Evensong

Anwar started to feel worse and worse about Proskar. He rehearsed uncomfortably to himself how he might try admitting to Gaetano that he’d behaved hastily and gone for an easy target; but Gaetano had already said as much, and admitting it to him wouldn’t do much practical good. The only thing that would, would be to find him. He could do something about that: he’d ask Arden to put UN Intelligence on it. But then, he thought, What if I was right about him, against all the odds, and I actually invited Marek back? Rather apt that Marek came from Croatia: vampires’ victims, it was said, had to invite them in.

But he knew he hadn’t done himself any credit in the last exchange with Gaetano, whereas Gaetano had; he’d shown control and restraint. And the next time they met, the following day, Gaetano showed exactly the same qualities and behaved as though nothing had happened between them. Anwar remarked on it, saying he was glad they could put other differences aside.

“We have to,” Gaetano said. “The summit’s getting closer. The preparations are mounting and I can’t afford to have baggage between us. But that isn’t why I asked to see you.” He handed Anwar the book. “She wanted me to give you this.”

Anwar looked at it, saw the title and the spine and the cover and the binding, and went cold. She could have left it on my pillow, or given it to me personally, but that would give away what she intended. I know what she intended.

She’d have had to trawl through innumerable dealers to find this. He knew, because he’d had to, to find his copy. And here she was, taking time to think of something that mattered to him, taking time—her own time—to get it. To get a toe in the door. To establish something they’d share. She’d thought to start a relationship, and he thought he’d laughed the idea out of existence, but she wasn’t afraid of his laughter. She wasn’t afraid of anything, and she’d never back down and never give up.

She’d just come back, again and again, each time more oblique and sinuous than the last. He should have remembered that about her.

Relationship. He spoke the word to himself, stressing the second syllable, and it tasted like copper in his mouth. His life was turning inside out. There was a rushing in his ears, which he remembered reading somewhere was what you heard when you started to die.

Relationship. He knew she was working on him. Sucking him into her. It would overturn his life, but his life was half overturned already. He half wanted it to continue, but sensed that she’d be worse, for him, than whatever they’d send for her.

Then he saw her inscription, and smiled without humour.

Several large corporations had a presence on the Cathedral Complex of the New West Pier—usually a boardroom and adjoining CEO suite. It was prestigious to have Board meetings, or to do entertaining or lobbying, at one of Europe’s premier business addresses. As a matter of course, Gaetano had had the companies on the New West Pier checked—maybe some of them were part of, or had links to, the founders or The Cell. He’d found nothing, but he got Anwar to ask Arden to do a deeper check. She called back with there sults, but first he briefed her on the events of the last few days.

From the wall of his suite, her projected image registered not only surprise, but genuine shock. “You tore a page out of a book for her?”

“Yes. And what about the results of your checks?”

Arden had found that years earlier Proskar did some freelance security work for a subsidiary of one of the Pier companies; neither that company nor its associates showed any traceable links to the Cell or the founders, and the security work was low-grade and short-lived. He’d been dismissed. His life really was chaotic then.

“And,” she said, “he’s now entered Croatia.”

“You know where to reach him?”

“No. He entered Croatia, then completely disappeared.”

“Just like...”

“Yes. Just like Marek used to do. If I was to find, despite all our checking and all the evidence, that you were right about him all along...” She made a face. “I need that like I need a third nostril.”

Anwar looked sharply at her image. She was half-joking, probably three-quarters joking, but it was not her usual kind of phrase.

Then she said, “We both have a lot to do,” and ended the call. 

2

Arban Proskar was travelling legally on a genuine passport. He entered Croatia on October 8, and disappeared on October 9.