They walked through the Garden and into the Cathedral. In the original Royal Pavilion, the inside was even more heavily ornamented than the outside: the Octagon Hall, the Long Gallery, the Banqueting Hall, the King’s Apartments. Here, however, the resemblance ended. None of the interior had been reproduced. Most of the ground floor was the Cathedral proper, a large light open space of minimalist white and grey and silver, with pews of unadorned pale wood and no stained glass anywhere. No service was in progress, and there were only a few groups of visitors and worshippers present.Instead of the usual smell of old incense there was a trace of perfume: an expensive perfume with fresh citrus notes, breathed out softly through the climate-conditioning.
Leading off the open space in front of the altar—also unadorned pale wood with a simple silver cross—was a wide staircase. They took it and came out on the first floor, where the Cathedral offices were housed. The landing was long and wide, walled and floored in white and silver. Gaetano pointed to a floor-to-ceiling door of plain pale wood at the far end.
“She’s waiting for you in the Boardroom.”
2
Levin was gone.
He’d been sent to Opatija alone and unarmed, with all his tracking and monitoring implants deactivated—essential for this particular mission. Now, five days later, they remained deactivated. Nobody had seen or heard from him.
Rafiq was writing another of his neat, courteous letters. He handed it to Arden Bierce.
“Please go to Chulo Asika’s house in Lagos and ask him if he’ll come here.”
Arden Bierce brought Asika in another of the UN’s beautiful silvered VSTOLs. He was offered missions frequently, and she was familiar with the journey: VSTOL to and from the UN Embassy in Lagos, taxi to and from his house. (Anwar lived near enough to the UN to pass as a senior employee who occasionally got flown to Kuala Lumpur, but generally it was considered less than discreet to land a VSTOL on a Consultant’s lawn.) Asika nicknamed her Charon because she ferried The Dead. She liked him but didn’t like the nickname.
Asika’s company was designing and building the set for an upcoming production of “Six Characters in Search of an Author” at the National Theatre in Iganmu, Lagos. Asika’s wife had been one of The Dead. When she became pregnant, seven years earlier, she retired and they married. She now had her own career, as well as two children, and they lived in their family house in Lagos from which Asika ran his business—and, unlike the others, ran it personally rather than online. He had an elaborate system of cover stories to explain his occasional absences, most of them centred on work he did for UNICEF. There was a theoretical risk that his identity would be discovered, but Rafiq had decided, this once, to bend the rules.
The VSTOL settled an inch above the lawn. A door rippled open in its side. Arden Bierce got out and walked across the lawn towards Fallingwater. Chulo Asika followed her. She rang the doorbell, and they entered the reception area.
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said, and went through the door to Rafiq’s inner office.
Asika waited. As usual, several members of Rafiq’s personal staff were there, talking quietly among clusters of plain stone-white sofas and armchairs. A couple of them looked up as he entered.
A few minutes later, Arden Bierce came out.
“He’ll see you now.”
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Asika. I understand you had to postpone some business to come here.”
“You trump everything, Mr. Rafiq. Even the National Theatre.”
“Still, I’m grateful. I hope your work won’t be disrupted.”
Asika smiled. He was a gentle man, who smiled often. He was about the same height and build as Anwar. Along with
Levin, he was one of the four or five consistently highest-scoring Consultants. Despite his abilities, or perhaps because of them, Rafiq always felt comfortable in his company. More so than with any of the other eighteen.
“My work? No, my colleagues are used to my occasional absences. So is my family.”
Rafiq had a poker face that he deployed automatically when anyone mentioned their family. Most people didn’t notice when he deployed it. “I’d like to offer you a mission. May I describe it?”
“Please.”
Rafiq briefed Asika: the tenuous lead to Parvin Marek, Levin’s journey to Opatija and subsequent disappearance, and the villa north of Opatija which, according to the Croatian authorities, was now empty and deserted. When he spoke of Levin’s disappearance, Rafiq was carefully dispassionate. So was Asika.
“And you want me to find out what happened to Levin?” “Yes.”
“And Marek?”
“Secondary. The priority is Levin. Will you do it?”
“Yes. Of course.”
3
When he first saw her she was at the top of a stepladder, scooping a dead fish out of a floor-to-ceiling ornamental tank at the far end of the Boardroom. She had her back to him.Her bottom was wobbling interestingly under a long, voluminous velvet skirt.
“Sorry,” she said without turning round, “I’ll be right with you. I just noticed one of these angelfish had died.”
“Do they die very often?”
“No, only once.”
She turned to look at him, and he realised that all the stories about her were true. Coming off her in waves was a clean and simple lust, uncomplicated by any other motives. He immediately reciprocated. He could feel the reciprocation growing, between his legs.
He watched her descend the stepladder. She was wearing a high-necked,long-sleeved dress of dark red velvet, like a ballgown, with a fitted bodice and a full, floor-length skirt. New Anglican Archbishops didn’t wear traditional robes, but chose something which suited them personally while also looking formal. The velvet dresses were her particular choice.
She walked over to him. She was smaller than she appeared (or contrived to appear) in the newscasts.
“So this is what a Consultant looks like. I thought you’d be seven feet tall.”
He thought, I only need another ten inches, but didn’t say it. He already knew her well enough to imagine her reply. So he smiled and shrugged, and muttered “I was, but I haven’t been well.”
Behind him, he heard Gaetano laugh softly.
“Don’t smile and shrug like that, it makes you look gormless. Not good for a guardian angel.”
She tossed back her blonde hair. Her face was small and almost delicate. Perhaps rather sharp-featured, but softened by the way she did her hair. Her movements and moods appeared quick and birdlike. Her expression was hard to read, and seemed permanently on the verge of changing. She was a little younger than him; middle thirties, he estimated. She really was quite slightly built.
Her eyes were dark violet. They missed nothing, including his reciprocation when he first saw her. It was now tenting the front of his well-cut trousers.
And there, rubbing against her ankles, was the famous ginger cat, brawny of body and wide of whisker. It glowered at him.