Evensong

Jones watched his colleagues fixing floor sensors, threading their way through the congregation and occasionally muttering, “Excuse me.” They released crawlers, self-programming sensor devices like spiders, which scuttled over the walls and ceiling, positioning themselves at optimum intervals.

“I said,” Rani Desai repeated, “what do we have to do to make you stop?”

He told her. There would be a drip-feed of demands. Ransoms, paid to charities. Relatively modest amounts: one million euros each. Jones would announce each charity, one at a time. Rani Desai would call the CEO or equivalent to get formal agreement that the money would be accepted. She would then call him personally to confirm that the Government had electronically transferred the money to the charity. The relevant bank screen, showing the transaction, would be sent to Jones’ wristcom. A maximum of one hour would be allowed for each charity. There would be eleven, announced one by one through the night by Jones.

“So,” he concluded, when Rani Desai didn’t answer, “easily affordable, easily doable, and some good causes benefit. Complying seems better than a firefight, and a live congregation seems better than a dead one. Doesn’t it?”

“If we comply, you won’t harm anyone?”

“If you comply, of course we won’t. Who do you think we are, Black Dawn?”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, I need to know.”

“No, I don’t think you’re Black Dawn.”

“I mean, I need to know if you’ll comply.”

“Yes, we will.”

“Good. Now, before we get to the details of our demands, there are some administrative matters I need to take you through.

“First, we all have a military background. The explosive devices rigged at each door and window aren’t homemade, they’re of military origin. We have other devices, also of military origin, to detect attempts to enter through the walls, floor, or ceiling. They’ll trigger the explosives, as will any attempt to enter or exit through the doors or windows. The explosives will probably kill everyone here and damage the Cathedral irreparably.

“Second, we know you’ll be deploying people around the Cathedral. I would; it’s only reasonable. But when you deploy them, and when you give them their orders, remember what I’ve said. Only eleven million euros, and it’ll be over by tomorrow morning, and then we’ll surrender.”

“You’ll surrender?” she sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yes, surrender...Why, what’s wrong?”

“Why not give us your whole list now, all eleven? Why do it one at a time? I’ve already said we’ll pay.”

“No. This is how we want it.”

Taber, who’d been listening carefully, knew then that they wouldn’t surrender. He suspected also that there was something different about number eleven.

“Eleven. One at a time,” Jones went on, “an hour for each, and we should be through by early tomorrow morning, and fifty-seven people—Dean Taber, the choir and congregation— will be free to go.”

“What if one takes more than an hour?”

“Then fifty-six people will be free to go. An hour’s a reasonable time. It’s not exactly complicated.” Jones paused, as if he felt the need to soften what he’d said. He did seem out of his depth. “If there’s some genuine reason why you can’t do it, we have a reserve list. So, Number One: Cancer Research UK. Time now is 10:17 p.m. You have one hour.”

“I’ll call you back,” said Rani Desai.

The charities will probably reflect what they’re suffering from, Taber thought. Cancer. And maybe heart conditions. Or neurological diseases. He’d know them one at a time, through the night. It was a line of investigation Rani Desai would be pursuing, and hardly a difficult one.

Within thirty minutes, VSTOLs were hovering outside the Cathedral (though not as silently as the UN’s would have hovered). College Yard and Boley Hill were lit up. There was the sound of boots on cobblestones. Muffled shouts from the lawns, under the spreading trees. Jones, true to his word, did not appear surprised or angry.

Cancer Research UK took a little longer than expected— the CEO was not at the address, or with the partner, that Rani Desai’s staff had been told—but it was still completed inside the hour. Rani Desai obtained his acceptance, made the electronic transfer, and sent Jones’ wristcom the bank screen showing the transaction.

“Good,” said Jones. “One down, ten to go. Number Two is the British Heart Foundation. It’s now...11:05 p.m. You have one hour.”

The explosives and sensors were set. The congregation, perhaps because of Jones’ manner and how smoothly the operation promised to go, were a little more relaxed. Even the sound of boots and muffled shouts from outside had dwindled slightly.

A few minutes later, Jones started stealing glances at Taber. Taber was initially too polite to mention it—especially as he wasn’t the one with the gun—but after a while he turned to Jones and asked, “Can I help you with anything?”

“No, but you can tell me something.”