ocean drew them back and rolled them forward, then back and forward again and again, they made a bubbling clatter, like applause.
Set into the embankment was a series of arches, housing a mixture of small businesses: craft and souvenir shops, painting and pottery studios, cafes, fishing/sailing lockups. A couple of arches housed the Brighton Sailing Club. The larger and more opulent private yachts were berthed in marinas up and down the coast. The boats here were small sailing boats, small enough to be drawn up on the beach near where Anwar walked. The wind blowing in from the pewter-coloured ocean set their ropes ringing against the metal masts.
The embankment was mouldering brick and weathered concrete, in various shades of black and khaki, randomly cracked and randomly repaired. Weeds grew at the joints of concrete and brickwork. There were occasional pedestrian underpasses,leading to the other side of Marine Parade.They were walled with stained white tiles, like old public toilets (which they sometimes became).
It reminded him of his favourite immersion hologram.
He stopped about halfway between the two piers, and looked back at the New West Pier. His eyes, if he willed them to, could have adjusted to show him the Cathedral complex in fine granular detail, so he could compare it inch by inch with what he remembered of the original Royal Pavilion. He decided not to ramp up his vision. He kept his senses at normal most of the time, especially sight and hearing. To amplify them too much might betray his identity. He was looking forward to seeing the Cathedral close-up, however.
Time. He started walking back towards the New West Pier.
He flipped open his wristcom and told it the number he’d been given. The number answered promptly.
“Anwar Abbas, to see Archbishop del Sarto.”
“Yes,Mr.Abbas. Please go through the main gate and wait in the maglev concourse. Someone will meet you.”
Parked along Marine Parade were some heavy multi-wheeled vehicles. “Patel & Co, Builders. You’ve tried the cowboys, now try the Indians.” The slogan was nearly ninety years old, and on the back of it Patel Construction had become a major concern. They were here to refurbish a suite in the conference centre which would be used for the formal signing of agreements at the conclusion of the summit on October 23, assuming agreements would be reached. They wouldn’t, not entirely, but something would be cobbled together. Probably.
He passed through the security and identity checks at the main gate without problems: as far as they could define it, he was unarmed and had an identity. The main gate opened out immediately into Gateway Station. It was the full width of the Pier, and echoed its style: pearlescent white arches supported the glass roof, like a giant inverted ribcage. There were four platforms, and the maglevs simply travelled back and forth the two miles from Gateway Station to Cathedral Station. They were fully-configured bullet trains, white and streamlined, >with all the internal appointments. In view of the shortness of the journey something less elaborate would have done, but the New Anglicans wanted real trains, not a fairground ride.
Anwar stayed in the station concourse, as requested. One maglev was just arriving at Platform 1, not an unusual occurrence considering there were four of them and their two-mile journey took ninety seconds. Among the people disembarking was a tall man who made straight for Anwar. He wore a casual but expensive light grey suit and dark shirt, an outfit not unlike Anwar’s. His hair was dark, cut short, and receding. His build and gait was one Anwar recognised. Shoulder holster, he noted from the drape of the well-cut jacket,and a flat knife carried in an implant on the left forearm, under the sleeve. Slim build, like Anwar, but slightly taller. Thin face, high cheekbones. Meatslab.
“Mr. Abbas? I’m Gaetano Vecchio, the Archbishop’s head of security.”
They shook hands.
“So this is what a Consultant looks like. I don’t think I’ve met one before.”
“Ah...and who else has the Archbishop told?”
“Just me and her personal staff.”
Anwar didn’t push it, for now.
They eyed each other. Each of them knew the other’s abilities, and each of them knew that Anwar was in a different league altogether.
“She’s the one who wanted you here,” Gaetano added, “not me. But that’s a conversation for another time. For now,she’s anxious to meet you.”
Ninety seconds later they disembarked at Cathedral Station and rode the glass lift to the Cathedral complex.
Anwar recalled his previous visits to the original Royal
Pavilion: a deeply eccentric building, the definitive example of eighteenth-century European chinoiserie, swamped with flamboyant detail and surface ornamentation. In front of him was an exact replica, but clad in the same white ceramic/ metallic material as the Pier, and surrounded by other buildings, architecturally matching, forming the Cathedral complex. Everywhere were domes and minarets; stone latticeworks, balconies, arches, and spires; turrets, buttresses, crenellations. Even in the September afternoon light they gleamed.
The original Royal Pavilion stood in its own Garden, a small park of lawns and shrubbery and old spreading trees, with a main gate—the Indian Gate—commemorating the soldiers wounded in the First World War who were hospitalised in the Pavilion. This part of the New West Pier, widened and elevated, allowed space for a full replica of the Garden. It followed the year-round planting scheme of the original. Even in late September, trees and shrubs were in flower: hydrangeas, fuchsia, witch hazel, yellow broom, goldenrod. But there was no replica of the Indian Gate; again, the New Anglicans knew when to tread lightly. They’d decided that to replicate a memorial would be disrespectful and commercially unwise.
They walked through the Garden and into the Cathedral. In the original Royal Pavilion, the inside was even more heavily ornamented than the outside: the Octagon Hall, the Long Gallery, the Banqueting Hall, the King’s Apartments. Here, however, the resemblance ended. None of the interior had been reproduced. Most of the ground floor was the Cathedral proper, a large light open space of minimalist white and grey and silver, with pews of unadorned pale wood and no stained glass anywhere. No service was in progress, and there were only a few groups of visitors and worshippers present.Instead of the usual smell of old incense there was a trace of perfume: an expensive perfume with fresh citrus notes, breathed out softly through the climate-conditioning.
Leading off the open space in front of the altar—also unadorned pale wood with a simple silver cross—was a wide staircase. They took it and came out on the first floor, where the Cathedral offices were housed. The landing was long and wide, walled and floored in white and silver. Gaetano pointed to a floor-to-ceiling door of plain pale wood at the far end.
“She’s waiting for you in the Boardroom.”
2
Levin was gone.
He’d been sent to Opatija alone and unarmed, with all his tracking and monitoring implants deactivated—essential for this particular mission. Now, five days later, they remained deactivated. Nobody had seen or heard from him.
Rafiq was writing another of his neat, courteous letters. He handed it to Arden Bierce.
“Please go to Chulo Asika’s house in Lagos and ask him if he’ll come here.”
Arden Bierce brought Asika in another of the UN’s beautiful silvered VSTOLs. He was offered missions frequently, and she was familiar with the journey: VSTOL to and from the UN Embassy in Lagos, taxi to and from his house. (Anwar lived near enough to the UN to pass as a senior employee who occasionally got flown to Kuala Lumpur, but generally it was considered less than discreet to land a VSTOL on a Consultant’s lawn.) Asika nicknamed her Charon because she ferried The Dead. She liked him but didn’t like the nickname.
Asika’s company was designing and building the set for an upcoming production of “Six Characters in Search of an Author” at the National Theatre in Iganmu, Lagos. Asika’s wife had been one of The Dead. When she became pregnant, seven years earlier, she retired and they married. She now had her own career, as well as two children, and they lived in their family house in Lagos from which Asika ran his business—and, unlike the others, ran it personally rather than online. He had an elaborate system of cover stories to explain his occasional absences, most of them centred on work he did for UNICEF. There was a theoretical risk that his identity would be discovered, but Rafiq had decided, this once, to bend the rules.
The VSTOL settled an inch above the lawn. A door rippled open in its side. Arden Bierce got out and walked across the lawn towards Fallingwater. Chulo Asika followed her. She rang the doorbell, and they entered the reception area.
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said, and went through the door to Rafiq’s inner office.
Asika waited. As usual, several members of Rafiq’s personal staff were there, talking quietly among clusters of plain stone-white sofas and armchairs. A couple of them looked up as he entered.
A few minutes later, Arden Bierce came out.
“He’ll see you now.”
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Asika. I understand you had to postpone some business to come here.”
“You trump everything, Mr. Rafiq. Even the National Theatre.”
“Still, I’m grateful. I hope your work won’t be disrupted.”
Asika smiled. He was a gentle man, who smiled often. He was about the same height and build as Anwar. Along with
Levin, he was one of the four or five consistently highest-scoring Consultants. Despite his abilities, or perhaps because of them, Rafiq always felt comfortable in his company. More so than with any of the other eighteen.
“My work? No, my colleagues are used to my occasional absences. So is my family.”
Rafiq had a poker face that he deployed automatically when anyone mentioned their family. Most people didn’t notice when he deployed it. “I’d like to offer you a mission. May I describe it?”
“Please.”
Rafiq briefed Asika: the tenuous lead to Parvin Marek, Levin’s journey to Opatija and subsequent disappearance, and the villa north of Opatija which, according to the Croatian authorities, was now empty and deserted. When he spoke of Levin’s disappearance, Rafiq was carefully dispassionate. So was Asika.
“And you want me to find out what happened to Levin?” “Yes.”
“And Marek?”
“Secondary. The priority is Levin. Will you do it?”
“Yes. Of course.”
3
When he first saw her she was at the top of a stepladder, scooping a dead fish out of a floor-to-ceiling ornamental tank at the far end of the Boardroom. She had her back to him.Her bottom was wobbling interestingly under a long, voluminous velvet skirt.
“Sorry,” she said without turning round, “I’ll be right with you. I just noticed one of these angelfish had died.”
“Do they die very often?”
“No, only once.”
She turned to look at him, and he realised that all the stories about her were true. Coming off her in waves was a clean and simple lust, uncomplicated by any other motives. He immediately reciprocated. He could feel the reciprocation growing, between his legs.
He watched her descend the stepladder. She was wearing a high-necked,long-sleeved dress of dark red velvet, like a ballgown, with a fitted bodice and a full, floor-length skirt. New Anglican Archbishops didn’t wear traditional robes, but chose something which suited them personally while also looking formal. The velvet dresses were her particular choice.
She walked over to him. She was smaller than she appeared (or contrived to appear) in the newscasts.
“So this is what a Consultant looks like. I thought you’d be seven feet tall.”
He thought, I only need another ten inches, but didn’t say it. He already knew her well enough to imagine her reply. So he smiled and shrugged, and muttered “I was, but I haven’t been well.”
Behind him, he heard Gaetano laugh softly.
“Don’t smile and shrug like that, it makes you look gormless. Not good for a guardian angel.”
She tossed back her blonde hair. Her face was small and almost delicate. Perhaps rather sharp-featured, but softened by the way she did her hair. Her movements and
moods appeared quick and birdlike. Her expression was hard to read, and seemed permanently on the verge of changing. She was a little younger than him; middle thirties, he estimated. She really was quite slightly built.
Her eyes were dark violet. They missed nothing, including his reciprocation when he first saw her. It was now tenting the front of his well-cut trousers.
And there, rubbing against her ankles, was the famous ginger cat, brawny of body and wide of whisker. It glowered at him.
Fuck You it meowed.
“It doesn’t seem to like me.”
“It doesn’t like anyone, except me. And It is a He.”
As at Fallingwater, he tried to mask his feelings by taking stock of his surroundings.
The Boardroom was large, mainly white and silver; with its adjoining anterooms it covered nearly a quarter of the area of the Cathedral’s first floor. It had a long table of light wood set for twenty people. There were windows floor to ceiling down two walls, looking back along the length of the Pier to the beach and the i-360 Tower, and looking to the left over the pearlescent domes and spires and arches of the Cathedral complex. The third wall was lined with comms and screens, and the fourth wall, at the far end, with the tropical fish tank.
There were clusters of armchairs around the room’s perimeter, occupied by people who were obviously the Archbishop’s personal staff. They reminded him of Rafiq’s staff: competent and well-groomed, like Arden Bierce. They’d all stopped talking as he entered. They were still silent now.
He sensed a compression in the air behind him, and turned to see Gaetano approaching. Going to make me put on a show for her.
Gaetano carried a quarterstaff, and held it like he knew how to use it. Anwar reached out, blurringly fast, and took it. He broke it in two, then in four, then in eight, and handed the pieces back to him.
