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.
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.”