by Love, John
And I want your deputies Bayard and Proskar kept away. And I want her kept away. And I want...”
So his stay in the Signing Room began.
He wouldn’t take food from anyone other than Gaetano. He had screens wheeled in from the Pier hospital and arranged so they curtained off a small area at the far wall where he used the bucket regularly and copiously. He refused any change of clothes. He stayed unshaven and unwashed, with stale breath and body odour—a condition of such total novelty to him that he privately catalogued its development. And through it all his expensively tailored suit still kept its shape impeccably despite his dirtiness. Elegant container, foul contents, he mused, picking at one of his favourite themes.
He almost revelled in it. All his life he’d never been anything less than immaculate. But in all his life he’d never done anything as unpredictable, as Olivia-like, as this. He was learning things from this mission: how to do the unexpected, how to take the initiative, even how to tear down and replace wooden wall panels.
On the first day he watched them start work. They decided to uncover a small area first, no more than ten feet square, to test their techniques before tackling the main area. He watched them rip out the old wooden panels, revealing the structures underneath: layers of plaster and, underneath the plaster, a latticework of carbon-ceramic laths. The laths had been fixed to the original walls with polymers which, although immensely strong, could be removed by the application of contra-polymers so they left no mark on the walls. As the first panels started to be torn away, he motioned to Gaetano’s men to have their guns ready. Nothing was there so far. The rubble and dust and debris mounted.
Then, the layers under the panelling were also ripped out: plaster, laths, back to the original silver and white surface. The first small area of the original wall was uncovered. The room’s shape was curved and the panelling was designed to create, at that end of the room, the impression of a regular rectangular space.
They paused. Nothing was there but the original walls. Anwar let out a breath and retired to the curtained alcove holding his bucket, where he called Gaetano and reminded him to double-check the Patel employees. Then he called Arden Bierce and told her to do the same. His priority was to find whatever (if anything) was hidden in the Signing Room, but his next priority was to find who put it there, how, and on whose orders.
The Patel contractors started on the main area of panelling. As the hours passed more of them joined the work, partly because the operation was becoming more frantic, and partly because Anwar’s cancellation of Olivia’s orders made it possible. Anwar observed them minutely. More teak and mahogany panelling was brought in from local timber yards to replace the panels that would be torn out. Anwar couldn’t tell the difference in grain or texture or density, and didn’t care.
After two days he had a visit from Bayard.
“I told Gaetano not to let you come here.”
“He doesn’t know,” Bayard replied. “I came on my own initiative. You know about initiative now, don’t you? At least, a bit more than you did before.”
There was some more of this. Bayard mocked him like Levin used to, but without the underlying friendship. They had to raise their voices above the noise of the Patel contractors. There were more of them than yesterday.
“...and you wouldn’t believe,” Bayard continued, “how furious she is at being kept out of here. But Gaetano kept his word. A couple of times, he even threatened to restrain her physically. Imagine, in her own Cathedral...”
“That’s enough,” Anwar snapped.
“...and all her orders cancelled. She was incandescent. Almost converted her mass to energy.”
“I said, that’s enough. Just go.”
“Alright, I’m leaving...But honestly, the mayhem and confusion you’ve caused. I’d have done it much better. If you want to know how you should have done it, no further than me.”
He sauntered out, aware that Anwar was trying unsuccessfully to think of a one-line rejoinder. As with Levin, Anwar would only think of one later, when it didn’t count.
The contractors carried on. The rubble and debris mounted. The dust thickened. The bucket filled, and was emptied.
After three days he had a visit from Proskar. This time, protocol was observed. Anwar got a call on his wristcom from Gaetano to say he’d given Proskar permission to see him.
“I told you he’s not to come here. I don’t trust him.”
“I do,” Gaetano snapped back. “And he wants to speak to you.”
Proskar had never mocked him like Bayard, had never said or done anything questionable, but Anwar still couldn’t get past his resemblance to Marek. When Proskar arrived, they again had to raise their voices above the noise and activity of the Patel contractors. It didn’t make for much nuance of expression.
“I came here,” Proskar began, “because…”
“Your collarbone healed yet?”
“Still healing. And your knife-wound?”
“Healed...You’re skillful with a knife,” Anwar murmured. “It’s a Marek type of weapon, a knife.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Come into my office, we can’t hear ourselves think out here.” He took Proskar to the screened-off alcove he had rigged in a far corner of the Signing Room, where he kept his bucket. The alcove stank, as did Anwar.
“I said you’re good with a knife.”
“It’s my speciality, that’s all. Look, I came here because…”
“I said it’s a Marek type of weapon, a knife.”
“I heard you. That’s why I came here. My resemblance to Marek. I know you think he’s me.”
Anwar said nothing.
After a while, Proskar added, “And about knives: there’s no record of Marek having any close combat skills, with knives or anything else.”
“He wasn’t bad with bombs and guns.”
“I said close combat.”
“So you did. You know about him, do you?”
“Yes, after years of having to prove I’m not him. I’ve learnt so much about Marek that at times I thought I was turning into him.”
“I want you gone.”
“What?”
“I know you’ve convinced others you’re not Marek, but I can’t get over your physical resemblance.”
“If I was Marek, would I still choose to look like this?”
“A reasonable question if you’re not, and a clever one if you are.”
“Would I keep my hands like this?” He waved them in front of Anwar’s face. Large, spadelike hands, with long and slender fingers. “Who else has hands like this?”
Anwar said nothing.
“Look,I came here in good faith. Iknow you’re concerned about my identity, but I can prove I’m not Marek. There’s endless proof. Do you want me to take you through it?”
“I’m tempted,” Anwar said, “to kill you here and now. You may be innocent...”
“I never said I was innocent. I said I’m not Marek.”
“...but I’m still tempted to play the percentages and kill you anyway.”
“This is the only job I’ve ever had that really amounted to anything. Before I came here I was just freelance muscle, doing things I wasn’t proud of for people I didn’t much like. Then Gaetano took me in and I got to do something worth-while. I’ve served him and the Archbishop for five years. I’d go and die for either of them.”
“Don’t die, just go. I want you gone.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? This is everything I am.”
“You’ve had five good years. Don’t try for six.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“To protect her. If you’re loyal to her, you don’t want me watching you when I should be watching her. And I would be watching you, because I can’t be sure you aren’t Marek. I’d never leave you alone. Better for her, and you, if you were gone.”
Proskar went to reply, then changed his mind and walked quietly out. Anwar was left looking at t
he walls, where still, after three days, nothing had been found.
But his initiative continued to buoy him. He’d never have done that with Proskar before. He’d only decided to do it while they were talking. But it made sense. Whatever they were sending for her, if it wasn’t in the Signing Room yet, it wouldn’t get there now. If it was a person, it might already be walking among them. Proskar wasn’t the only possibility, but he was the easiest to remove. Privately Anwar thought Proskar was worth ten of Bayard, but he couldn’t get over the resemblance to Marek. After all the evidence to the contrary, he still wanted to stick with his instincts.
Proskar, after this, would probably slip quietly away. Gaetano would just have to make do without him.
This mission, he thought. When he’d first come here the New Anglicans hadn’t known what to make of him, and they suspected he didn’t know what to make of himself either. Then he’d found out about taking initiatives and creating chaos, and they still didn’t know what to make of him.
He still didn’t know what to make of himself either, but he knew that he wasn’t quite the same.
Another day passed. More of the panelling was ripped out, and still nothing was found behind it. The plaster and the carbon-ceramic laths holding the panelling were also ripped out. Contra-polymers were applied to the adhesive holding the laths to the original walls, and it relaxed its huge grip and dissolved away as though it had never been there. The original walls were unmarked.
Anwar’s abrupt decision to abandon exact matches for the wood panelling had provoked uproar among Zaitsev’s staff at the UN in New York, but Gaetano dealt with it and made sure it didn’t reach Anwar—who, even if he’d known, would have ignored it.
The bucket got filled and was emptied. Food came and was eaten. Gaetano’s five armed people started to look a little excessive, even to Anwar. They were also starting to look irritated. Gaetano was getting worried at the distraction. Each time he brought food, he reminded Anwar that the summit was getting closer and these people should be on other duties. Anwar wouldn’t budge.
The panelling and plaster and laths were now completely ripped out, and nothing had been found behind them. The whole Signing Room was now back to its original curving shape. The walls were pristine: white and silver and gleaming. Even the dust didn’t seem to settle on their surface, though it settled everywhere else. Anwar finally and grudgingly admitted there was nothing to find. It still didn’t detract from his feeling of having the initiative.
He ordered the Patel contractors to start fitting the new panelling. He told Gaetano over his wristcom that he now needed only three security staff while the new wood was being fitted. But they should be armed, and should stay there round the clock until the summit.
“How much longer will you be staying there?” Gaetano asked him.
“Until I see them complete the new panelling.” It occurred to him to ask something he should have asked before. “How are your preparations for the summit?”
“Satisfactory. But the Archbishop is getting difficult.” “About the summit?”
“No. About being kept away from the Signing Room. And,” Gaetano’s voice sounded uneasy, “about you. You’ve been in there four days, and she intended to see you the instant you got back from Rafiq. She doesn’t usually go more than a day without...”
“Why not one of your people? Or you?”
“Not me, we don’t do that... and she laughed when I suggested the others. Normally she has no trouble in fixing herself up, often just this side of rape, but she wasn’t interested this time.”
Anwar felt a stirring of unease. “Keep her away from here.”
“I’ve already impressed on her the need to keep away.”
Anwar stayed to watch them finish. They did what they’d done before to fit the earlier panelling. They made a new lattice work of laths which they fixed by polymer against the silver and white of the walls, extending out in regular rectangular shapes. On this they put a layer of plaster. Anwar was fascinated by the skill of those making the laths and applying the plaster: accurate without much apparent measuring, quick without much apparent hurrying.
And then, after another day, the new panelling was done. There was mess and dust on the floor and in the air, and a smell of sawn wood and wet plaster. The room still had to be cleaned and prepped. By early evening he was still there, smelly and unshaven, when he got another call from Gaetano.
“I hear you’re finished in there.”
“Just about. I’m going for a shower and cleanup.”
“No you’re not. She wants to see you. Now. In the Boardroom.”
JUNE 2061
This is Olivia’s fourth Sunday, and fourth Evensong, at Rochester Cathedral. Not her fourth consecutive Sunday, because she has missed last week’s. If she gets to like some- where enough to go regularly, as she does with Rochester, she usually misses one service after three or four visits—a simple precaution, in case the congregation start noticing her.
So, her fourth Sunday out of five. And, like each pre- ceding one, it is a warm, copper-toned summer evening. But her precaution hasn’t worked. Out here in the Cathedral precincts, where refectory tables have been set out for coffee after the service, a couple of them have already sought to make eye contact.
And then there are the ones hunting her. Instinctively she feels that they’re getting closer, and that this may be her last Evensong at Rochester. A pity: she likes it here and has felt almost settled. Currently she works at a secondhand book- shop in the High Street. It is a lowly job but it reminds her of Anwar. He used to like old books. He’d have dealt easily with those hunting her, but he isn’t here anymore. He’s long gone.
She knows about Churches and how they work, but the Old Anglicans puzzle her. What they deal in—simple companionship—gives them no apparent gain or advantage. It doesn’t readily translate into a business model. The Old Anglicans continue as always on their gentle decline, while the New Anglicans get more and more powerful.
She decides as usual not to stay for coffee but to walk back along the High Street to her flat. But Michael Taber, the Dean of Rochester Cathedral—he’d taken this evening’s service—goes up to her. She’s seen and heard enough of him to know that he’s charming and patrician but also, under- neath, very smart.
He flashes his smile. “Won’t you stay for coffee, Ms.—?”
She sees he’s also switched on his I’m Listening expression in preparation for her reply. She doesn’t want to be drawn into a conversation, especially not with him, so she answers hastily, “Taylor. Olive Taylor. Thank you, but I can’t stop, I have to go now.” She almost adds, “Because my cat’s waiting for me,” but just manages not to. She shudders inwardly; at least she’s avoided giving him that clue.
But it doesn’t matter. Taber studies her as she walks hurriedly away. He is thinking about her. Olive, Olivia. And Sarto means Tailor. It can’t be. It can’t be.
EIGHT: OCTOBER 6, 2060
1
The pale wood door of the Boardroom stood impassively before him. Kicking it down, he decided, would be too theatrical, so he merely opened it (though without knocking) and strode in.
She was standing in the middle of the room, waiting for him. Gaetano stood behind her and to one side. She was wearing a long velvet dress in her usual style, this one in dark blue. He took in the fitted bodice almost painted over her slender upper body, and the long voluminous skirt that he somehow found more arousing than a short tight one. The front of his trousers started to tent.
“This pantomime!” shes pat. “You’ve taken five days out of our summit preparations!You’ve openly cancelled my orders! In my Cathedral! And,” pointing behind her at Gaetano, “do you know what he did to me when I tried to get into that damn room?”
Anwar glanced at Gaetano, who remained expressionless.
“I don’t know. Or care.”
“Have you any idea what stories we’ve had to tell the media? And at the end of it all, you got us nothing.
You had us check the Patel people, yet again, and we got nothing. You spent five days in the Signing Room while they tore it apart, and you got nothing. You gave us five days of disruption, five days of the media laughing at us and Zaitsev’s people screaming at us, and you haven’t got shit. I was right about you the first time, you’re a—”
“Don’t call me a fucking autistic retard. I didn’t like it the first time you said it. If you say it again, I might forget who I am.”
“When did you last remember who you are?”
He looked at her, long enough for her to look away. Then she gathered herself, stared back at him, and said, “Oh no, you do not do that to me. You do not stare me down reproachfully.”
“I remember who I am,” he said quietly. “I’m the thing you rented for your protection. I may not be enough, because you haven’t told me enough about who’s trying to kill you; but I’m all you’ve got.”
She didn’t reply, but neither did she look away; she wouldn’t be stared down.
“And I remember who you are,” he went on. “You stand for things I admire, but inside you’re ugly.” He looked her up and down. “A velvet bag of shit.”
He heard Gaetano stifle a gasp.
She continued to return his gaze, but addressed Gaetano. “The retard speaks out for itself. What’s happened to it? It seems to have changed.”
“And,” Anwar continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “in the Signing Room I was...”
“Yes, yes, I get that. You were trying to find what they’re sending to kill me.”
“And I made sure...”
“Yes, I get that too. You made sure it isn’t there yet, and you can make sure it won’t be there before the summit. But you didn’t ask anyone. You camped out in the Signing Room while they ripped it to pieces and caused five days of fucking chaos and you didn’t ask anyone!”