Evensong (11 page)

Gaetano waited politely for Anwar to digest this—he hadn’t been convinced by Anwar’s convincing poker face—before he continued. “I think they’re putting together something intricate and far-reaching, and her death is only a part of it. But... a handful of people, unconnected, not even members of the founders’ organisations. Out of four million. I don’t think you can easily locate or identify them.”

“UN Intelligence can.”

“Probably not in time.”

“They’ve done nothing to invade our space yet.”

“They will...And if you can’t locate them pre-emptively, all that’s left is the inferior option: just wait for them to move at the summit, and hope you can stop them.” When Anwar didn’t reply, Gaetano got up. “Think about it, while I go and make us some coffee. Vietnamese, yes?”

“How did you...Oh, of course. Her people asked Rafiq’s people.” He watched Gaetano set the two glasses down. There was a layer of condensed milk at the bottom of each glass, on top of which the dark coffee floated without mixing. It looked like an upside-down Guinness.

“So how did you come to work for her?”

“Isn’t it in Rafiq’s briefing?”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’m a mercenary. It was interesting—far more than guarding politicians or business people or criminals—and it paid well.”

“And now?”

“I’m still a mercenary. It’s still more interesting than guarding politicians or business people or criminals, and it still pays well. I’m a permanent employee with a job description and a contract. But if I wasn’t, I’d still go out and die for her.” The last sentence was spoken without any change of voice.

“She told me you’ll be providing a two-day briefing on the summit. Do you want to take me through it?”

Yes, Gaetano did want. He would give Anwar a first look at the Conference Centre, where the summit would take place. Then he would detail the security arrangements for the summit, in the following order:

One, descriptions of each delegate and his/her entourage, especially security.

Two, liaison protocols with delegates’ security staff.

Three,the currently-agreed version of the summit Agenda, which would be subject to last-minute changes.

Four,the arrangements on the first day of the summit:the delegates’ arrival, and the style and content of the opening ceremony. “Despite what she believes,” Gaetano said, “the threat could come on the first day, as well as the last. It’ll be just as public, and just as high-profile. She’ll be there as host, and she’ll make the welcoming speech, all about the love that dare not speak its name because its mouth is full.” Anwar looked up sharply. They locked eyes for a moment, then Anwar smiled faintly. Each of them thought,
Maybe he hasn’t got his head as far up his ass as I’d feared.

Five, the arrangements for each day: seating plans, meals, coffee breaks, break-out sessions, evening social events.

Six, the disposition of security people, translators, support staff, catering staff.

Seven, provisions for attack from sea and air.

“… And that’s what I’ll take you through this morning.”

“Do I need to know it in such detail?” Anwar asked. “I’m >here for her security only.”

“She’s the host. As well as speaking at the opening and closing ceremonies, she’s expected to make appearances from time to time at the summit sessions. And when she does, you should know what’s all around her.”

“Yes, that’s reasonable.”
But you still haven’t mentioned the important part.

“And,” Gaetano added, “you need to know it in detail because—this is the important part—she wants you to review all the arrangements and make any recommendations you see fit.”

“And what do you think of that?”

“Not much, initially. But if it protects her better...”

“Good. Then let’s not talk in code. If I see something wrong with any of your arrangements, I’ll say so. If I think they’re good, or very good, or mediocre, or sloppy, I’ll say so. And can you put it all on an implant bead?”

“I already have. You can download it and study it over-night. And tomorrow, I’ll take you through the Archbishop’s engagements from now to the end of the summit.”

“She has one this afternoon which she may not have mentioned.”

“Going into town with you to collect a book?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have some people follow you, but only at a discreet distance. You understand that you’ll be her primary protection?”

“Yes.”

“And please, get her back here before four. She has several meetings.”

“OK. And the briefing tomorrow?”

“We’ll cover the detailed security arrangements for the Archbishop—how they operate now and how they’ll be ramped up for the summit. I’ll give you backgrounds and credentials for all my people. And I’ll put it all on an implant bead, so you can…”

“Study it overnight. Thank you.”

A short silence grew between them. Anwar noticed—for the first time, despite his enhancements and training—the signs of strain on Gaetano’s face: sleeplessness around the eyes, tenseness in the jaw. Signs of the inevitable and mounting pressure of the approaching summit and the threats to Olivia.

Gaetano, as if he sensed what Anwar was thinking, said, “You know, this is only about a tenth of what the summit involves. She has departments dealing with the PR and political aspects. And the legal. And the financial. Especially the financial. There are daily accounts for every item of expenditure connected to the summit. This meeting will be costed down to the last minute, and she’ll see the costing tonight. She doesn’t give any obvious appearance of micromanagement, in facts he professes a huge dislike of it. But she misses nothing.”

Like Rafiq,
Anwar thought.
When Arden and I deal with him, it’s like we’re the only thing he has in front of him. But there’s legal, and financial, and political, and PR, and intelligence, and the conventional military, and the Agencies Rafiq and Olivia del Sarto. Different characters, but similar styles of working
.

Anwar said none of this out loud, so Gaetano continued. “And what about you? I thought you people didn’t like body-guard work, because...”

“That’s how I felt at first.” He remembered what he’d thought, back at his home in northern Malaysia, after watching her Room For God lecture.
Frozen hope. My life has been arid, hers is real.
“But I feel differently now.”

For two hours Gaetano took him through the security arrangements for the summit. The initial wary courtesy between them had developed into something slightly less guarded. Gaetano went through the briefing in the order he’d outlined and, as promised, gave him the implant bead. Anwar acknowledged politely and promised his detailed comments the following morning. Already he knew there would not be many; Gaetano’s arrangements were characteristically thorough.

They walked out of the New Grand and across the Garden. It was a bright pleasant day for late September, like yesterday when he’d arrived. The domes and spires and latticeworks of the Cathedral complex were lustrous in the sunlight. The Garden showed blues and reds from hydrangeas, gradations of yellow and gold from witch hazel and broom. The trees and shrubs were swaying in the wind from the ocean.

Ahead was the Conference Centre. Anwar noticed some people wheeling luggage trunks.

“Contractors, from Patel. They’re doing building work on the room where the signing will take place,” Gaetano explained.“The UN wanted a replica of the Press Suite in New York. Nineteen-sixties décor and furniture.”

“They don’t look much like contractors.”

“She insisted they shouldn’t. They have to use containers that resemble luggage and are small enough to go in the luggage section of a maglev. She wouldn’t allow anything to be dropped by VSTOL or by sea to the end of the Pier. It all has to go through Gateway Station to Cathedral Station, then up and along here, no matter how many journeys it takes. It means their equipment is disassembled in the vehicles parked on Marine Parade, and reassembled on site in the Conference Centre. It’s taken weeks. And when they travel up here and back, they must wear normal civilian clothes, and change on site. And the site must be closed and soundproofed.”

“She’s very particular about appearances,” Anwar said.

“She is, but it’s also about security. Shall we go in?”

I could get here,
Anwar thought,
through all the detectors. In a luggage trunk. I could dislocate my joints to bend into it. I’d go to near-death. A timed hibernation. No body-heat detectors would find me: surface temperature would be the same as my immediate surroundings. No heartbeat or breath detectors would find me: pulse and breathing would be almost nonexistent, and random. No scanners or imagers or DNA detectors would find me: my body would echo the texture and shape of its immediate surroundings
.

Enough of that for now. I’ll add it to my overnight comments
.

“Shall we go in?” Gaetano repeated.

The Main Hall, on the ground floor of the Conference Centre, was an interior space as large as that of the Cathedral. Anwar was transfixed. He’d expected a vast white and silver interior, with clean swooping lines, and that was exactly what it was. But the sheer scale was deeply impressive. And its style couldn’t have been more different from the UN General Assembly Hall in New York. As with the Cathedral, and the rest of the New West Pier complex,the inside contradicted the outside.

The Main Hall was where the scheduled sessions of the summit would be held. There were adjoining smaller rooms for spin-off sessions, coffee shops and bars, translators’ booths. Actually, the Conference Centre was bigger inside thantheCathedral,becausetherewasnofullupperfloor,only a mezzanine: a balcony running round the entire circumference, with doors leading off. These opened into further anterooms for breakout sessions, and included the large room being refurbished for the signing ceremony. The contractors could be neither seen nor heard.

Anwar stood for a moment, memorising the lines of sight and tying them in with Gaetano’s briefing.

“Let’s go back to the New Grand. She’ll be waiting. And please make sure she gets back by four. She cancelled several meetings to do this.”

“She cancelled meetings?” Anwar asked in surprise. “Just to go into Brighton with me and collect a book?”

“I hope you don’t misinterpret what’s passed between you.”

“No. I know about her appetites. Everybody does. And,” he added, “don’t misinterpret my accepting this mission. It’s because of what she stands for, not her personally.”

Olivia was waiting in the reception of the New Grand.

Gaetano had suggested she didn’t wear her normal clothes. Not really a disguise, he’d said, just dress differently so your identity isn’t so obvious. She did, and it totally altered her.

She wore flat loafers instead of her customary heels, so she appeared even smaller than usual. She had on very little makeup. She wore a sweater and jeans—though the jeans were black and expensively cut—and her famously-coiffed blonde hair, which normally she wore so it softened the slight sharpness of her features, was pulled back off her face and tied in a ponytail.

Anwar thought she looked too natural. He preferred her in her structured and tailored and madeup mode: her Formal Normal look, as he’d privately taken to describing it. Also, she made him feel overdressed. He was wearing another of his expensive linen-blend suits, with a contrasting shirt of dark woven silk.

They took the maglev from Cathedral to Gateway—nobody appeared to give them a second glance—and walked out of the Pier onto Marine Parade, from where they descended the steps to the seafront.

“Do you know,” she asked suddenly as they walked along the shore, “how many Churches and religious centres there are within walking distance of where we are now?”

“Unaccountably, Rafiq’s briefing didn’t include that.”

“Loads of them,” she went on, as though she hadn’t heard him. “There’s St. Paul’s, West Street—Old Anglican. St.Mary’s, Preston Park—Catholic. The Middle Street Synagogue. The Buddhist Centre in North Laine. The Quakers’ hall in Meeting House Lane. The Al Quds mosque in Seven Dials.” She turned and looked up at him, straight-faced. “I like to know where they all are. If they go fundamentalist, I can tell them I know where they live.”

“If you add all of them together and multiply them by ten, they still wouldn’t be a tenth of what your Church done—” he looked back at the New West Pier “—over there.”

“Yes,” she said simply, and unhelpfully. She knew where he was going, but she wasn’t going to help him get there.

“The money for this…”

“I told you. Originally the founders. But now the Church has moved beyond needing their money. It has plenty of its own. And they don’t like it.”

They walked along the seafront. The mast-rigging of the small boats drawn up on the beach thrummed in the wind. They walked past the arches Anwar had walked past yesterday, and past some arcades with games. There was one where things popped up and you had to knock them down with a rubber mallet, only for others to pop up, also to be knocked down. She watched it for a while.

“Remind you of fundamentalists?”

“
Yes,
” she hissed, “and they’re filth! Scum! I hate their beliefs more than I love mine.”

“I only meant,” he said mildly, “how they pop up somewhere else if you...”

“Theocrats, creationists, racists, homophobes, all of them! The death of dialogue. ‘If you don’t agree with me, you’re better off dead.’ Knock them down in one place, they pop up somewhere else.”

“I don’t like their beliefs either, though it may not matter to you. But they’re not all filth. Or scum.” The words had a strange echo for him, of the greeting he would sometimes exchange with Levin. “Some of them just want certainty.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Don’t hate them so much. It makes you ugly.”

“If I didn’t hate them so much, I wouldn’t be who I am! And what business is it of yours if something makes me ugly?”

“You’re right, it isn’t. But if you hated them less and understood them more, maybe even more people would support you. Including some of them.”