by Clark, Mark
He looked back at her card and idly turned it over so that its back was exposed. There was a message on it: Meet me at my office - tomorrow midday.
Chapter 3
Nicholas and Leslie entered the same room in which Robert had first met Jeremiah over a century before. The room was redecorated in pastels and the walls adorned with paintings. The décor was chunkier in the late twenty second century style but it was the same room – work table to the left, lounge and coffee table to the right; a spectacular view of the city scrapers all around.
Elizabeth rose to meet them. The three shook hands and together they sat on, almost in, the soft leather couch.
‘So we’re straight to work, I see?’ She smiled, but that smile begged a question. Why are you here at this hour - nine am on our first Monday in office?
‘Sorry to turn up so suddenly,’ Nicholas apologised, ‘but Leslie’s discovered a problem with his notes.’
‘A problem?’
‘Yes,’ Nicholas qualified. ‘He hasn’t got any.’
‘Leslie?’ she questioned.
‘Yes,’ he stammered, once again struck by Elizabeth’s beauty. ‘I’m very worried.’
He handed her the book and soon the quizzical expression that had spread across Nicholas’ face the night before, washed across hers.
‘This can’t be right,’ she mumbled. She reached for the phone. ‘Get Stefan,’ she ordered.
In the several minutes between command and compliance Nicholas and Elizabeth chatted. They apparently had known one another for some time. From their conversation Leslie learned that Elizabeth had been educated in Scraper 8 at a time when Nicholas had been teaching there. He also heard how Elizabeth’s family was very wealthy and that her family had already produced several consuls and one president over the last century. Elizabeth had an impeccable pedigree. Leslie was thinking about how lovely her voice was, when, unexpectedly, she asked him, ‘So, Consul Woodford, what do you make out of all of this?’
He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he was very disturbed by it, as he told her. Both Nicholas and Elizabeth nodded grave agreement. This was unprecedented, she told him, but she felt quite sure that everything would be sorted out.
Before long, a young man with thinning, but long sandy-blond hair, fine chiselled bird-like features, a small craggy nose and close-set eyes, entered carrying a suitcase. He wore a beautifully cut, beige suit and was efficiently effeminate in his movements.
‘This is Stefan,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘He is my personal secretary and our accounts man. He accounts for everything from how much money we have in our coffers, to matters of missing laundry.’
Elizabeth patted Stefan’s hand. The two shared an esoteric laugh and let the mystery lie there.
Leslie noted the familiarity and was jealous, without reason.
Stefan looked at the book and his expression showed great surprise. ‘I’ll have the police look into how this happened,’ he said with concern. ‘I apologise, Consul Woodford, for the great inconvenience. Fortunately the original document is housed in the great vault in Macquarie Street. I’ll have it copied and sent to you later today.’
Leslie was greatly relieved and pleased. He told the young man so. Soon the efficient, sandy-haired young man was on his way.
‘I’m busy today, consuls,’ said Elizabeth, as they parted. ‘I’m sure that you have offices to set up and staff to meet? I remember what my first weeks in office were like. We’re scheduled to meet for our first policy meeting tomorrow in the government buildings. So I’ll see you both then.’ She turned to Leslie, ‘Once you’ve had a chance to read your manuscript.’
She smiled and with a handshake and a closing door, she was gone.
‘You should make it a little more obvious next time,’ said Nicholas as they descended in the elevator.
Leslie did a slight double take but he did not remonstrate. He realised that his affection for Elizabeth was transparent. He had always been a terrible dissembler and a worse liar. He simply accepted the gentle rebuke as it was intended – a friendly barb. But he was also aware that Nicholas was making an important point in a friendly manner: his connection with both Nicholas and Elizabeth was a work arrangement and an important one at that. He must control his feelings.
The two parted and made their separate ways to their offices above Macquarie Street. Leslie was ill at ease on two counts. One, he couldn’t imagine how he was going to spend six years in the company of Elizabeth Dawson without, at some stage, expressing his devotion to her and probably making a fool of himself in the process and two, he was very worried about who had cut the heart out of such an important document as the green book and how on Earth they were able to do so without some complicity with others. If there was a conspiracy then . . . but no, he didn’t believe in conspiracy theories. 99.9% of the time they were populist nonsense and the other 0.1% they were simply nonsense. Everything would be alright. The police would catch the fanatic who had ripped the pages out of his book and they would be brought to justice. They would be punished.
That was how the world worked.
*
Damien was in a much better frame of mind, than he had been the night before, when he walked into Elizabeth Dawson’s office. He was let in before she arrived and sauntered around the room looking into boxes of photographs and memorabilia that were soon to adorn the walls. He moved with the simple grace of a country boy, which must have come from some genetic throwback because there hadn’t been such a species for a long, long while. He was peering inquisitively at a pile of books on the consul’s desk when a voice came from behind him.
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ she said from the door, ‘there are no microphones in here.’
He turned guiltily and released the small pile of papers in his hand. ‘I didn’t . . .’ he began.
She lounged against the doorway with her dark hair cascading like a frozen waterfall about her smiling face. The crystal pools of her eyes shone brightly. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t uncover any state secrets.’ She sashayed lightly into the room. ‘Take a seat, Damien.’
He complied and she sat opposite him. His body language was tense. He was uncertain of her; wary and guarded.
‘I see you received my message?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. How can I help you?’
‘I believe that your father knew mine, back in the seventies. It seems that Damien Enterprises and government officials have been consorting, at least covertly, for some time.’
‘I remember your apartment.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you remember me?’ She opened her eyes flirtatiously.
‘I remember you when you were very little.’
‘Do you now? And what was your impression?’
Damien knew how to handle women. He knew that he must not only be polite at this point but also intentionally flattering. ‘You were as beautiful then as you are now,’ he replied.
Elizabeth laughed, ‘Well said,’ she said and her eyes were bright with mischief. ‘We must talk further of it - some time.’
But that ‘some time’ was not now. This was the scripted end of the small talk. They both knew it. Damien was waiting for a question. He had no idea why she had invited him, possibly as her first official duty of this administration, to discuss . . . what?
‘I know, off the record, that you and your family have a great deal of power in this town and that you can get things done with a minimum of fuss,’ Elizabeth began. ‘The several factories you operate provide this city with a good deal of its creature comforts.’
He sat quietly back into his chair. There was still no question. He listened with interest.
In a subconscious move to counter his motion back into his chair, Elizabeth leaned forward across her brightly polished, wooden desk and said quietly, ‘Apart from my assigned staff, I can, in my second term, choose an adviser at my discretion. You come highly recommended, Damien. My father watched you grow. If he were
alive today, I know that he would approve of you as my choice as chief adviser. What do you say?’
Finally - a question. Damien looked at her intensely for a moment or two, raised his head and stared beyond her charismatic beauty and out through the window.
She sat back into her chair, allowing him his space.
‘Look, thanks anyway, Miss Dawson,’ he eventually replied, ‘but I‘m not your man. I was never a team player and the thought of working with your consuls doesn’t interest me in the least. Thanks for your interest though.’
He rose to leave. She responded by stopping him with her voice. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
He stared at her across the desk and saw her framed like an angel by the backlight of the window. He almost laughed at his negativity, but he remained firm.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he answered. He moved back towards her desk and he took her hand in his. ‘It’s nothing personal, Miss Dawson. But one way to ‘get things done’, as you put it, is in anonymity and what you’re asking will compromise that. Government officials need transparency. I’m a businessman, not a politician.’
‘That’s why I ask for your help. Will you at least consider it?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he replied. He kissed her hand lightly and with great chivalry. Then he turned and left her with a smile.
She lingered above her desk and watched him depart. Then she sat and tapped her fingers upon that desk in silent thought.
Elizabeth was a young woman used to getting her own way. She must rethink her approach.
*
Leslie was introduced to his secretary. He was a little, balding man with thick glasses, attached to super-sized ears that projected mercilessly towards opposing walls. His face was rounded like an apologetic full moon. What little side hair he possessed had been combed over the top of his head in a forlorn and misguided attempt to disguise his follicle deficiency. He wore a white shirt and black tie, both of which were tucked into a pair of tailored, khaki shorts, held up by black braces that drew broad, parallel lines from tummy to shoulders. These drew his shorts up higher than they needed to be, giving him a comical appearance. Below this striking ensemble he sported long white socks and finally, sandals. His body language conveyed immense timidity. He offered a weak handshake and averted his eyes to the floor.
‘Nice to meet you, Mark,’ said Leslie as they met.
Mark merely nodded with his eyes still fixed downward.
Leslie tried again. ‘I look forward to getting to know you over the next few years.’
But again Mark only nodded and shuffled.
It seemed to Leslie that it might be a long few years if the present conversation was anything to go by. But then the phone rang.
Like a man possessed, Mark sprang into action. He grabbed the phone, started a small tape machine connected to it and, with new found authority, answered.
‘Consul Woodford’s office. Who may I ask is calling? (Pause) No, I’m sorry, sir, but the consul is not available for interviews at this time. (Pause) Yes, sir, I’ll let you know. Good day.’
He sat immediately at his desk and typed something at hyper-speed into his computer. He explained as he typed.
‘I take down the details of every caller, sir,’ he explained to his new boss, ‘including an exact typed transcript of the conversation, which I also audio tape for later verification. I date and file every tape individually.’ He nodded his head towards a distant room within which Leslie could just make out rows of Dictaphone tapes flourishing upon the walls. ‘At times I may take the liberty of not bothering you with calls that will, in all probability, waste your time. I’ve not missed a day’s work in twelve years. In that time I have served Consuls Collette and Dawson. They found me to be satisfactory, sir, and I hope that you will also.’
Leslie laughed with delight and was so impressed that he stopped Mark’s typing to shake his hand a second time. ‘It doesn’t matter how good the boss is, Mark. Without a good secretary, he’s nothing.’
Mark, who had once again shrivelled into his former timidity, nodded silent agreement and twitched a smile of pleasure at the compliment.
The phone rang again, and again Mark powered into action. But this time he listened. This time the call was of a different nature. Mark was not so dismissive.
‘He’ll be there immediately,’ was all he said.
A few minutes later, Leslie was entering the government building across the road from his office. He was followed by Mark, who held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. Protruding from his top pocket was an active Dictaphone.
Leslie swept back his hair, wet from the rain. With one deft sweep, Mark removed the water from the minimal strands of hair residing upon his cranium. Leslie noted this and thought it to be the one advantage of baldness.
‘My apologies, consul,’ said Stefan, advancing on them with two hulking guards behind. He appeared flustered. ‘Please step this way.’
Stefan closed the door on the guards and approached Leslie and his secretary. Mark had his pen poised.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Stefan. He was obviously flustered and far less controlled than he had been in Elizabeth’s office not long before. His thin hair was fractionally askew and his beige suit not quite so impeccably creaseless. ‘Something outside of the ordinary has occurred.’
Leslie looked towards Mark, who was much more used to such affairs. Mark, back in confident mode, finished scribbling onto his notepad and looked back towards Stefan for further information.
‘You see,’ Stefan continued, brushing back his falling fringe and looking nowhere in particular, ‘the second . . . the original manuscript . . . it seems, has also been misplaced.’
These last words he shunted out in a rush, so as to minimise the negative impact.
It didn’t work.
‘What!’ Leslie exclaimed.
‘Now, now, calm down,’ assuaged Stefan. ‘I’m sure there will be some logical explanation.’
‘I’m sure there will be,’ Leslie responded, ‘or plenty of people are going to lose their jobs.’
This struck a deep note in Stefan, ‘No. No, consul, we will sort this out. I promise you.’
‘Who the hell is in charge of this ship?’ asked Leslie, outraged beyond the fringes of his usual self.
‘I assure you, consul that . . .’
Fortunately for Stefan the cavalry arrived just in time - in the form of Elizabeth Dawson.
‘I’ve just heard,’ she said, leaving behind her one very solid man, apparently her minder. He was soaked but efficiently shook out the umbrella that had protected his boss. She shut him out with the clang of the door. ‘What do you know, Stefan?’
All eyes were upon the young man.
He took in a deep breath, ‘It seems that somehow the . . .’ he gulped, ‘the original manuscript, containing the blueprints for the Sciences, has been misplaced.’
‘Misplaced?’ echoed Leslie, in disbelief.
‘We will find them, I assure you,’ replied Stefan, with closed eyes and a movement of his hand that suggested an imaginary patting down of invisible matter encroaching about his mid-riff.
‘What do you know?’ asked Elizabeth, in an emphatic but contained tone.
He responded with an uneven hoarseness in his voice, ‘We’re currently reviewing everyone who’s had any access to the book.’
‘You must be joking?’ replied Leslie, his dark eyes incredulous and searching. ‘How can something like this happen? There must be copies of such vital information elsewhere?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Stefan replied. ‘It was expressly stated by our founding fathers that the confidentiality of these documents be kept from those who might seek to use the information they contain for their own ends.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Leslie countered, ‘but there must be other copies of such invaluable documents?’
‘I know how it seems to you, sir,’ said Stefan, ‘but I am the
chief overseer of all information held by the state and I’m telling you, these documents were copied only once for consuls and the originals kept here, under strict guard.’
‘Strict guard,’ grunted Leslie.
‘When were they last copied, before the copy was given to Consul Woodford?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Not for nearly thirty years,’ Stefan replied, miserably. ‘That was the last time a consul was of scientific expertise. No other consul has needed them.’
Leslie was growing angry. ‘Are you telling me that the most significant papers of the century have been ‘misplaced’, and that they haven’t been considered by government for nearly thirty years?’
‘Please don’t shoot the messenger, sir,’ replied Stefan with his head bowed and his hands raised. ‘In my lifetime there has never been a consul well versed in the Sciences. I don’t run things. I simply account for them.’
Leslie saw the sense in this. The young man wasn’t responsible but he had to take his indignation out on someone. The whole thing was preposterous.
‘My family has been in politics for a long time, Consul Woodford,’ said Elizabeth in Stefan’s defence. ‘What Stefan says is true. The art of Science, if that is the correct way of putting it, has been lost over the last century. Our education system is in dire need of repair as I’m sure you’ll agree?’
Leslie was getting agitated. ‘Of course I agree, but that’s hardly the point.’
‘Calm down, Consul,’ Elizabeth rebuked him quietly.
He lowered his voice, but did not diminish his passion, ‘What are we going to do? We must find at least one of the manuscripts.’
‘It’s unlikely that whoever has them will be able to use them effectively because no one . . .’ Stefan began.
