Evensong

The Dead hardly ever did bodyguard duties: that was the province of, in Anwar’s words, “mere Special Forces.” So, six months later, three mere Special Forces bodyguards were on duty when Rafiq’s wife and two children, a boy of seven and a girl of five, were shot dead by Marek. The family had just arrived at a marquee on the lawn in front of Fallingwater for the boy’s birthday party; Rafiq was on his way to join them. After shooting them, and the bodyguards, Marek turned back: the boy, he noticed, was still alive. Marek shot him again, twice in the head. From his wristcom he detonated a couple of bombs nearby. He didn’t know, or care, if they’d killed or injured anyone. They were a diversion, allowing him to walk— not run—away. Again he proved untraceable; this time, not for six months but ten years.

After it happened Rafiq became isolated and solitary, though no less effective. His only public statement was, “Marek has killed more people than just my family. For all of them, this is unfinished business.”

The family wing at Fallingwater was closed and sealed.

And now, ten years later, the UN had a possible lead. “Not a direct lead to Marek,” Rafiq had told Levin, when

he summoned him to Fallingwater a day earlier, “but to someone who might be prepared to sell him: Slovan Soldo, a distant relative. Soldo lives in Opatija, a seaside resort on the northern coast of Croatia. He’s facing arrest on rape charges, and probably looking for a deal.”

“How good is the lead?” Levin asked, trying to mask his elation.

“It’s from UN Intelligence. It’s good, but it’s tenuous, and we don’t want it compromised. Whoever we send to follow it can have no surveillance or backup.”

So, Levin thought, this mission satisfies the compact. It’s impossible for anyone except a Consultant, and it’s specifically for Rafiq. More so than any other mission.

I was right to choose him, Rafiq thought. He really wants it.

“I’m formally offering you this mission. I want you to contact Soldo, and locate Marek. But if you accept,” he added,

“you’ll need to move within a day. Soldo won’t wait around. Will you do it?”

“Yes.” Levin had enough good taste—but only just enough—not to show Rafiq his genuine delight. If he’d punched the air, as he originally wanted, he’d probably have knocked it unconscious.

Marek would now be in his early to middle forties. What little information there was showed him to be a dark-haired man of average height and stocky build, running slightly to fat.

Softly spoken, like Anwar. Physically unremarkable, except for his hands. They were broad, almost spadelike, giving a large lateral spread. But the fingers were long and slender, like a concert pianist’s. Ideal for the manipulation of devices.

Levin’s imagination was racing. He’d seen possible Mareks all through the flight, and was seeing more of them now he’d landed. Every third or fourth adult male Croatian seemed to be stocky and fortyish with unusual hands. The Croatian national basketball team had been on his flight. Most of them were in their twenties and nearly seven feet tall, but Levin still caught himself double-checking them for hidden resemblances to Marek.

Levin carried no luggage, not even a briefcase. He was alone and unarmed. He had travelled by scheduled flight to Rijeka, where he was to be met and driven to a villa near Opatija.

Rijeka Airport, Zracna Luca Rijeka, was nondescript when it was built and had not improved with age. Its minor buildings and outbuildings were like architectural acne. It did have a new terminal, built on a part of the runway that was no longer needed since the advent of blended-wing VSTOL airliners, but it wasn’t much better than the 1960s building it replaced. It was flyblown and fluorescent, and smelled of stewed coffee and styrofoam. Levin walked quickly through it and out to the main entrance. A car eventually pulled up alongside him. It wasn’t battery-driven, like most of those around it, but a newer hydrogen fuel cell model. The window opened.

“I’m here to meet Slovan Soldo,” Levin said, in Croatian. “I know,” said the driver. “Get in, please.” He was dark-haired, stocky, fortyish. This mission, Levin thought. Mareks everywhere. Mareks, Mareks everywhere, and none of them are real. Anwar would have said, Nor any one is real, to follow Coleridges’s original wording. But Anwar’s got his head up his ass.