Eve Monash was one of the higher-rated Consultants, Arden knew, probably among the top four or five. Top two or three now.
The villa was owned by a Croatian banker who was sufficiently rich and well-connected to sidestep local planning regulations and get his house built on national park land. Then he’d fallen on hard times and rented it to a property company, from where it was sublet and assigned and disappeared into corporate networks which—so far—the Croatian authorities hadn’t unravelled. Once the flurry of activity following the discovery of Asika’s remains had died down, the villa was no longer guarded. Not even the police Do Not Cross tapes remained. It stayed empty and dark, until now.
For the second time she saw it from above, lit with arclights and surrounded by police and military and their vehicles. The VSTOL landed on the main drive. A door rippled open and she stepped out, followed by Eve Monash.
“Wait,” Arden told the VSTOL, “but don’t hover. I may be some time.”
The flight from Fallingwater to the villa had taken just under an hour. It was approaching one in the morning of October 10, local time. Horvath had seen the truck unloading here about 10:30 p.m. on October 9. A few hours after Arban Proskar had entered Croatia and disappeared.
She looked at the container. It stood there insolently and looked back at her. It was about twelve feet tall, standing on its end.
The villa itself was dark and empty. It sported fresh sets of Do Not Cross tapes over its door and windows. As far as anyone could tell it hadn’t been entered, and Horvath’s own account tallied with this. But if the villa was dark and empty, the driveway and grounds were anything but. The whole area shivered in the cold arc-light blaze and boiled with people: local police, forensics, and military. Especially military.
Horvath had readily agreed to wait for Arden and give her his account personally, although it had already been relayed to her. She liked him. He was about average height and weight, early or maybe middle thirties. His face was open and pleasant, but there was an air of competence about him and his account was precise and unadorned. She asked a few questions and thanked him, and he got in his old Land Rover and drove away through the cordon of miltary vehicles and back to his family.
During the flight out, Arden had called Anwar in Brighton and briefed him. He in turn briefed Gaetano. They would be waiting for her call.
Most of the Croatian military were Special Forces. They had an assortment of weapons trained on the container, but stayed in a semicircle well clear of it. She’d learnt, during the flight, that it had proved impervious to all attempts to scan its interior. It was inert; no electronic or other emissions. Nothing had been heard moving inside it. Its surface was dark rough wood, but there would be an inner lining of something, probably lead and altered carbon, to prevent scanning.
It had no visible locks, but a series of simple clamps along its top edge and a series of hinges along its bottom edge. When the clamps were released they would (unless they were booby-trapped) enable the entire front section to fall open and the contents to tumble out. As though it was intended for someone to open it without knowing what was inside.
It was twelve feet tall and five feet wide, easily big enough to contain a human, living or dead; or something much bigger than a human. She thought of Arban Proskar’s abrupt disappearance, and thought also of Chulo Asika’s remains and of whatever had killed him.
Container and contents. I’m turning into Anwar.
She called Rafiq. After a short pause, he said, “Open it.”
“Stand back with the others,” Eve Monash told her. “I’ll do this.” It amounted to more words than she’d addressed to Arden during the whole of the flight.
Eve Monash spoke briefly to the Special Forces commander. A ladder was brought for her. She approached the container and leant the ladder against its side. She glanced back at Arden, then climbed the ladder and reached the container’s top edge. She leaned sideways out from the ladder and ran her hands across the clamps. She released the first one.
Arden’s wristcom buzzed. It was UN Intelligence. She signalled Eve Monash to pause, and flipped it open.
“It’s about Proskar,” a voice said. “Bad news. We know what happened to him.”
“Tell me,” she said, and the voice told her. “I’ll call you back,” she said, and signalled Eve Monash to continue.
The first clamp slid back easily. The container did nothing. One by one, Eve Monash released the others. They too slid back easily. She held on to the top edge.
“All done,” she called back to Arden.
“Whatever comes out of there...” Arden began.
“I know. I’ll let it fall open, jump down and cover you.”
“No. Refasten one of the top clamps, then jump down and shoot off the clamp.”
She did, very quickly, landing in a crouch in front of Arden with her gun already levelled. She fired, once.
The top clamp shattered. The front section of the container fell open, hitting the driveway with a crash. Cold vapour erupted out of the dark interior, and something else erupted out in its wake.
Anwar and Gaetano were in Gaetano’s office. They’d been there for an hour, and there was an uncomfortable silence between them. It was 1:00 a.m. on October 10 in Brighton, 2:00 a.m. in Croatia. Noises from the Brighton foreshore floated over the two miles of sea. There were still plenty of lights there, and the i-360 Tower was still in operation.
Anwar’s wristcom buzzed, and Arden announced herself. There was something strange about her voice, and she’d blanked her screen.
“Say that again?” Anwar asked.
“It tumbled out of the container. A dead body. Been kept in cold storage. Forensics have done all the preliminary checks—DNA, dentition, retinas, fingerprints—and it’s unmistakeable.” She hesitated, and went on. “Features are unmistakeable too: the build, the hands.”
Gaetano rounded on Anwar. “So you really did it! I said I didn’t think I’d see him again. We will have an accounting, Anwar.”
“No,” Arden said, “it wasn’t Proskar’s body...”
Anwar froze.
“...it was Parvin Marek’s. And he’s been dead for at least three years.”
TEN: OCTOBER 10 - 14, 2060
1
Olivia was given the news about Marek as soon as Anwar got it,in the early morning of October 10.Her reaction was quiet, almost uninterested. It was, of course, a story from the past that had no reason to concern her as personally as it concerned Rafiq or anyone else from UNEX. But she told Anwar, after a short pause, “I need to be sure you’ll stay until the summit’s over.”
“I already told you—”
“Tell me again.”
“Yes. I’ll stay.”
“Until the summit’s over.”
“Yes. You know I won’t walk out on a mission.”
“I’m taking tonight’s Evensong service in the Cathedral. I want you there. I’m giving the sermon.”
The news spread like wildfire: she was actually taking a service. She hardly ever took services, at least not routine ones like Evensong.
The media attention was huge. Reporters packed the Cathedral.Someone (Olivia herself, or the New Anglicans’ PR people) had told them it would be her biggest public statement since the Room For God broadcast. The Cathedral filled up. Gaetano and several of his staff were placed strategically, and Anwar had chosen an aisle seat in the pews, five rows from the front.