The fading wetness of anger in his eyes gave them a winning sparkle. He checked off the names on his list, got a photo-copied floor-diagram from his table, and made a mark on it for Clementine. “We’ve given your crew a spot right here in the first row of the balcony,” he said. “You just go up those stairs over there at the back of the foyer and you’ll find them. And Mr Michaelmas, we’ve put you front row centre in the main auditorium.” He grinned. “There won’t be any microphone passing. Limberg’s got quite a place here—remote PA mikes and everything. When you’re recognized for a question, just go ahead and speak. Your crew sound system will be patched in automatically.”
“Thank you.” Michaelmas changed the shape of his lips. He did not appear to alter the tone or level of his voice, but no one standing behind him could hear him. “Is Mr Frontiere here?”
The aide raised his eyebrow. “Yes, sir. He’ll be up on the podium for the Q and A.”
“I wonder if I could see him for just a moment now.”
The aide grimaced and glanced at his wristwatch. Michaelmas’s smile was one of complete sympathy. “Sorry to have to ask,” he said.
The aide smiled back helplessly. “Well,” he said while Michaelmas’s head cocked insouciantly to block anyone’s view of the young man’s lips. “I guess we do owe you a couple, don’t we? Sharp left down that side hall. The next to the last door leads into the auditorium near your seat. The last door goes backstage. He’s there.”
“Thank you.” There was pressure at Michaelmas’s back. He knew without looking that a score of people were filling the space back to the doors, and others were beginning to elbow each other subconsciously at the head of the outside steps. They were all craning forward to see what the hang-up might be, and getting ready to avenge discourtesy or to make dignified outcry at the first sign of favouritism.
“I will manage it for you, Laurent,” Clementine said quietly.
“Ah? Merci. A bientôt,” Michaelmas said. He stepped around the reception table and wondered what the hell.
Clementine moved with him, and then a little farther forward, her stride suddenly became long and masculine. She pivoted towards the balcony stairs and the heel snapped cleanly off one shoe. She lurched, caught her balance by slapping one hand flat against the wall, and cried out “merde!” hoarsely. She plucked off the shoe, threw it clattering far down the long foyer, and kicked its mate off after it. She padded briskly up the stairs in her stockinged feet, still followed by every eye.
Michaelmas, grinning crookedly, moved down the side hall, his progress swift, his manner jaunty, his footsteps soundless. He pushed quickly through the door at the end.
Heads turned sharply—Limberg, Norwood, a handful of UNAC administrative brass, Frontiere, their torsos supported by stiff arms as they huddled over a table spread with papers and glossy photographic enlargements. Limberg’s lump-knuckled white forefinger tapped at one of the glossies.
Michaelmas waved agreeably as they regarded him with dismay. Frontiere hurried over.
“Laurent—”
“Giorno, Tulio. Quickly—before I go in—is UNAC going to reshuffle the flight crew?”
Frontiere’s angular, patrician face suddenly declared it would say nothing. The very dark eyes in their deep sockets locked on Michaelmas’s, and Frontiere crossed his slim hands with their polished nails over the lean biceps in his alpaca sleeves. “Why do you ask this, Laurent?”
How many times, thought Michaelmas, have I helped UNAC over rough spots that even they know of? And I’m ready to do it again, God knows. And here Frontiere was counting up every one of them. Who would have thought a man would have so much credit deducted for such a simple answer? Merely an answer that would let the world’s most prominent newsman frame his press conference comments more securely. “Norwood was in command, Papashvilly was put in command, Papashvilly is a major. Answer my question and you tell me much. I think it a natural query… vecchio amico.”
Frontiere grimaced uncomfortably. “Perhaps it is. We are all very much into our emotions this morning, you understand? I was not giving you sufficient credit for sapience, I believe.”
Michaelmas grinned. “Then answer the God-damned question.”
Frontiere moved his eyes as if wishing to see the people behind him. “If necessary, an announcement will be made that it is not planned to change the flight crew.”
Michaelmas cocked his head. “In other words, this is an excellent fish dinner especially if someone complains of stomach. Is that the line you propose to defend?”
Frontiere’s sour grin betrayed one of his famous dimples. “I am not doing well with you this morning… old friend,” he said softly. “Perhaps you would like to speak quietly with me alone after the conference.”
“Between friends?”
“Entirely between friends.”
“Bene.”
“Thank you very much,” Frontiere smiled slightly. “Now I must get back to my charges. Take your place in the auditorium, Laurent; the dogs and ponies are all cued. Despite one or two small matters, we shall begin shortly.” Frontiere turned and walked back towards the others, spreading his arms, palms up, in a very Latin gesture. They resumed their intent whispering. Limberg shook his hand repeatedly over the one particular photograph. The side of his fingertip knock knock knocked on the table-top.
Michaelmas stepped out and softly closed the door. “We must be certain we’re doing everything we can to protect Papashvilly,” he said in the empty hall.
“Against what, exactly?” Domino said. “We’re already doing all we can in general. If he’s taken off the mission, despite all that bumph, he needs no more. If he’s still in, what am I supposed to suggest? UNAC is apparently concerned for him. Remember they almost put him on a plane for here, then Sakal ordered him back from the Cité d’Afrique airport. What do you make of that?”
“There are times when I would simply like to rely on your genius.”
“And there are times when I wish your intuitions were more specific.”
Michaelmas rubbed the back of his neck. “I would very much like some peace and quiet.”
“Then I have disturbing news. I’ve just figured out what Rybakov is for.”
“Oh?”
“The Russians can also think ahead. If UNAC attempts to reinstate Norwood, they won’t just threaten to pull Papashvilly. They’ll threaten to pull Papashvilly and they’ll threaten to insist on honest workman Rybakov being second-in-command.”
Michaelmas’s tongue clicked out from the space between his upper lip and his front teeth. “There would be a fantastic scandal.”
“More than that.”
“Yes.” If UNAC then refused to accept that proposition, the next move saw the USSR also withdrawing Rybakov. That would leave the so-called Mankind in Space programme with only an East German lieutenant to represent half the Caucasian world’s politics. “We’d be right back into the 1960s. UNAC can’t possibly go for that, or what’s UNAC for? So as soon as they see the Russians moving Rybakov up out of the pawn row, they’ll drop the whole scheme. They may be rocking back a little now, but one glimpse of that sequence and they’ll stonewall for Papashvilly no matter what.”
“ What may be Viola Hanrassy and everything she can throw.”
“Exactly. I wonder what would explode.” Michaelmas rubbed the back of his neck again. “I would very much like some peace and quiet,” he said in the same voice he had used to speak of darkness.