by Love, John
The principal referred to Rashad’s well-known skill with immersion holgrams. Indeed, Rashad had many impressive qualities, but (his parents sensed the “but” coming) the holograms often showed a kind of quiet disrespect for authority figures. They also showed a compulsive curiosity about how things worked and what was hidden inside them—the tension between containers and contents, surface and substance. None of these were in themselves bad things, but they gave him a quality of apartness. A quality further emphasised by the Arnold story. There wasn’t just a quietly cruel humour hiding in there, there was a private dread of relationships and commitment: the idea that getting close to another person could kill you.
She pondered Anwar’s exact, word-for-word report on his interrogation of Richard Carne, and remembered Annihilate. I used that word myself, in the villa. Asika was annihilated, and so was Levin. Both of them, long gone.
And she remembered what she’d been about to ask him before she’d cut the connection: would he really have done those things to Carne? She knew what he’d told Olivia when she asked the same thing—he’d included a verbatim report on that conversation, too—and knew that if she, Arden, was to ask him, he’d simply have referred her to that answer. She’d have to settle for that. But she remembered his outburst just now, and thought, What is this mission doing to him?
Dissolution. Corrosion. Collapse.
Anwar snapped his wristcom shut. The empty projected rectangle faded from the wall. Something was going to happen, here, live and in public, in two weeks. Whatever they would send,it wouldn’t be some Meat slab. It wouldn’t be just another out matched opponent. It would be whatever killed Levin and Asika. Only about thirty people in the world knew what he was, and eighteen of them were others like him. Sixteen now. How can they make things that kill Consultants? Who are they? How can Rafiq not know about them? Am I out of my league? Is Rafiq out of his?
For the first time he actually feared for his own life, never mind hers. No, he did mind hers. Olivia was offensive, but this was his mission. Very offensive, but this was still his mission. Monumentally offensive, so that he could almost imagine killing her himself, but he wouldn’t let them kill her, whoever they were. Because of what she stood for. Bigots multiplied everywhere and made the world ugly. Only a few people stood for things which made it less ugly: Rafiq, certainly, and maybe her, at least publicly, no matter how offensive she was privately.
So this was still his mission. The one he was made for. But his lifelong comfort zone was gradually, detail by detail, collapsing.
A VSTOL landed on the pad at the end of the Pier. For the first time, Anwar thought, a VSTOL comes without Arden. Another detail, changed. It contained people from UN Intelligence. Also some doctors, in case any one was watching. Carne’s body was stretchered aboard, an IV bag attached to his arm, busily and uselessly pumping fluid into a dead man.
Anwar watched the VSTOL lift off silently and flicker into the dusk, then he returned to his suite. He walked out onto the balcony, and for the second time saw the sun setting over the Cathedral complex. September was about to become October, with the summit only two weeks away. He cried out for Asika, and for his friend Levin.
A floor above, Olivia heard him. She too was crying, but silently, and for a reason of her own. It was a quite specific reason, almost a detail, but if she told Anwar now it would change everything. She would tell him after the summit, if they were both alive then.
SIX: SEPTEMBER / OCTOBER 2060
1
On the last day of September, the weather over southern England was pleasant. It was a warm autumn evening in Brighton when Anwar cried out over the deaths of Asika and Levin; and also in Rochester, as an Evensong service began in the Cathedral.
For he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter.
He shall defend thee under his wings,
And thou shalt be safe…
The congregation was small, and mostly elderly. The service took place in the Nave, the part of the Cathedral where the West Door opened out onto College Yard.
The Nave was divided from the rest of the Cathedral by the organ, and to either side of it by the Pilgrim Steps and the stairs to the Crypt. A small altar stood in front of the organ. This divison was known as the Crossing.
Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night…
For he shall give his angels charge over thee,
To keep thee in all thy ways.
There was traffic noise outside. Rochester had become down at heel now that the southeast coast and Thames Estuary areas had seen massive new developments. The main road from the new bridges over the River Medway ran parallel to the old High Street, taking traffic past Rochester on the way to and from the new retail centres and business parks, some of them financed by the New Anglicans. They were places as alien to, and as different from, an old conventional town like Rochester as the New Anglicans were to the Old Anglicans. Rochester was dwarfed by them, and left in their wake.
There were only seven people in the choir, and less than fifty in the congregation. The Nave had enough space for many more, but they were almost huddled together in a few pews close to the front. The service was conducted by Michael Taber, Dean of the Cathedral. The Bishop of Rochester was not present.
The service moved on. After Psalm 91, the choir sang the Magnificat.
For he that is mighty hath magnified me,
And holy is his name.
He hath showed strength with his arm:
He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
At the back of the Nave, the opposite end from the organ and altar, was the West Door. Walled off from the Nave, to the right of the organ and altar, was the Lady Chapel. Two other doors, the North and South Doors, were behind the altar, the other side of the Crossing.
On the organ pipes there were painted Gothic patterns, making them look like the spines of books on a Victorian bookshelf. The ceiling was vaulted and groined, made of dark carved wood, with stone Gothic arches supporting it. The pews were also dark wood, glowing with evening sunlight that accentuated the swirl of their grain.
The five figures who, by now, had completed several circuits of the outside of the Cathedral, moved to the West, North, and South doors. At a prearranged time they entered simultaneously, leaving large packages inside each door as they closed it. They bent to make adjustments to control panels on the packages. They unslung their weapons, but kept them concealed, and waited for the next prearranged time to come round.
Those who entered by the West Door made almost no noise, despite the heavy weaponry and packages they were lugging. A couple of the congregation glanced round, but the people who had entered looked official. There was a uniformity about their clothing, and they wore identity badges.
There was a short Bible reading by Michael Taber, then the congregation stood as the choir sung the Nunc Dimittis.
Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,
According to thy word…
The next prearranged time came round. From the North door, the South door, and the West door, the figures stepped simultaneously into the light. They took up positions at the front of the Nave, to either side of the altar, and at the rear, to either side of the West door, now showing their weapons openly, just as the choir stopped singing.
“Dean Taber, ladies and gentlemen: We have control of the Cathedral. You are hostages. We’ve rigged the entrances and exits: There are explosive devices with motion sensors at every door. In a moment my colleagues will rig more of them at every window. The Cathedral will be irreparably damaged if anyone tries to enter or leave. So will you.”
There were shouts and a few screams from some members of the congregation. Michael Taber stepped forward, arms raised, to calm them. There was something about his bearing that actually did calm them, and most of them fell silent.
Michael Taber looked like a caricature of a patrician: tall, handsome,well-groomed, with grey hair brushed back from a high foreh
ead, and with a natural courtesy towards everyone, even intruders. “You are welcome here,” he said, “but your weapons aren’t.”
There was a brief nod from the one standing closest to him at the altar, who appeared to be their leader. His identity badge said, in large letters, Jones. He was dark-haired and heavily built, perhaps running to fat. Taber didn’t remember the events of ten years ago clearly enough, but if he had, he might have thought the man looked a bit like Parvin Marek. But Marek, if he was still alive, would have been slightly older. And Marek’s face had had a deadness about it which this man’s didn’t, somehow.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“We’ll come to that. For now, some housekeeping matters. We know your congregation is elderly. We expect that what we’ve come here to do will take all night.” (More shouts.) “So we’ve brought chemical toilets. We’ll set them up in the
Lady Chapel, where people can use them in privacy. And one of us is a qualified doctor, and carries a field medical kit.
“As to who we are: Smith, Jones, Brown, Patel, and Khan.” Addressing the congregation, he added “See? We have name-badges. Mine says Jones. Not our real names, of course. One of us really is called Jones, but it isn’t me. And the two called Patel and Khan aren’t Asian, as you can see…”
His mouth turned down at the corners, and there were fixed frown-lines where his eyebrows met. It was the face of someone who didn’t really want to be doing this; someone who felt out of his depth. But he still brandished a gun, levelly and with precision. They all did.
He turned back to Taber. “We’re mercenaries. We were handpicked for this. Our employers wanted us for a particular reason: we all have terminal illnesses. So we’ll carry this through to the death.”
Taber was horrified, but somehow managed to conceal it. They probably didn’t expect to live beyond the morning, but until then they were invulnerable.
“Why are you doing this?” Taber asked. He thought he already knew the answer but he was playing for time, while he sought a way to establish some rapport.
“To provide for our families. We all have wives and families.Including—” pointing to Patel, “—her. She has a wife. And adopted children. And only the New Anglicans would give her and her partner a proper Church wedding.”
“We would, too,” Taber said. “Since 2035.”
“Yes,but not willingly. Your Church held out against it for years. The New Anglicans embraced it without being asked.”
Taber didn’t press the point. “So what happens next?”
“I’m going to call the authorities and describe to them what we’re going to do here. When you hear what it is, remember this: We’ll kill people if necessary, but if we get what we want there’s a high chance that your congregation will all leave here alive.”
“You’re not wearing masks. That means that you don’t expect to leave here alive.”
“Not at all,” he answered, a little too quickly. “When this is all concluded satisfactorily, we’ll surrender.”
Taber didn’t believe him. Taber wasn’t as easy to convince as his appearance might have suggested. He was a good Dean, but many other things besides. Those who knew him well, knew that he possessed a set of sharp perceptions which he usually kept sheathed like claws.
Jones flipped open his wristcom and told it a number. His call went through to Rani Desai, Director of Counter-Terrorism at the Home Office. She listened without interruption or comment, and without asking how he’d got her direct number, and promised to call back in five minutes with confirmation that she had the Home Secretary’s authority to deal with them.
By the time she did so—in four minutes, not five—more packages had been lugged in and fixed underneath the stained-glass windows of the Nave.
“I’m now authorized to negotiate with you,” Rani Desai said. “So what do we have to do to make you stop?”
Jones watched his colleagues fixing floor sensors, threading their way through the congregation and occasionally muttering, “Excuse me.” They released crawlers, self-programming sensor devices like spiders, which scuttled over the walls and ceiling, positioning themselves at optimum intervals.
“I said,” Rani Desai repeated, “what do we have to do to make you stop?”
He told her. There would be a drip-feed of demands. Ransoms, paid to charities. Relatively modest amounts: one million euros each. Jones would announce each charity, one at a time. Rani Desai would call the CEO or equivalent to get formal agreement that the money would be accepted. She would then call him personally to confirm that the Government had electronically transferred the money to the charity. The relevant bank screen, showing the transaction, would be sent to Jones’ wristcom. A maximum of one hour would be allowed for each charity. There would be eleven, announced one by one through the night by Jones.
“So,” he concluded, when Rani Desai didn’t answer, “easily affordable, easily doable, and some good causes benefit. Complying seems better than a firefight, and a live congregation seems better than a dead one. Doesn’t it?”
“If we comply, you won’t harm anyone?”
“If you comply, of course we won’t. Who do you think we are, Black Dawn?”
She didn’t answer.
“Come on, I need to know.”
“No, I don’t think you’re Black Dawn.”
“I mean, I need to know if you’ll comply.”
“Yes, we will.”
“Good. Now, before we get to the details of our demands, there are some administrative matters I need to take you through.
“First, we all have a military background. The explosive devices rigged at each door and window aren’t homemade, they’re of military origin. We have other devices, also of military origin, to detect attempts to enter through the walls, floor, or ceiling. They’ll trigger the explosives, as will any attempt to enter or exit through the doors or windows. The explosives will probably kill everyone here and damage the Cathedral irreparably.
“Second, we know you’ll be deploying people around the Cathedral. I would; it’s only reasonable. But when you deploy them, and when you give them their orders, remember what I’ve said. Only eleven million euros, and it’ll be over by tomorrow morning, and then we’ll surrender.”
“You’ll surrender?” she sounded genuinely surprised.
“Yes, surrender...Why, what’s wrong?”
“Why not give us your whole list now, all eleven? Why do it one at a time? I’ve already said we’ll pay.”
“No. This is how we want it.”
Taber, who’d been listening carefully, knew then that they wouldn’t surrender. He suspected also that there was something different about number eleven.
“Eleven. One at a time,” Jones went on, “an hour for each, and we should be through by early tomorrow morning, and fifty-seven people—Dean Taber, the choir and congregation— will be free to go.”
“What if one takes more than an hour?”
“Then fifty-six people will be free to go. An hour’s a reasonable time. It’s not exactly complicated.” Jones paused, as if he felt the need to soften what he’d said. He did seem out of his depth. “If there’s some genuine reason why you can’t do it, we have a reserve list. So, Number One: Cancer Research UK. Time now is 10:17 p.m. You have one hour.”
“I’ll call you back,” said Rani Desai.
The charities will probably reflect what they’re suffering from, Taber thought. Cancer. And maybe heart conditions. Or neurological diseases. He’d know them one at a time, through the night. It was a line of investigation Rani Desai would be pursuing, and hardly a difficult one.
Within thirty minutes, VSTOLs were hovering outside the Cathedral (though not as silently as the UN’s would have hovered). College Yard and Boley Hill were lit up. There was the sound of boots on cobblestones. Muffled shouts from the lawns, under the spreading trees. Jones, true to his word, did not appear surprised or angry.
Cancer Research UK took a little longer than ex
pected— the CEO was not at the address, or with the partner, that Rani Desai’s staff had been told—but it was still completed inside the hour. Rani Desai obtained his acceptance, made the electronic transfer, and sent Jones’ wristcom the bank screen showing the transaction.
“Good,” said Jones. “One down, ten to go. Number Two is the British Heart Foundation. It’s now...11:05 p.m. You have one hour.”
The explosives and sensors were set. The congregation, perhaps because of Jones’ manner and how smoothly the operation promised to go, were a little more relaxed. Even the sound of boots and muffled shouts from outside had dwindled slightly.
A few minutes later, Jones started stealing glances at Taber. Taber was initially too polite to mention it—especially as he wasn’t the one with the gun—but after a while he turned to Jones and asked, “Can I help you with anything?”
“No, but you can tell me something.”
Unconsciously—he never used his famous charm cynically—Taber put on his I’m Listening face. “If I can. What is it?”
“Your faith.” Jones hefted his rifle angrily. “I’ve never had a faith, either before or after I was diagnosed. Why do you?”
“The answer’s in the question. It’s my faith. It’s what I believe.”
Jones snorted derisively and was about to turn away without replying, but something in the way Taber returned his gaze—maybe the charm was starting to work—made him respond. “Alright, so it’s what you believe. So does God give you certainty?”
Surprisingly, Taber laughed out loud. “That’s the last thing God gives me. God shows me some wonderful unexpectedness.” Despite the tension, some members of the congregation rolled their eyes. They’d heard this one before.
But Jones hadn’t. “Unexpectedness?”