“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?”
Anwar watched the chest swelling and nostrils dilating. The chest filled most of his immediate field of vision. He thought, If he slugs me, I’ll just have to take it. I mustn’t disable him, not here in front of everyone, that would be stupid. But the Meatslab’s mood subsided and he stalked off. Sometimes Anwar could encourage people to do that, by particular tricks of eye contact and body language that sent out strong warning signs. He’d tried to avoid doing it here, to stay consistent with his temporary identity. Or maybe I didn’t avoid it, and that’s why he left so quickly. Or maybe...
Midnight had come and gone. It was now October 15, the first day of the summit.
He and Olivia had only nine days left together. Maybe less than nine days. Maybe a lot less. Things were coming to a climax, but also coming to an end.
2
October 15 was moving round the earth. When it reached Brighton, it had already been in Kuala Lumpur for seven hours.
Rafiq, surrounded by unseen security, walked through the park in front of Fallingwater. He was smoking, which occasionally he did at the start of a particularly significant day. He rarely smoked more than once a day, but Arden Bierce still faintly disapproved; yet she still carried a lighter in case he forgot his.
She came up to him.
“What are you doing, smoking a cigarette?”
“By the rules of linguistics, that question’s unanswerable.”
She felt like rolling her eyes. Then she thought of all that had happened in the last few hours, particularly the news about Marek. She couldn’t imagine the effect it must have had on him.
She tried to change to a subject he might find a bit more congenial. “The Secretary-General turned up late for the eve-of-summit reception in Brighton. Late, and in a bad mood. You really did a job on him.”
“Yes, I think he’s back in his cage for a while. But he’s not as stupid as he looks.”
“Or as clever as he thinks.”
Rafiq smiled an acknowledgement. “Still, you shouldn’t have had to tell me twice about Marek’s autopsy, or the press releases, or contacting the families. I should have been on top of those things, but when I heard his body was found…”
“It’s understandable.”
“No it isn’t. In this job, the first rule is that nothing ever lets up. Do you remember the day my family was killed?”
“Of course I do.”
“There was a General Assembly debate that evening; one of Zaitsev’s predecessors, attacking my restructuring of one of the agencies. I don’t even remember which one. But the debate wasn’t postponed. Just like yesterday’s wasn’t.”
“Yes. But you won both of them. You outlasted the man who initiated that debate, and you’ll outlast the man who initiated this one.”
It was exactly the right thing to say, at exactly the right time. She always did that. She was a settled person, comfortable with herself, and she made Rafiq feel comfortable.
“When I eventually retire, which won’t be yet, you’ll be one of the contenders to take over. But not one of the leading contenders. Do you know why?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re not ruthless or ambitious enough. But what you are is good with people. They like your company.”
“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Rafiq?”
“Because it might explain what I say next. I like your company too. I’d like us to meet, socially. Have dinner or go to the theatre or something. It’s time I had a companion.”
“Are you saying you’d like an attachment?”
“Well...yes. But to start, just your company.”
“I didn’t see that coming.”
“I hadn’t planned to ask you. I mean, I had, but I’d been putting it off. And now Marek’s definitely dead, maybe I can move on.”
She didn’t reply.
“So, can we just start seeing each other?”
She paused. “I’d like to park it for a while.”
“Why?”
“Well, first there’s Anwar.”
“Anwar won’t...”
“Won’t survive the summit?”
“I was going to say won’t even notice, because of Olivia, but yes, I’m afraid he won’t survive. And neither will Olivia. They’ve got maybe nine days together.”
“If they’re together,” she said.
“Yes, it seems he never stops calling you about that. First she’d like a relationship, then not. Then he’d like one, then not. They’ve both got their heads up their asses.” He found himself fighting a temptation to add Up their own, not each other’s. He had little time for either of them. He’d never taken to Olivia, for some reason. And Anwar’s obsessions, private dark imaginings, and anal-retentive interior world were starting to get tiresome. They reminded Rafiq of what he’d once become, ten years ago. Abbas. It should be Abyss.
She was silent. Thinking that their relationship, if it happened and if that was the right word for it, might be as ambiguous as Anwar and Olivia’s.
Rafiq might almost have heard her thoughts. “It doesn’t have to be a full-blown attachment, if that makes you uneasy. And it doesn’t have to be physical, though I’d like it if it was. It’s been a long time...Now I know for certain Marek’s dead, it’s time to move on. My family died ten years ago. I’d like to find someone.”
“I understand.”
“You said first there’s Anwar. Was there anything else?”
With Rafiq, she knew, you had to examine your words minutely, because he’d be examining them minutely too. And your inflections and body language. In that way he was like a Consultant, but he did it naturally. Like her empathy, it was a gift he’d always had.
“Was there anything else?” he repeated.
“I’m taller than you,” she said, straightfaced. “And you smoke.”
“Most people are taller than me. My wife was. And I didn’t smoke while she was alive.”
She was silent again.
“So what do you think?”
“It can’t start until after the summit. Anwar needs my full attention. Also...”
“Yes?”
“Are you holding something back about Anwar’s mission?”
“I always hold things back. But about his mission, no.” He looked directly into her eyes when he said it; but he was good at doing that. The most important thing is sincerity. If you can fake that, you can fake anything. Still, she believed him, on balance. Her empathy against his labyrinthine cunning, and on balance she believed him.