Evensong (27 page)

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.

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?”

“Because it might explain what I say next. I like your company too. I’d like us to meet, socially. Have dinner or go to the theatre or something. It’s time I had a companion.”

“Are you saying you’d like an attachment?”

“Well...yes. But to start, just your company.”

“I didn’t see that coming.”

“I hadn’t planned to ask you. I mean, I had, but I’d been putting it off. And now Marek’s definitely dead, maybe I can move on.”

She didn’t reply.

“So, can we just start seeing each other?”

She paused. “I’d like to park it for a while.”

“Why?”

“Well, first there’s Anwar.”

“Anwar won’t...”

“Won’t survive the summit?”

“I was going to say won’t even notice, because of Olivia, but yes, I’m afraid he won’t survive. And neither will Olivia. They’ve got maybe nine days together.”

“If they’re together,” she said.

“Yes, it seems he never stops calling you about that. First she’d like a relationship, then not. Then he’d like one, then not. They’ve both got their heads up their asses.” He found himself fighting a temptation to add
Up their own, not each other’s.
He had little time for either of them. He’d never taken to Olivia, for some reason. And Anwar’s obsessions, private dark imaginings, and anal-retentive interior world were starting to get tiresome. They reminded Rafiq of what he’d once become, ten years ago.
Abbas. It should be Abyss.

She was silent. Thinking that their relationship, if it happened and if that was the right word for it, might be as ambiguous as Anwar and Olivia’s.

Rafiq might almost have heard her thoughts. “It doesn’t have to be a full-blown attachment, if that makes you uneasy. And it doesn’t have to be physical, though I’d like it if it was. It’s been a long time...Now I know for certain Marek’s dead, it’s time to move on. My family died ten years ago. I’d like to find someone.”

“I understand.”

“You said
first
there’s Anwar. Was there anything else?”

With Rafiq, she knew, you had to examine your words minutely, because he’d be examining them minutely too. And your inflections and body language. In that way he was like a Consultant, but he did it naturally. Like her empathy, it was a gift he’d always had.

“Was there anything else?” he repeated.

“I’m taller than you,” she said, straightfaced. “And you smoke.”

“Most people are taller than me. My wife was. And I didn’t smoke while she was alive.”

She was silent again.

“So what do you think?”

“It can’t start until after the summit. Anwar needs my full attention. Also...”

“Yes?”

“Are you holding something back about Anwar’s mission?”

“I always hold things back. But about his mission, no.” He looked directly into her eyes when he said it; but he was good at doing that.
The most important thing is sincerity. If you can fake that, you can fake anything.
Still, she believed him, on balance. Her empathy against his labyrinthine cunning, and on balance she believed him.

“There’s something about his mission that’s worrying me,” she said. “I can’t quite find it yet.”

“Like Anwar and his Detail. Remember him going on about it when he came here?”

“He goes on about it to me, too. Almost as much as he goes on about
her.
I don’t think that my Detail is the same as his, but it’s there somewhere. I will find it.”

For once, he was silent.

“And,” she added, “there’s something else.”

“Another Detail?”

“Maybe. When I said park it, I meant only that. I didn’t mean abandon it or forget it.” She looked directly into his eyes. “I’ll help Anwar through this, if I can. But when it’s over, you and I have unfinished business. Laurens.”

The opening ceremony began at exactly 10:00 a.m. It was large-scale and well attended. In addition to the delegates there were august non-participants and well-wishers like the British Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary, the Mayor of Brighton, and the Old Anglicans’ Archbishops of Canterbury and Rochester. And their entourages, including a security complement for each. It was a huge arrangement of inter-locking and interfacing mechanisms that Gaetano somehow contrived to keep moving. Anwar hadn’t seen him or spoken to him much during the last few days.

There was also a large media presence, not only in the Conference Centre but also at Gateway, to cover the VIPs as they arrived. Paths were cleared for them, but the Pier was not closed to the public. Tourists and sightseers still milled around as usual, as did the people who worked in the Pier’s business district. One maglev was set aside for the summit participants, and paths were cordoned off where they disembarked for the delegates to walk through the Garden, or the squares and piazzas of the business district, on their way to the Conference Centre.

All the major UN members were present. Countries not directly involved in water rights disputes sent ministers or senior civil servants. Those directly involved—sometimes to the extent of being at war with each other—sent heads of state.

The delegates and other participants were seated in the main auditorium, facing the stage on which the top table was set. The people who would usually occupy the top table during the proceedings were Zaitsev and five others. Zaitsev would be chairing the summit. The others were the members of the committee responsible for drafting the Agenda—a mixture of retired diplomats, senior civil servants and UN officials. For the opening ceremony they were joined by Olivia.

She again gave a short, non-political opening address. “Welcome. We’re proud to be your hosts, and we hope you’ll find the arrangements work well and assist your deliberations. We wish you every success. It would be nice to look back on this summit and think that we helped to make it productive.”

Zaitsev gave a rather more fulsome opening address. Anwar recognized many of the phrases from Rafiq’s briefing; Zaitsev must have picked them up in conversation with Rafiq. He used them without attribution, of course.

“Thirty years ago, this summit would have been about fossil fuels—oil, gas, maybe coal and shale. Thirty years ago, fossil fuels were limited. They still are. But now we have alternative energy sources, and we’ve made them commercially viable: wind, sun, tides, high-atmosphere turbulence, nuclear fusion, hydrogen cells, even continental drift. So we’ve come to Brighton, to this magnificent venue, not to talk about energy sources, but about something much more basic. Something ever-present, but ever-scarce where it’s most needed: water.”