Evensong

Anwar moved carefully among and through the delegates, always in Olivia’s vicinity without being obviously so. He stayed alone, but kept moving with an expression on his face as though he’d just left one conversation and was on his way to join another. He listened carefully to the smalltalk around him but didn’t participate. The way he felt, he’d probably insult or offend anyone who spoke to him.

Something was in his blood and wouldn’t let him alone. Her, obviously, but he didn’t let it affect his watchfulness. Or his obsessiveness.

Yuri Zaitsev was due to join the reception at 10:00, but he didn’t arrive until 11:30. He’d been delayed by the debate in the UN General Assembly on Rafiq’s running of UNESCO, and the vote of no confidence in Rafiq that he, Zaitsev, had initiated. Rafiq’s UNESCO policy was carried by a large majority, and the no-confidence vote was defeated by an even larger one. It didn’t put Zaitsev in an ideal frame of mind. He thought he’d covered enough angles on the voting, but Rafiq had covered more, and covered them better. In such things, Yuri Zaitsev wasn’t even remotely in the same league as Rafiq.

Zaitsev was furious and mortified, but did his best to conceal it and to make an impressive entrance. He acknowledged the many courtesies, sincere and ironic, which came his way and set about working the room. The reception would go on a little later than intended, but not so late that it would affect the summit.

It was now one minute past midnight on October 15.

A large open area in the Conference Centre, between seating and stage, had been cleared by the removal of the first few rows of seating. Drinks and food were served by circulating waiters, and from tables set up on the stage. The various adjoining rooms on the ground floor of the auditorium (for use during the summit as breakout spaces, subsidiary meeting rooms, and coffee lounges) also had their own food and drink. The huge white and silver auditorium, the walls and ceiling a combination of swooping organic shapes, looked like a replica of the New West Pier seen from inside.

The mezzanine running round the upper levels of the auditorium was now a minstrels’ gallery. A string quartet played there, softly and discreetly. The rooms leading off the mezzanine (including the Signing Room) were closed but would be open when the summit began, making more areas for breakout meetings and informal discussions—except for the Signing Room, which would stay shut until the signing ceremony (if any) at the end of the summit. It was still guarded inside: there were never less than three security people in there at any time. Their stay in the room was less conspicuous, less noisy, and more hygienic than Anwar’s had been.

Some delegates had gone upstairs to listen more closely to the music, and were leaning over the handrail of the mezzanine balcony, looking down on the main reception. Considering the size of the space and the numbers present, it was fairly quiet. Conversations were animated but not loud. And everywhere, as always, there was the discreet scent of citrus. After a while, Anwar thought as he continued circulating, you got to think that citrus was what white and silver smelt like. Or that white and silver were the colour of citrus.

The Conference Centre didn’t look anything like it would look at 10:00 the following morning, when the opening speeches would be made and the summit would commence. The reception should have ended at midnight, but in view of Zaitsev’s late arrival it would go on for an hour or so. The New Anglicans had foreseen the delay and prepared for it; their staff would reinstate the front rows of seating, check computers and audio-visual, set up catering and put the whole auditorium into full conference mode before 10:00 a.m.

Extra staff had been recruited to deal with administration, catering, transport, and communications. All of them were checked by Gaetano’s people, and double-checked by UN intelligence—a condition of Rafiq’s, which (unlike some of his other conditions, when the venue was negotiated) met with no opposition from Olivia.

Anwar continued listening to the smalltalk. He heard a few people repeat the old stories about Olivia having driven a ferociously hard bargain when negotiating for the venue, and Rafiq having hated negotiating with her. Strange, when they should be allies. Arden had said that. So had he, Anwar, to Rafiq. “I know what she’s like. But what she stands for is your concern. If it isn’t, it ought to be.”

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.