by Love, John
“And,” Gaetano continued, “I understand it was followed by a flurry of calls between Rafiq’s staff and Zaitsev’s. They’re still going on now. And no,” he said, anticipating Anwar’s next question, “ I don’t know the substance of the calls, any more than you do. But something is changing. Very quickly.”
“Gaetano,” Olivia said, into Anwar’s wristcom, “tell them to put the Outreach meeting on hold. I’m going back to the summit.”
Zaitsev sat for a few minutes, still visibly trembling. Eventually he told the acting Chairman (a retired UN diplomat) that he was ready to resume the Chair.
The auditorium was silent.
“The Agenda...” Zaitsev began, then stopped. His voice was high-pitched and feverish. He cleared his throat, and began again. “The Agenda of this summit was agreed after hours of preparatory negotiation. It contains,” he was now reading from the Preamble, “detailed proposals, painstakingly computer-modelled and costed, to establish Guiding Principles and codes of conduct to address all water resources disputes—damming, diverting, forestation, and other matters—plus detailed schedules for individual discussions between those most affected, coming back to collective discussions when the individual discussions have borne fruit...”
There was more, and he read it all. It was a typical UN document: logical, rational, with infinite possibilities for subsequent spin, and leaving enough room to cobble something together for the signing. He read it slowly and magisterially, to the annoyance of the delegates who, having argued about it for five days, already knew it quite well enough.
“So: the Agenda.” Theatrically, he held it up between thumb and forefinger, and brandished it.
“And you know what we’re going to do with it? Tear it up.”
He proceeded to do so, scattering pieces on the stage.
“Tear it up. Throw it away. All of it. I have something better.”
10
After the uproar died down, the summit got into the particulars of what Zaitsev had for them. Then the uproar began again, but this time in a different tone.
When the summit broke for lunch at midday on October 19, Olivia returned with Anwar to her bedroom. They’d said nothing to each other since leaving the Conference Centre, and didn’t now. They didn’t know where to begin.
She switched on the newscasts.
“...this morning’s developments at Brighton. UN Secretary-General Zaitsev left the summit abruptly, and returned an hour later. Whatever happened in that hour inspired him to take the summit down a new and quite unexpected road. Some say it could make history. This commentator would still counsel a degree of caution, as some consequential details remain to be settled. But it is, without doubt, an extraordinary development. The summit looked to be on the point of collapse. Now it looks to be on the point of achieving something far beyond the Agenda, which Zaitsev rather theatrically tore up, live on stage, before outlining his new initiative.”
“Seems to have taken everyone by surprise,” she said.
“Including Zaitsev.”
“What?”
“Switch to one of the science channels. See what they say.”
She did. There was a studio discussion going on between two people, probably environmental journalists drafted to cover the developments.
“...so this is a risk, but an intelligently calculated risk,” one of them was saying. He had the complexion and facial mobility of a waxwork, and wore a brown suit whose cut made Anwar wince almost as much as its colour. “Zaitsev will be getting the UN to invest money and technology in this venture. But the money and technology both come originally from UNEX. Ironic, no?”
“Absolutely. I wonder if Rafiq would still have released the technology if Zaitsev had won that no-confidence vote a few days ago?” The answering speaker looked like a TV evangelist: bouffant hair, smooth complexion, perfect teeth, expansive smile.
“I think,” said Brown Suit, “that our colleagues in the news channels would say that Rafiq knew exactly how that vote was going to go. But what about this UNEX technology?”
“Ah,” said the TV evangelist, “that’s even more interesting. There are the energy sources, of course. Rafiq’s been committing UNEX for years to making new energy sources viable.Not just those Zaitsev mentioned in his opening address: wind, tides, fusion. That’s old hat.” The evangelist sat forward, eyes greedy. “It’s those wonderful aircraft that UNEX has, the VSTOLs. Those beautiful silver planes that are so much better than everyone else’s. They use superconductors. That’s the future, right there, and Rafiq is going to let us see inside his magic shop!”
The voices droned on. Anwar got up and walked out onto Olivia’s balcony. After checking she was still within his line of sight, he turned and looked out, back towards the seafront. He could see and hear celebrations: fireworks, horns sounding, and the i-360 Tower shining its night illuminations, still bright even at midday. News travelled fast. Nothing had been signed yet, of course, but there was plenty to celebrate. A UN summit, for the first time, was about to embark on something genuinely radical and different, and it would be good for Brighton.
“It would be nice to look back on this summit,” she’d said, “and think that we helped to make it productive.”
He stayed out on her balcony for a while longer. The weather was chilly and the sea was gunmetal blue, but there was some sharp pale sunlight of the kind you sometimes get in October. He would have continued to stay there, but she called to him from inside.
“Come and listen to this.”
She’d switched back to one of the main news channels. Zaitsev was being interviewed by a well-known current-affairs journalist. She looked like a politician’s mistress: young enough to be jailbait, pneumatic enough to be a scaled-up Barbie. Amanda Mapplethorpe, said the badge that had carried her smiling through several layers of security.
“Yes, we made good progress this morning,” Zaitsev was telling her. To say he looked pleased would have been an understatement. He looked as though he could hardly contain himself, though he kept his words and voice carefully statesmanlike. “I hope we can agree on the broad principles this afternoon and then move on to draft a Statement of Intent. We should have it ready for signing sometime tomorrow.”
Anwar and Olivia exchanged glances, but said nothing.
Tomorrow, Anwar thought. So when will they make their move? Although he knew it wouldn’t have any practical value, he closed the glass doors to her balcony and pulled the curtains. They continued watching the interview.
“So, Mr. Secretary-General,” asked Barbie, “are you satisfied the technology is reliable?”
“Oh yes, it’s all part of the UN’s long-term development programme.”
“Then why hasn’t it been made available before?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said, ‘It’s inconceivable to me that we could be on the way to making energy shortages a thing of the past, while water shortages are still a thing of the present.’” She did a passable imitation of Zaitsev’s diction and style. “So why hasn’t it been made available before?”
Zaitsev smiled indulgently. “It’s a fair point, and you’re right to raise it. The same question was asked this morning at the summit. And answered. The technology we’ll make available didn’t suddenly spring fully-formed from nowhere. The UN has been developing it carefully over years.”
“Don’t you mean UNEX?” Barbie asked, politely.
Anwar wondered if anyone without enhanced vision would have noticed the there-and-gone-again tightening on Zaitsev’s face. “Yes, UNEX. That’s where the developmental and operational work is done. And the political climate hasn’t been receptive in the past. Now, though, it’s very different. Everything has come together.”
Barbie looked skeptical, but said nothing. Zaitsev went on smoothly.
“We’ve broken the mold. We have the technology ready, and a business model to put it to work. Neither of them were available before. The technology, you’ve heard about. But the
business model is the real story.”
He paused for effect, and perhaps to permit himself a long up-and-down look at Barbie, before continuing.
“The technology will be licensed free of charge to UN members involved in water rights disputes or suffering water shortages—if they sign up to the Agenda codes on damming and diversion, reforestation and replanting. But the Agenda codes, which once seemed essential, are now only a subset. We’re starting a project which will eventually render them unnecessary.”
“Licensing free of charge? Sounds like you’re giving a lot away.”
“Not giving, Amanda: investing.” Zaitsev modulated his voice to match perfectly the gravitas of his words, but Anwar heard what was underneath the voice. Publicly Zaitsev was the hero, and he was loving it; but he was doing Rafiq’s bidding. Rafiq’s call that morning must have left him eviscerated.
“We’re investing,” Zaitsev went on, “in a project that will deal a decisive blow to these water shortages. We’re going to create water grids. Like individual countries have electricity grids, but these won’t only span individual countries. They’ll cover entire sub-continents. They’ll need massive pipelines and pumps, and massive amounts of energy. They’ll source and distribute fresh water from streams and rivers and lakes and underground aquifers. They’ll take years to build and plan, but they’ll employ thousands and they’ll change the face of the planet! And they’ll always be associated with what we did here, this morning…”
Anwar blanked out the rest.
It seemed like a gamble for Rafiq, but Anwar knew it wasn’t. A calculated risk, maybe, but not a gamble. Rafiq would already be investing in the next generation of technology. Perhaps even the one after that. He’d never give away anything he couldn’t afford to give. He always plays long.
Anwar laughed softly to himself.
“What’s amusing you?” Olivia asked.
“This whole breakthrough,” he said. “Good news, of course, but everyone’s so surprised. It took everyone unawares. Especially Zaitsev, who’s now announcing it to a startled world like he already knew all about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“At ten this morning, he knew no more about it than you or me. He knew no more about it than your cat. But you know who did know about it, don’t you?”
“Rafiq.”
Anwar nodded, and again laughed softly to himself.
The summit had started a process that would move the
UN closer to what Rafiq always wanted it to be: a power in itself, a State among an association of States. A State with its own assets and resources and property, capable of entering into treaties with others, individually or collectively. The UN, through UNEX, would act like a State of similar power to any one of the five or six major members. It could even, at strategic times, give them a nudge.
Anwar thought, Rafiq, you clever bastard. All this and you’ve said nothing. You didn’t even need to come here.
On the face of it, Zaitsev would get the immediate credit. But below the face of it, in those dark labyrinths where real politics was done, the real players would know who was the prime mover. Rafiq’s power would grow considerably behind the scenes, which was exactly where he wanted it to grow.
11
The main auditorium of the Conference Centre seemed unchanged on the surface: the same clean citrus air, the same swooping white and silver interior. But after the lunchtime feeding frenzy of the media, and the individual closed-door discussions where members at war with each other had examined the new initiatives from all angles and found they were still viable, there was a subsurface buzz. A feeling of euphoria and anticipation which Zaitsev, although taking care to look and sound statesmanlike, did nothing to dispel. He said nothing openly to claim credit, of course, but it was there in his posture and the timbre of his voice and his whole demeanour. He sat at the top table on the stage, still with a slight trembling, which he had probably cultivated to hint at his restrained but deeply felt emotion at making history. He spoke with a slight hoarseness which he had also probably cultivated, to hint at long and intense behind-the-scenes negotiations to bring this breakthrough to the world. A better actor than Rafiq.
“We’ve been fortunate,” he pronounced, “to have worked together on what promises to be a new way forward. What we’ll sign will necessarily be an outline only. A Statement of Intent. It will describe the big picture, but a different big picture. It will need networks of treaties, commercial agreements, and contracts to be negotiated as a result, but this will set the overall direction. This is genuinely different.
“It’s a better-than-expected outcome. A breakthrough. The Statement of Intent will be substantive, not cobbled together. The signing will take place earlier than we all expected. All the meetings and negotiations under the old Agenda are out of the window. The Statement of Intent can, we think, given the goodwill we’ve all shown so far, be drawn up relatively quickly. That will be our goal this afternoon: to finalise it, and get it formally signed and adopted tomorrow. Then, all the treaties, commercial agreements, and contracts needed to implement it can follow. Perhaps,” he added, as though it had only just occurred to him, “if the Archbishop agrees, some of them can be done in this marvellous venue which will now have such good associations for us.”
Olivia nodded graciously as some delegates turned towards her, and returned their smiles and words of thanks. But she was scared, and Anwar saw it. She might have less time to live. They exchanged a glance which, to anyone around them but not to themselves, was unreadable.
They walked back together through the Garden, through the lobby of the New Grand, and up to her apartments without exchanging a word. Only when they got into the main living room did they speak.
“Our last night in each other’s company.” She made it a statement, not a question, and was careful with the words. Not “together,” but “in each other’s company.”
“Yes,” Anwar agreed. “Our last night, whatever happens.”
It was their own private statement of intent.
While they sat together in her apartment, the drafting in the summit went on. It was going well, as they verified from time to time by listening to news channels or the live feed from the Conference Centre.
The media circus, which was already huge, got bigger. Some of the worthies who had attended the opening ceremony and left early when problems appeared, were wheeled out by news channels to make statesmanlike pronouncements. Other heads of state, who hadn’t initially gone to the summit but were now quick to be associated with it, were similarly wheeled out. Anwar knew a similar frenzy would be roiling in state intelligence and science agencies the world over, as everyone would be hungry to get access to Rafiq’s toys.
Anwar switched back to the live feed and listened to Zaitsev as he luxuriated. The Statement of Intent had been successfully drafted, as expected, and would be formally signed tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. in the Signing Room.
Without actually saying so, Zaitsev was using the outcome to erase his humiliation over the voting in the General Assembly. At one point someone rather mischievously suggested just that. “A fair question,” he said graciously, “but no.”
An accurate question. “A chance to erase your humiliation” would be exactly how Rafiq sold it to him, Anwar thought. Of course, Zaitsev wasn’t stupid enough to buy something that wouldn’t work, and Rafiq wouldn’t sell him something that wouldn’t work. Rafiq had made sure over the years to do all that research on the technology and all that work on the business model, so that when a time came that was right, all of it would work. He always played long. You really are a clever bastard. It’s always the same when you put these intricate plans together. You get what you want, and you make something better.
Olivia, who’d also been listening, asked, “Did Rafiq really foresee all this?”
Anwar hardly thought it worth an answer, and she didn’t press for one.
Outside it was getting darker. The sky was now the same gunmetal c
olour as the sea. Celebrations continued along the Brighton seafront, as at midday, but now the horns and music and beach party noises carried more sharply over the evening air, and the lights were brighter in the gathering dark. From Zaitsev’s suite on the floor below—Anwar’s floor, where his suite stood empty—came sounds of celebration.
Also, he could now hear waves. And seagulls. The noises from the sea had been something he’d previously blanked out, but now he was ramping up his senses for the coming night.
He waited until Olivia was asleep. As usual, when she had nobody in bed with her, she fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. When he was satisfied she was deeply asleep, he went out into the main living room of her suite. He left her bedroom door open.
He called Gaetano. “I won’t be able to check the Signing Room tonight. Have you checked it?”
“Yes. It’s secure. I’ll check it again, last thing tonight.”
“Thanks. Talking of last things...”
“Yes?”
“This is their endgame. Between now and the signing, they must move for her. So put your people outside her suite in the positions we discussed. I’ll be in here with her, and I won’t be sleeping. Come for us with your people at 9:00 tomorrow, in the formation we agreed, and escort us to the Conference Centre. If nothing happens there, put them in the agreed positions in the Signing Room and along the mezzanine. And be there yourself. I’ll take it from there.”
They had to move before the signing. He would stay awake all night. Not a problem: he could blank out his sleep requirement for a short period, say a day or two. And right now, he couldn’t see further ahead than a day or two.
He left the doors to her balcony open, and the lights off. Now that the endgame had been reached, it became simpler: just throw people at it. He knew Gaetano would have people on other balconies. On the roof. On adjoining roofs. On the corridors, this one and the ones below.