Evensong

by Love, John

  Rafiq’s usual courtesy almost slipped during all this. He had trouble concealing his boredom, since it was all academic now. She’d previously told him that the examinations carried out exhaustively on Marek’s body at Kuala Lumpur confirmed conclusively the findings of the field examinations carried out at the villa at Opatija. Beyond any doubt it was Parvin Marek, and beyond any doubt he’d been dead, and kept in cold storage, for at least three years. Carefully-worded news releases were already breaking in the media.

  While he gazed at Arden, Rafiq saw a number of scenes passing behind his eyes; scenes from ten years ago which he couldn’t repeat to her, but didn’t need to.

  “I know what you’re feeling,” she told him, and immediately regretted how empty it sounded. For once, her famous empathy had deserted her.

  “I was going to tell you,” he said, “to let me have an hour privately with the body so I could do things to it. No,” he waved down her reply, “it was only a passing thought. Get forensics to take the body. And get them to do things to it.”

  “They already have,” she reminded him. “I told you earlier.”

  “And the families of his other victims? They’ve been contacted?”

  “Yes, all of them. I told you that earlier too.”

  “Thank you.”

  5

  Olivia rushed past Anwar to Proskar. She took both his hands—those unusual hands—in hers. “Thank you for coming back.”

  “I couldn’t walk out on you, Archbishop.”

  She kept his hands in hers. “I missed you. And,” cocking her head back at Anwar, “he has something to say to you.”

  “I owe you an apology,” Anwar said. “And however I word it, it’s going to sound inadequate.”

  “I’m just glad to be back,” Proskar said awkwardly. “Let’s leave it, we have a lot of work to do.”

  Olivia still hadn’t released his hands. They dwarfed hers. “Are you finally sure,” she asked Anwar, “that he isn’t Marek? Maybe Arden what’s-her-name isn’t what she seems. Maybe she switched the bodies. Proskar could be the one getting cut up in Kuala Lumpur while here, before us, we have the real Parvin Marek.”

  Laughing, the three of them walked away and left him in the Garden. He heard her call back to him over her shoulder, “You mistimed, Anwar.”

  He thought about her sermon. He’d thought of little else. What she said about her meanness of nature. She didn’t do compassion, she preferred to strike at perpetrators rather than comfort victims. Anwar, despite his physical prowess, had never behaved with any particular meanness towards any opponent. He’d just done what was necessary. There, he thought, there’s an example of how we could fit together, how we could become more than the total of our individual parts.

  He was still in denial. Before, he told himself, there was nobody. Now, there’s nobody else. He walked over to where she’d dropped his jacket. He picked it up, dusted it carefully down, and put it back on. “Now, there’s nobody else?” he thought. “Now, there’s nobody else?”

  When you’re in denial, you tell yourself ridiculous things. When your head’s in the sand, you know what you’re talking through. He started laughing at himself, the way he’d laughed at her.

  ELEVEN: THE SUMMIT, COMMENCING OCTOBER 15, 2060

  1

  By October 14, all the delegates had arrived. The New Anglicans had, as expected, attended efficiently to all their needs: dietary, religious, administrative, communications, PR, transport. And security. The huge and complicated security network of which Gaetano was the central part had, like some old brass mechanism, juddered into motion, got up to optimum speed, and was now moving smoothly.

  The eve-of-summit reception began in the Conference Centre at 9:00 p.m. on October 14. There was a brief opening address by Olivia. She was smart enough not to over-egg it, or to slip in commercials for the New Anglicans. Her remarks amounted to no more than Welcome, glad you could come, we’re just the hosts but we wish you well, enjoy tonight’s gathering.

  She wore her usual long velvet dress. This one was dark green. Anwar found it arousing, but he preferred her in dark red, or purple, or dark blue. Green, he thought, doesn’t suit her quite as well. He still caught himself having thoughts like that.

  The security regime he’d agreed on with Gaetano was fully operational. It had been so since he last spoke to her in the Garden, a conversation whose aftertaste wouldn’t leave him. At any time she had at least three of Gaetano’s staff with her, chosen by Anwar at random each day from Gaetano’s “trusted” list. Anwar was also around her for at least twelve hours a day—at services, meetings, press conferences, wherever she went. He hardly let her out of his sight. Only when he slept was he not in her immediate vicinity; and even then he primed himself, catlike, to sleep for the minimum time.

  And his parameters had narrowed. Not Who, or Why, or even How, but just Where and When. Who and Why no longer concerned him. He’d got all he’d ever get out of her. Only Where and When mattered now. In a society adept at retro replicas and concealed motives and manufactured identities, Who and Why were the most complicated of the five questions. He didn’t have time for them, not anymore.

  Anwar moved carefully among and through the delegates, always in Olivia’s vicinity without being obviously so. He stayed alone, but kept moving with an expression on his face as though he’d just left one conversation and was on his way to join another. He listened carefully to the smalltalk around him but didn’t participate. The way he felt, he’d probably insult or offend anyone who spoke to him.

  Something was in his blood and wouldn’t let him alone. Her, obviously, but he didn’t let it affect his watchfulness. Or his obsessiveness.

  Yuri Zaitsev was due to join the reception at 10:00, but he didn’t arrive until 11:30. He’d been delayed by the debate in the UN General Assembly on Rafiq’s running of UNESCO, and the vote of no confidence in Rafiq that he, Zaitsev, had initiated. Rafiq’s UNESCO policy was carried by a large majority, and the no-confidence vote was defeated by an even larger one. It didn’t put Zaitsev in an ideal frame of mind. He thought he’d covered enough angles on the voting, but Rafiq had covered more, and covered them better. In such things, Yuri Zaitsev wasn’t even remotely in the same league as Rafiq.

  Zaitsev was furious and mortified, but did his best to conceal it and to make an impressive entrance. He acknowledged the many courtesies, sincere and ironic, which came his way and set about working the room. The reception would go on a little later than intended, but not so late that it would affect the summit.

  It was now one minute past midnight on October 15.

  A large open area in the Conference Centre, between seating and stage, had been cleared by the removal of the first few rows of seating. Drinks and food were served by circulating waiters, and from tables set up on the stage. The various adjoining rooms on the ground floor of the auditorium (for use during the summit as breakout spaces, subsidiary meeting rooms, and coffee lounges) also had their own food and drink. The huge white and silver auditorium, the walls and ceiling a combination of swooping organic shapes, looked like a replica of the New West Pier seen from inside.

  The mezzanine running round the upper levels of the auditorium was now a minstrels’ gallery. A string quartet played there, softly and discreetly. The rooms leading off the mezzanine (including the Signing Room) were closed but would be open when the summit began, making more areas for breakout meetings and informal discussions—except for the Signing Room, which would stay shut until the signing ceremony (if any) at the end of the summit. It was still guarded inside: there were never less than three security people in there at any time. Their stay in the room was less conspicuous, less noisy, and more hygienic than Anwar’s had been.

  Some delegates had gone upstairs to listen more closely to the music, and were leaning over the handrail of the mezzanine balcony, looking down on the main reception. Considering the size of the space and the numbers present, it was fairly quiet. Conversations were animate
d but not loud. And everywhere, as always, there was the discreet scent of citrus. After a while, Anwar thought as he continued circulating, you got to think that citrus was what white and silver smelt like. Or that white and silver were the colour of citrus.

  The Conference Centre didn’t look anything like it would look at 10:00 the following morning, when the opening speeches would be made and the summit would commence. The reception should have ended at midnight, but in view of Zaitsev’s late arrival it would go on for an hour or so. The New Anglicans had foreseen the delay and prepared for it; their staff would reinstate the front rows of seating, check computers and audio-visual, set up catering and put the whole auditorium into full conference mode before 10:00 a.m.

  Extra staff had been recruited to deal with administration, catering, transport, and communications. All of them were checked by Gaetano’s people, and double-checked by UN intelligence—a condition of Rafiq’s, which (unlike some of his other conditions, when the venue was negotiated) met with no opposition from Olivia.

  Anwar continued listening to the smalltalk. He heard a few people repeat the old stories about Olivia having driven a ferociously hard bargain when negotiating for the venue, and Rafiq having hated negotiating with her. Strange, when they should be allies. Arden had said that. So had he, Anwar, to Rafiq. “I know what she’s like. But what she stands for is your concern. If it isn’t, it ought to be.”

  Also, and more interestingly, he heard references to the New Anglicans, to their rapid growth and most un-Church like style, and to their extraordinary New West Pier and Cathedral and Conference Centre. Some delegates hadn’t been to Brighton before, and were learning from those who had about its various eccentricities.

  Olivia was working the room, discreetly putting over, to a few selected individuals, the commercials for the New Anglicans which she’d been careful to keep out of her welcome speech. Zaitsev and the other VIP participants were also working the room, but from their particular standpoints of what they wanted from the summit: re-establishing contacts, opening new channels, beginning threads they’d pursue later. The VIPs’ and senior delegates’ security people—Meatslabs of varying proficiency—stood around and, for the benefit of anyone watching them, looked watchful. Gaetano and his people covered the space much less obviously and much more intelligently. Several of them were joining in the small talk. Anwar liked the way they worked.

  Anwar continued circulating. He had an electronic ID badge,as did everybody present. His one said he was a middle-ranking member of Gaetano’s staff. Ironically, the surname was Khan—Yusuf Khan,an IT specialist and a man of roughly similar appearance and build, in case anyone cared to check.

  Although he tended always to plan for the worst outcome, Anwar didn’t expect anything to kick off at the reception. The reception wasn’t public, and wasn’t being broadcast live. The opening ceremony tomorrow would be, and he’d be covering all vectors and lines of sight which, by now, he knew intimately.

  He knew Gaetano would be increasingly occupied with the summit, and since the Garden they’d hardly spoken. Their agreed security regime meant he’d become increasingly occupied with Olivia, though they too had hardly spoken. They both knew they’d moved into the final phase, where he was simply her bodyguard and nothing more.

  He hadn’t come to terms with her rejection, or his own feelings. But he couldn’t decide if either, or both, or neither, were real. He parked it. If she’d been a desk or a chair, or Rafiq himself, the logistics of protecting her would be just the same, and he’d attend to them just as obsessively.

  “Mr. Khan?”

  Anwar didn’t jump at the mention of his original name, or even when he turned round and found himself facing Zaitsev.

  “Mr....Yusuf Khan, is it?”

  Anwar had never actually met Zaitsev before, and had only seen him from a distance at various functions. He was unprepossessing: jowly and flat-faced, heavily built almost to the point of obesity, though the drape of his expensive suit concealed some of it. Close up, his skin was pock-marked and stubbled. He was one of those people, Anwar thought, who always looked unshaven no matter how much they shaved.

  Zaitsev knew about Anwar, or thought he did. Not indetail, or by name, but he suspected Rafiq had sent a Consultant. He’d seen Consultants before—not much, but often enough to suspect Anwar was one. He drew him aside to a more private corner.

  “It’s an honour to meet you, Mr. Secretary-General,” Anwar lied.

  “You’re one of Rafiq’s creatures, aren’t you?”

  “I’m what my badge says I am, Mr. Secretary-General.”

  “You look like one of Rafiq’s creatures. Are you here to protect my life?”

  “I don’t know Mr. Rafiq personally,” said Anwar, truthfully. “But your life is of no concern to me.”

  “That’s discourteous. You should show more respect for my office. Unlike your owner, I’m democratically elected.”

  “Yes, this evening you must have a heightened appreciation of the value of voting.”

  Seeing Zaitsev’s expression, two of his retinue of Meats labs moved closer. They were quite impressive. They would have dwarfed even Levin.

  Olivia moved in quickly and extricated him. “Come on, Mr. Khan, you mustn’t monopolise the Secretary-General’s time...”

  Anwar did almost jump then, to hear her using his original name.

  The music continued, as did the low murmur of conversation. The string quartet played baroque chamber music. In deference to the delegates it should perhaps have been traditional African or Asian music, but no cultural offence was intended or taken. Chamber music was appropriate for the reception.It didn’t intrude on the ambience. More traditional regional music would be played during the next few days at the summit’s various social events.

  Later, as the reception was drawing comfortably to a close, one of Zaitsev’s Meatslabs came up to Anwar.

  “I don’t know what that was about, but you irritated the Secretary-General. Don’t do it again. Or I’ll tear off your penis, dip it in relish, and make you eat it.”

  “What kind of relish?”

  Anwar watched the chest swelling and nostrils dilating. The chest filled most of his immediate field of vision. He thought, If he slugs me, I’ll just have to take it. I mustn’t disable him, not here in front of everyone, that would be stupid. But the Meatslab’s mood subsided and he stalked off. Sometimes Anwar could encourage people to do that, by particular tricks of eye contact and body language that sent out strong warning signs. He’d tried to avoid doing it here, to stay consistent with his temporary identity. Or maybe I didn’t avoid it, and that’s why he left so quickly. Or maybe...

  Midnight had come and gone. It was now October 15, the first day of the summit.

  He and Olivia had only nine days left together. Maybe less than nine days. Maybe a lot less. Things were coming to a climax, but also coming to an end.

  2

  October 15 was moving round the earth. When it reached Brighton, it had already been in Kuala Lumpur for seven hours.

  Rafiq, surrounded by unseen security, walked through the park in front of Fallingwater. He was smoking, which occasionally he did at the start of a particularly significant day. He rarely smoked more than once a day, but Arden Bierce still faintly disapproved; yet she still carried a lighter in case he forgot his.

  She came up to him.

  “What are you doing, smoking a cigarette?”

  “By the rules of linguistics, that question’s unanswerable.”

  She felt like rolling her eyes. Then she thought of all that had happened in the last few hours, particularly the news about Marek. She couldn’t imagine the effect it must have had on him.

  She tried to change to a subject he might find a bit more congenial. “The Secretary-General turned up late for the eve-of-summit reception in Brighton. Late, and in a bad mood. You really did a job on him.”

  “Yes, I think he’s back in his cage for a while. But he’s not as stupid as
he looks.”

  “Or as clever as he thinks.”

  Rafiq smiled an acknowledgement. “Still, you shouldn’t have had to tell me twice about Marek’s autopsy, or the press releases, or contacting the families. I should have been on top of those things, but when I heard his body was found…”

  “It’s understandable.”

  “No it isn’t. In this job, the first rule is that nothing ever lets up. Do you remember the day my family was killed?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “There was a General Assembly debate that evening; one of Zaitsev’s predecessors, attacking my restructuring of one of the agencies. I don’t even remember which one. But the debate wasn’t postponed. Just like yesterday’s wasn’t.”

  “Yes. But you won both of them. You outlasted the man who initiated that debate, and you’ll outlast the man who initiated this one.”

  It was exactly the right thing to say, at exactly the right time. She always did that. She was a settled person, comfortable with herself, and she made Rafiq feel comfortable.

  “When I eventually retire, which won’t be yet, you’ll be one of the contenders to take over. But not one of the leading contenders. Do you know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re not ruthless or ambitious enough. But what you are is good with people. They like your company.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Rafiq?”