Evensong

Olivia was working the room, discreetly putting over, to a few selected individuals, the commercials for the New Anglicans which she’d been careful to keep out of her welcome speech. Zaitsev and the other VIP participants were also working the room, but from their particular standpoints of what they wanted from the summit: re-establishing contacts, opening new channels, beginning threads they’d pursue later. The VIPs’ and senior delegates’ security people—Meatslabs of varying proficiency—stood around and, for the benefit of anyone watching them, looked watchful. Gaetano and his people covered the space much less obviously and much more intelligently. Several of them were joining in the small talk. Anwar liked the way they worked.

Anwar continued circulating. He had an electronic ID badge,as did everybody present. His one said he was a middle-ranking member of Gaetano’s staff. Ironically, the surname was Khan—Yusuf Khan,an IT specialist and a man of roughly similar appearance and build, in case anyone cared to check.

Although he tended always to plan for the worst outcome, Anwar didn’t expect anything to kick off at the reception. The reception wasn’t public, and wasn’t being broadcast live. The opening ceremony tomorrow would be, and he’d be covering all vectors and lines of sight which, by now, he knew intimately.

He knew Gaetano would be increasingly occupied with the summit, and since the Garden they’d hardly spoken. Their agreed security regime meant he’d become increasingly occupied with Olivia, though they too had hardly spoken. They both knew they’d moved into the final phase, where he was simply her bodyguard and nothing more.

He hadn’t come to terms with her rejection, or his own feelings. But he couldn’t decide if either, or both, or neither, were real. He parked it. If she’d been a desk or a chair, or Rafiq himself, the logistics of protecting her would be just the same, and he’d attend to them just as obsessively.

“Mr. Khan?”

Anwar didn’t jump at the mention of his original name, or even when he turned round and found himself facing Zaitsev.

“Mr....Yusuf Khan, is it?”

Anwar had never actually met Zaitsev before, and had only seen him from a distance at various functions. He was unprepossessing: jowly and flat-faced, heavily built almost to the point of obesity, though the drape of his expensive suit concealed some of it. Close up, his skin was pock-marked and stubbled. He was one of those people, Anwar thought, who always looked unshaven no matter how much they shaved.

Zaitsev knew about Anwar, or thought he did. Not indetail, or by name, but he suspected Rafiq had sent a Consultant. He’d seen Consultants before—not much, but often enough to suspect Anwar was one. He drew him aside to a more private corner.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Mr. Secretary-General,” Anwar lied.

“You’re one of Rafiq’s creatures, aren’t you?”

“I’m what my badge says I am, Mr. Secretary-General.”

“You look like one of Rafiq’s creatures. Are you here to protect my life?”

“I don’t know Mr. Rafiq personally,” said Anwar, truthfully. “But your life is of no concern to me.”

“That’s discourteous. You should show more respect for my office. Unlike your owner, I’m democratically elected.”

“Yes, this evening you must have a heightened appreciation of the value of voting.”

Seeing Zaitsev’s expression, two of his retinue of Meats labs moved closer. They were quite impressive. They would have dwarfed even Levin.

Olivia moved in quickly and extricated him. “Come on, Mr. Khan, you mustn’t monopolise the Secretary-General’s time...”

Anwar did almost jump then, to hear her using his original name.

The music continued, as did the low murmur of conversation. The string quartet played baroque chamber music. In deference to the delegates it should perhaps have been traditional African or Asian music, but no cultural offence was intended or taken. Chamber music was appropriate for the reception.It didn’t intrude on the ambience. More traditional regional music would be played during the next few days at the summit’s various social events.

Later, as the reception was drawing comfortably to a close, one of Zaitsev’s Meatslabs came up to Anwar.

“I don’t know what that was about, but you irritated the Secretary-General. Don’t do it again. Or I’ll tear off your penis, dip it in relish, and make you eat it.”

“What kind of relish?”