They were shown to a table by the window. Director Becker and Signor Bocca were already waiting. Introductions were made, and the Director, a trim blonde woman in her early forties, broke the news that Gunnar Nilsson would not be able to make the dinner. Guy breathed hard and flashed smiles at Becker and the gaunt-faced Italian beside her. He tried not to view Nilsson’s absence as a setback. This thing was just as much her baby, really. She would, she said, be chairing the pitch meeting. Which was something, at least. He tried to will himself to stop sweating. His shirt was plastered to his back.
Yves started to make small talk about a production of Aida he and the Director had both attended in Verona. In deference to Guy he spoke English, constructing elaborate sentences which the Director matched, clause for clause, the two of them performing a kind of second-language fencing match. Bocca, whom the topic was obviously intended to draw in, stared silently at his hands. He had placed them palms down on the white tablecloth and was assiduously examining his long fingers, as if deciding which of them to sever first.
‘Tell me about your work,’ Guy asked him.
‘Informatics,’ said Bocca, without looking up.
‘Really,’ said Guy, feeling the quest for connection was already hopeless. Bocca shot him a sardonic look.
‘The informatic dimension is central to the whole harmonization project,’ offered Director Becker, reaching forward and smiling at Guy, who smiled gratefully back. He found himself wondering what it would be like to go to bed with her.
‘The question of the border is a question of information,’ remarked Bocca. Guy was not certain what he meant. It sounded like a quote.
‘Naturally,’ said Yves.
‘Naturally,’ agreed Guy, following his lead. He was taken aback when Bocca looked up from his hands. ‘You feel this also?’ he asked.
‘Very strongly,’ said Guy, trying not to grind his teeth. The waiter arrived to take a drinks order and left again, as Bocca, with the sudden intensity of a man who feels he may finally have found a friend in the world, fixed Guy and Yves with a hopeful gaze and began to discourse on the centrality of information technology to a modern customs and immigration regime.
‘I believe,’ he said with subdued passion, ‘it is the most important tool we have. A common European border authority must have common information collection and retrieval. This much is obvious. Otherwise you find some terrorist or economic migrant in one country and lose him again when he crosses into another. Any proposal for the presentation of our border police must incorporate the information dimension.’ He tapped the table to make his point. The waiter returned with a bottle of wine, which Bocca tasted, staring into his glass as if it were a clandestino trying to get work in his mouth.
Guy gulped his wine, making positive noises as Bocca described the enormous value of the Community’s Schengen Information System in the control of illegal migration. ‘The problem with these people is they lie, they destroy their papers. You have no way of knowing who they are. They say they’re from a war zone but actually all they want is to take a job from a citizen. But if you combine the database with biometrics, you can cut through everything. No more lies.’ He illustrated his point with a slicing clap of the hands, sitting back in his chair with an air of finality.
‘You are so right,’ said Guy, pouring himself a second glass. ‘And we’ve picked up on that aspect of PEBA’s role with the creative work we’ve done at Tomorrow*.’
‘Really?’ said Becker.
She was smiling at him again. How old was she? Fifty? Forty-five? He took another swig of wine. ‘Really. What my team has come to realize is that in the twenty-first century the border is not just a line on the earth any more. It’s so much more than that. It’s about status. It’s about opportunity. Sure, you’re either inside or outside, but you can be on the inside and still be outside, right? Or on the outside looking in. Anyway, like we say in one of our slides, “The border is everywhere.” “The border”, and this is key, “is in your mind.” Obviously from a marketing point of view a mental border is a plus, because a mental border is a value and a value is something we can promote.’
‘I’m glad you see things in this light,’ said Director Becker, who looked (it occurred to Guy) like a woman who made good use of her gym membership. ‘This youth perspective I like very much. We have a difficult time teaching citizenship to the young.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ agreed Guy. ‘Citizenship is about being one of the gang, or as we like to say at Tomorrow*, “in with the in crowd”. As everyone knows, being in the in crowd is a question of attitude and at Tomorrow*, that’s our bread and butter.’
The conversation was going his way.
Director Becker started on a convoluted explanation of the genesis of PEBA, which unit of which directorate had supplied personnel for which working group, which interested parties had sent observers, which blocs within parliament had lobbied for which changes in the legislative framework. Guy, who had no appetite, poked a fork into his carpaccio of tuna and tried to keep his mind on what she was saying. It was not easy. The fish glistened suggestively, and all at once, like football fans crowding on to a tube train, a series of graphic images flooded his head. Every one of them (for reasons he knew he ought to be ashamed of) involved Director Becker in the kind of sensibly cut blue swimming costume once worn by girls from his sister school in Gloucestershire. He had spent a lot of time examining those costumes during joint sports days. They would turn from navy-blue to black when they got wet.
He had to get a grip.
‘… towards the establishment of a common border authority, which, while allowing initially for member states to diverge in certain details of their individual policies…’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, Monika. Carry on.’
‘OΚ. Well, so far progress has been good, and we’re actually at the stage of implementing joint actions under the PEBA banner, so of course the incentive is now there to move towards a common look and feel to overlay the policy harmonization.’
‘Which is where we come in,’ remarked Yves. Guy gave up on the tuna. He put his knife and fork down on his plate and poured himself more wine.
‘I must tell you a secret,’ said Bocca conspiratorially. ‘Monika is being coy about the PEBA implementation. You know why Gunnar couldn’t make it? Officially he’s in Helsinki for the expansion conference’ — here he paused and looked about with exaggerated caution — ‘but in reality it’s even more exciting than that. Today is the launch of Operation Atomium. He’s in Paris, watching it from the police control centre.’ He slapped the table triumphantly, like a debater who had just made a telling point.
Guy blocked out thoughts of towel-flicking and backstroke and framed his face into an expression of interest. Whatever Bocca was on about, it certainly made him happy, and if it made him happy it was important to the pitch.
‘Operation —?’
‘Atomium.’ Director Becker laughed, tossing her hair girlishly. ‘It’s just one of those silly boy’s names policemen give their projects. Though it is an important development, this is true. And tonight is an important night. Since Signor Bocca —’
‘Please Monika, Gianni.’
‘Since Gianni has let the cats out of the sack, I think I can tell you.’ She wagged a finger severely at Yves and Guy. ‘You will not talk to the press?’
They put on grave expressions, to demonstrate that such a thing would be unthinkable.
‘Well,’ she carried on, ‘this is actually the name of the first coordinated PEBA action, which is taking place right now in eight capital cities.’