“He’s not a servant, of course,” MacLeod said after Greg had left the room.
“I never assumed he was.”
“Oh really?”
“No,” said Parry. “And I know what you’re up to. I’m a white Westerner. If someone of ethnic background fetches me tea, I automatically think he’s staff.”
“You’re a white Westerner who used to be a London policeman.”
“Yes, that’s right. All blacks are wogs.”
“Your choice of words is quite revealing. You’re clearly a man who calls a spade a spade.”
“Very funny. Now listen here, MacLeod...”
Parry stopped, having noticed the amusement twinkling in the Xenophobe’s eyes.
“You see?” said MacLeod, pointing at him. “You see how easy it is for me to snare you, captain? Trip you up? And if I can do that here, when it’s just the two of us chatting, think how much more effectively and devastatingly I can do it in the public arena.”
“I resent being called a racist,” Parry said, aridly. “I resent someone even thinking I’m one.”
“Yet it’s an easy brush with which to tar you, not least because you work for an organisation which predominantly recruits people like you – whites from Anglophone, Christian countries.”
“The FPP is far more ethnically and religiously diverse than most people appreciate.”
“But the general perception is that you’re a bunch of white Westerners who’ve taken it upon themselves to tell the rest of the world how to behave. Which is pretty much how things were before the Debut, when the West was the world’s self-appointed policeman. The names may have changed, but the cultural imperialism stays the same.” “That isn’t the general perception where I’m looking from.”
“Hardly surprising, given that you’re on the inside looking out. And by the way, just so you know, no one here at Free World House is a servant to anyone else. Greg wouldn’t have brought us tea if he didn’t want to. We all work in equal partnership here. As a Xenophobe, you see, you contribute in whatever way you can. If you haven’t got money, then you donate time and labour. It’s a very human way of doing things. Human helping human.”
“An object lesson to us all.”
“We like to think so,” said MacLeod, overlooking the sarcasm in Parry’s voice. “How do you take your tea?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
A few moments later Parry was taking an exploratory sip of an aromatic brown brew – Darjeeling, he thought. Not his preferred leaf, but the tannin/caffeine hit came quickly, and he revelled in its suffusing warmth.
“And now,” said MacLeod, settling back in his seat, “these incidents. These shinjus, as you’re calling them.” He spoke the term with distaste. “What’s going on, eh?”
Parry debated how much to tell him, and whether to tell him anything at all. MacLeod had no right to know any more than any other member of the public. Then again, this was a chance for the FPP to put its side of the story. If he was straight with MacLeod, MacLeod might appreciate it and return the favour by refraining from causing trouble. Courtesy bred courtesy, did it not? And if, by such an honourable means, he was able to draw the teeth of one of New Venice FPP’s most vocal opponents, then that was a double victory – a moral as well as a practical one.
So he gave MacLeod a simplified version of the discovery of Henderson’s corpse and the Foreign remains at the Amadeus, and of his enquiries among Sirens, and of the sequence of events that morning at the Ponte da Ponte and the Debussy that had led to the unearthing of the second shinju and its subsequent exposure on television.
“Yes, I felt you came across very well in that footage.”
Parry looked at MacLeod askance.
“No, I mean it,” the Xenophobe said, with apparent sincerity. “Reasonable, unflustered, polite but firm. A good advert for your organisation. If only all FPP officers were like you, eh?”
All at once Parry felt charm exuding from MacLeod in waves, like some pulsing, invisible radiation MacLeod was able to emit at will in order to alter people at a cellular level, mutate them into allies. It required a conscious effort to resist the flattery, to contain the urge to warm to the man. He reminded himself that he was talking to a Xenophobe, someone determined not to accept Foreigners for the miracle they were, a professional Doubting Thomas. At his most charitable, he could admire MacLeod for the strength of his convictions, but further than that he could not – must not – permit his sympathies to extend.
“They are all like me,” Parry replied, then thought of van Wyk. Well, almost all.
“And what does Commissioner Quesnel have to say about these two incidents?”
“You just saw.”
“What does she really have to say?”
“That they need to be looked into and, if possible, prevented from recurring.”
“But how can you prevent something like this from recurring?” MacLeod said, spreading out his hands. “If this shinju is an act consented to by both parties, if neither has been coerced into it by the other, then surely it’s a matter of free will. And the FPP, to the best of my knowledge, don’t yet have powers to curb expressions of free will. Or could it be that there’s more going on here than meets the eye?” He tapped an index finger meditatively against one of the paisley shapes on his chin. “Could it be that the FPP thinks Xenophobes are in some way involved?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yet, captain, you agreed to come and see when asked. Agreed very readily. Could it be that you’re here to sniff around? Ask a few pertinent questions? See if I forget myself and let slip some vital, incriminating clue?”
“No one in the FPP has so much as mentioned the possibility of Xenophobe involvement in these deaths.” Of course, that was not entirely true, but he could not see what right MacLeod had to know about an opinion privately expressed by the commissioner.
“What about Triple-X?” said MacLeod.
“I don’t get what you’re driving at.”
“I’m not driving at anything in particular. I’m simply curious to know how the FPP’s minds are working. Normally the first people to get the blame when something bad happens to Pakeha are Xenophobes.”
“Not true.”
“No? How about at Koh Farang? Your colleagues there started out by pointing the finger squarely at the local Xenophobe chapter.”
“The real culprits were found soon enough.”
“Only after several innocent people had been taken into custody.”
“They were released.”
“And exonerated?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“You believe wrong. Nothing was said. No apology was offered to them, either publicly or in private. Not even a grudging admission that the FPP had made a mistake.”
“A lot of mistakes were made at Koh Farang. Hopefully we’ve learned from them.”
“Hopefully.”
“Anyway, what does someone like you, Mr MacLeod, care about Triple-X? The legitimate Xenophobe movement does everything it can to distance itself from their actions.”
“A good point, captain. Naturally, I can’t condone indiscriminate bombing and killing.”
Parry felt that MacLeod had laid a certain subtle emphasis on indiscriminate, but the stress on the word had been so faint – barely a feather’s weight of extra breath – that he might well have imagined it.
“Such things are even more offensive to public opinion nowadays than they used to be,” MacLeod continued. “However, I also believe that the FPP shouldn’t be allowed to arrest individuals purely on the grounds that they have a genuine or even a suspected affiliation with any movement, political, religious or otherwise.”
“I agree. As I said, mistakes were made, and Koh Farang paid the price. This isn’t a perfect world, Mr MacLeod, and it would be a whole lot worse if we pretended it was.”
“Well put. But I’m afraid I would go further than you, captain. I would say that this is a world as far from being perfec
t as it’s possible to get.”
“That is – respectfully, Mr MacLeod – rubbish. You only have to look at the improvements the Foreigners have brought. Not just crystech and comp-res, though God knows the latter was the answer to our prayers. The social improvements. It’s an objective, statistically-supported fact that since the Foreigners came the planet has been more peaceful than at any time in recorded history.”
“Or have we just lulled ourselves into a false sense of security?” said MacLeod. “I think so. I don’t believe we’ve changed all that much. Certainly not deep down, where it counts.”
“On that, I’d agree with you. The potential is always there that we’ll slide back into the chaos that existed before the Debut. We’ve attained a general standard of decent behaviour – of civilisation, in the truest sense of the word – because the Foreigners are here, but we can’t and won’t maintain it without constant, rigorous self-assessment and vigilance. And that’s part of my job, perhaps the most important part of it: keeping everyone up to scratch, by the application of Foreign Policy and by example.”
“How very impressive. ‘By the application of Foreign Policy and by example.’ And here I was thinking you were nothing more than a glorified holiday rep.”
The charm was being deployed once again. Parry was meant to take the comment as nothing more than good-natured ribbing, the kind that was acceptable between friends.
“Well, that’s in the job-description, too,” he replied, with a laugh that no one could mistake for genuine. “Frankly, it’s good to be employed doing something that demands so many diverse skills. I could, after all, simply complain for a living, as some people do.”
“Captain.” Suddenly no longer amused, MacLeod leaned forwards in his seat and laid his cup and saucer down on the coffee-table. “I am not a man to fuck with, and neither, I suspect, are you. So let’s be honest with each other.”
“Suits me.”
“Does the FPP believe the Xenophobes have any connection with these deaths?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Then you have no reason to be worried.”
“I’m not. It’s just that, as I said before, when something goes wrong in a resort-city, it’s usually the Xenophobes who are the first to get the blame.”
“The FPP hasn’t come knocking on your door yet. As things stand, I see no reason to believe that we will.”
“I have your word on that?”
“That we won’t have cause to come and visit you? No, you do not. I don’t give guarantees I may not be able to keep.”
“Well.” MacLeod closed his eyes and opened them again, a slow basilisk blink. “Well, that’s honest of you, I suppose.”
“I thought that was what you wanted.”
“Yes. True. And in that same spirit, captain, I have to tell you that if there are any more of these deaths, I will have no choice but to be savage in my criticism of them and of the FPP. That isn’t a threat, merely a statement of fact. The Xenophobe movement cannot be seen to sit back in silence while this planet’s indigenous culture is further eroded.”
“But –”
“These deaths,” MacLeod continued, steamrollering through Parry’s objection, “would not have occurred if the Pakeha were not here and if their influence were not so pervasive and if people were not so willing to indulge them in their whims and ways. Two human beings have lost their lives so far, and God knows how many more may follow. As long as we keep subordinating ourselves to the Foreigners, then such things will keep on happening, and as a descendant of a race who for two centuries were stripped of their land and their dignity and their identity by the forcible imposition of another race’s culture, I will do everything in my power to see that the fate that befell my forebears does not befall the world.”
MacLeod’s black-pearl eyes glittered with a dark fervour as he spoke, and Parry was not sure whether what he was witnessing was a genuine outburst of feeling or a taste of what could be expected from MacLeod if the deaths continued. In spite of himself, he could not help but be impressed and even a little stirred by Macleod’s rhetoric. The man was talking nonsense, of course. Single-issue pressure groups, by their very nature, could present only one side of any debate, and that made them emotive but otherwise invalid arguers. All the same, when a case was put with as much fire and eloquence as MacLeod had just displayed, it was hard not to be swayed.
“You’ve made your feelings known, Mr MacLeod,” he said, setting his empty cup down next to the Xenophobe’s, “and I’m grateful for the opportunity to have heard them. But I have, as you can imagine, many other important matters to attend to...”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Captain Parry.” All at once, MacLeod was again the serene, genial fellow he had been when Parry came in. “Let me walk with you to the front door.”
Pinkerton and Butterfly were waiting patiently out front. When Parry and MacLeod emerged from the house, the Alsatians sprang to their feet and fixed their gazes on MacLeod’s face, ready to receive a command. The worst thing about the dogs, Parry decided, eyeing them, was their silence. As a courtesy to neighbours, guard dogs in residential areas were trained not to bark. Even when attacking intruders, they were obliged to do it soundlessly, without so much as a snarl, in order to avoid disturbing other humans in the vicinity. A sign of the times, that ... though possibly not the most exemplary one.
“Are they really necessary?” he asked MacLeod, indicating the dogs.
“Everyone’s entitled to a certain level of security, aren’t they, captain?” said MacLeod, misconstruing the question, perhaps deliberately. “Even we Xenophobes?”
“Well, yes, but what I meant is, is it really necessary for the dogs to come with me to the front gate?”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting you leave the premises unaccompanied. That would be very bad form.” The absence of any expression on the Xenophobe’s face or inflection in his voice was, to Parry, worse than open mockery would have been. “Remember: stay on the path and there won’t be any trouble.”
The two men shook hands again.
“Kia ora, captain,” MacLeod said.
A memory from childhood flashed incongruously into Parry’s head – the taste of a stickily sickly brand of orange squash. “Beg pardon?”
“It means ‘good luck’.” MacLeod nodded at Pinkerton and Butterfly.
“Oh,” said Parry, and, unamused, added, “Thank you.”
MacLeod stepped back inside the house and closed the door, and Parry turned and set off along the path. As before, one of the Alsatians fell in step in front of him, the other behind.
Near the gate, Parry decided to risk a little experiment. Gradually he veered towards the edge of the path. Nothing happened until the side of his shoe brushed a blade of grass. Then Butterfly behind him let out a warning growl, and Pinkerton whipped his head round to see what was going on.
For the last few metres of the journey, Parry stuck firmly and squarely to the centre of the path.
INTERLUDE
One Year Ago...
THE CALL COMES in the middle of the night.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Sure. We’ve met.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“But I hardly know you!” Not bad for three-thirty in the morning and just woken up.
“Listen carefully. Listen seriously.” The caller pauses for breath. A third of a world away, you hear him wheezing. “I know what sort of person you are. I think we have a sympathy on certain issues. What would you say if I told you I could provide you with the means of making a heart’s desire come true?”
“I’d say keep talking.”
And he does. In fits and starts, in halting breathless bursts, he explains what he would like done and how he would like it done. At the end, he says, “Well? What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” you say, but you’re intrigued. In fact, quietly you’re thrilled. You’re already pretty sure what your answer’s g
oing to be. “There’s a lot of risk. I mean, crazy risk.”
“And a lot of reward.”
“That, too.”
“The one is often, I’ve found, the result of the other. If you succeed, believe me you will never have to worry about money ever again.”
“And if I fail?”
“Do you honestly think you will?”
He’s got you there. Failure has never been in your vocabulary. In spite of the life you’ve chosen for yourself, and in fact because of it, you have become obstinate to the point of idiocy. The greater the odds stacked against you, the deeper you dig your heels in, refusing to be cowed or bowed. Fighting the tide of the times has become your mission, your crusade. You pursue it with a near-religious zeal, and every setback renews your fire. Every time you get knocked down, you’re up again in an instant, ready for some more.
And here is a chance to strike such a blow. Such a spectacular act of retaliation.
How can you say no?
THIRD MOVEMENT
20. Recapitulation
AN E-CARD FROM Cecilia Fuentes was waiting for Parry on his home board when he got in that evening. On the front was an image screen-grabbed from the newscast of the Dargomyzhsky footage: himself in Room 879 at the Debussy, staring importunately into the camera. A speech-bubble had been added, issuing from his mouth, empty except for the word “PLAY”. With a certain bemused trepidation Parry clicked on the bubble, and the image unfroze and began to move. The hands gestured and the lips shaped words, but the accompanying voice on the soundtrack was not his. Instead, Cecilia had overdubbed a recording of her own voice, pitched gruffly and using her best (or, depending on how you look at it, her worst) fake British accent, so that what Parry saw was himself uttering the following:
“Prithee and forsooth, sirrah, wouldst thou kindly desist from yonder knavish shenanigans?”
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