by Bunn, Davis
“They have gone after the commission?”
“The concept, the group. Me personally. They question my ability. They suggest the loss of my wife has left me unable to take on such a strain.” His smile carried no humor. “The cynics suggest I am perfect for the job. An emotional cripple leading a group doomed to failure from the outset.”
Lawrence murmured, “So it begins.”
Elena said, “This is precisely why I want the book to be open for us all. We are united in a single purpose. One to which we have been called by God. We do not understand a lot of what is happening. We have far more questions than answers. But each of us needs to be intimately connected to God’s will.”
Sandra asked, “What do we do?”
Miriam replied, “I was nine when my great-grandmother gave me responsibility for these books. She died the following year. So her instructions were meant for a little girl. What she told me was this. Look at the image. Empty your mind. Wait for God to fill it with his presence. Wait as long as you must. I have waited seventy-two years.”
The ambassador demanded, “Why didn’t she write out more instructions for when you grew up?”
“My great-grandmother was the product of a different culture and a different age,” Miriam replied. “She could neither read nor write. I was the first woman in my family to attend school. I might never have fulfilled my great-grandmother’s intent. But I have done what I can. I have dedicated my scholarship and my practice to her memory.”
“Your grandmother is so proud of you,” Elena replied. “Of that I am completely and utterly certain.”
Miriam’s only response was to look back down at the image and dab at the corners of her eyes.
Elena gave the image a ten-minute silence, long enough for them all to grow somewhat uncomfortable and for the noises from beyond the closed doors to invade their thoughts. Then Elena suggested they hold hands and that all who felt guided should pray.
As they joined hands to pray, Antonio said, “I am scheduled to make an appearance on BBC television tonight. I forget the program’s name.”
His aide murmured, “Newsnight.”
“Of course.” Antonio glanced at Elena. “It will be a declaration of war.”
Elena asked, “Would you like me to be there with you?”
“If it is not too much trouble.”
Lawrence interrupted, “We should all attend.”
Antonio was as surprised as the rest of them. “It is too much to ask.”
“You didn’t. I volunteered. What time are you slated for?”
“Seven.”
The ambassador glanced at his wife, who said, “We are not due at the reception until eight thirty.”
Lawrence said, “I suggest we meet in the television studio’s lobby at six forty-five. And we will need to meet early tomorrow morning. My replacement arrives this evening. Tomorrow I begin the process of formal introductions.”
Elena studied the group. Antonio sat between his two aides. Sandra Harwood sat to their left, then Angie Cassels, then the ambassador. Miriam and Elena made eight. All of them shared a sense of somber intent. Elena recalled studying her reflection that morning and felt somehow ashamed.
Antonio spoke first, asking for calm and wisdom and strength. He then prayed for Lawrence with the same softly accented conviction. Miriam followed, thanking God for the sense that her task was well and truly fulfilled, and that the empty chambers of her life had been filled with promise. Sandra prayed for her husband and for Antonio and their teams. Elena did not speak at all.
They exited the office to find Nigel Harries standing by the window. The ambassador’s secretary said, “I’m sorry, sir. But this gentleman insists that he must speak to you immediately. He doesn’t have an appointment.”
“It’s all right.”
“I don’t understand how he was permitted up here in the first place.”
“Friends in high places,” the security agent said. He was dressed as usual in a charcoal-gray suit and carried a thin leather satchel tucked under his left arm. “I apologize for interrupting your morning, sir.”
“I assume it’s important.”
“Very.” He said to Elena, “Perhaps you would care to stay as well, Dr. Burroughs.”
The ambassador’s secretary said, “You’re expected at the meeting with the Greek finance minister in fifteen minutes.”
“Have the car ready.” He waved them back toward his door. “Let’s do this in private.”
Miriam remained where she was. “Perhaps I should say my farewells.”
“Either you are part of this team or you are not.” Lawrence held the door. “Join us. Please.”
They all trooped back into his office, where Nigel Harries removed a file from his leather satchel and set an eight-by-ten photograph on the corner of Harwood’s desk. “Dr. Burroughs, could I ask you to confirm this was the woman who accosted you?”
One glance was enough. “That’s her. But she did not exactly accost me.”
“Let’s leave such details aside for the moment. What is important now is that you are certain this woman and the individual in your office are one and the same.”
Elena forced herself to look more closely at the photograph. The stench of cold smoke tainted the air. “No question.”
“Might I ask the others to have a look?” They did so, but no one showed any recognition. Nigel Harries read from his notes: “Her name is Jessica Ravel. Five years ago, she resigned after just thirty-one months with the CIA. Since then we have no record of her being employed anywhere in the developed world. No tax records, no driver’s license, bank accounts, charge cards. A check of computer records at the Home Office shows no documentation related to a UK entry. The name she used in making her appointment with Dr. Burroughs, Kimmie Kirkland, also showed up nowhere.”
“Some of my patients will initially use a false name.”
“Quite.” Nigel Harries glanced at the ambassador. “Her CIA records indicated no hint of misdeed behind her departure. Her name came up clean. Immaculate, in fact.”
Lawrence smirked. “You’re saying the records are whitewashed.”
“There is certainly nothing to suggest anything underhanded. But in the past the agency has been known to layer over a decidedly messy situation by supplying the individual in question with an impossibly flawless record.”
Lawrence explained to the others, “She either did something or knows something that could cause senior officials major embarrassment. They gave her a clean out, in exchange for her silence. It works better than any vow.”
Nigel Harries went on, “My allies within the security services are most perturbed about this bugging incident at Dr. Burrough’s clinic. The idea that someone monitored confidential conversations involving the ambassador’s wife has them positively livid. They have scoured their files and come up with one item that might be of interest.”
They were gathered in tight around the table. Elena felt bodies touch her on either side. She could hear someone breathing behind her. She suspected it was Miriam, who seldom moved to the forefront even when invited.
Nigel Harries set a photograph on top of the image of Ravel or Kirkland or whatever her name was. “Might I ask you all to give this your most careful attention.”
Instantly Sandra Harwood exclaimed, “That’s him!”
Lawrence demanded, “Who?”
She stabbed the individual standing next to the woman. “The man in my dream!”
“You’re certain?”
“Do you think I could possibly mistake him? He woke me up screaming for weeks!”
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Nigel Harries said. “Which dream would that be?”
“It does not concern you,” Lawrence snapped.
Elena corrected, “Actually, it might.”
Lawrence gave Elena a tight look before saying to his wife, “You told me you never got a clear look at his face.”
“And I am telling you now there’s no question. This is
the enemy. The one who wants you dead.”
Elena heard the person to her left take a hard swallow. She glanced over. The ambassador’s aide looked ill. Elena took hold of the younger woman’s hand.
Lawrence said, “I know that man.”
Nigel Harries said, “His name is—”
“Cyril Price,” Lawrence said, his voice rough as gunfire.
Nigel Harries nodded approval. “He is employed by the Treasury Department, where his title is deputy secretary. His precise role has been hard to pin down.”
“The title is unimportant,” Lawrence said. “Cyril is a fixer.”
Sandra had gone the color of sun-bleached bone. “A fixer? You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.” Lawrence glared at the photograph. “Every administration has a trusted shadow whose sole duty is to make problems disappear. I know of three fixers for the current team. Which is very rare. Johnson was the last president to employ three fixers.”
Antonio said, “Why would there be three?”
Lawrence glanced over. “Factions.”
“Ah.”
“You understand?”
Antonio’s smile was ancient. “I am Italian.”
Lawrence explained, “Our party is splintered by factions. They fight one another almost as vehemently as they do the opposition party.” Lawrence stabbed the photograph. “This man works for the segment of my party that I truly loathe. Their only aim is to strengthen their hold on power. Whoever backs them is a friend. Any opposition is an enemy to be destroyed.”
Antonio said, “All this would make them the banks’ natural ally.”
Sandra asked, “What does this mean?”
Lawrence said, “I have no idea.”
Nigel Harries gathered up his images. “Rest assured I and my former colleagues are determined to find that out. In the meantime, I was wondering if I might join your little band.”
The request caught them all by surprise. Lawrence asked, “You know our intentions?”
“I know enough. You are gathered under the banner of shared convictions to pray your way through a battle for the hearts and minds of everyone concerned. You seek to carry one another’s burdens while fighting the good fight.” As he spoke, Nigel Harries came to rigid attention. “I would consider it an honor to be counted among the chosen few.”
28
Elena’s return to Oxford was a fifty-mile journey straight up the M40, with bad traffic at either end. Elena spent the journey working by phone with Fiona, going through records and administrative matters. The staff secretary seemed to enjoy her role as official mediator. When they finally arrived, Elena cast her former office a wistful glance and entered the neighboring building. Her office furniture had been shifted over. The books, shelves, desk, sofa, and chairs only seemed to make the rear ground-floor office appear emptier and shabbier.
Elena saw the day’s three patients. If any of them found it odd, how she had moved one building over and now had a silent gentleman staffing the front foyer, they did not mention it. As she departed, Elena resisted the urge to go over and speak with Fiona. Instead she walked down the front stairs and entered the waiting car. She touched the glass as they drove away, tracing the design of her former office’s front portal, and mouthed the same words the ambassador had said that morning. So it begins.
Elena stopped by her house and packed an overnight bag. She was driven back to London by Charles, her nighttime bodyguard. Whereas Gerald was slender, Charles was built like a human fireplug, squat and so solid that he might as well have been cast from iron. But he held to the same bland voice and expression as Gerald, and possessed the same ability to vanish in plain sight.
Elena spent the drive south making notes on the day’s patients. As they approached London, the highway’s opposite lanes became jammed with traffic going nowhere. But entering the city proved both smooth and swift. They arrived at the BBC Television Center twenty minutes early. Charles sat behind the wheel, motionless. Inert. He had less interest in small talk than Gerald, who could go all day without saying a word.
The clouds had vanished and the afternoon sunlight was strong enough to bake the car. Elena sat with the windows down. She had completed her file entries but left the laptop open. A small anchor to the life that was slipping away.
“Elena!” Antonio was midway across the broad sidewalk fronting the BBC when he spotted her. He veered over, and when his two aides started to follow, he halted them with a word. Antonio did not say anything to the two bodyguards who shadowed him. Elena watched how Antonio ignored the guards and wondered if she might ever grow that accustomed to being handled.
He spoke through her open window. “May I join you?”
She moved over so he could slip into the rear seat. The two Italian bodyguards exchanged a word with Charles, brief and too soft for her to hear. They then moved to flank the car.
Elena said, “They scare me.”
Antonio did not need to ask what she was talking about. “It is not them. It is what they represent.”
The sunlight illuminated his weariness. “Are you all right?”
“I feel as though I have been under attack ever since I agreed to take this on.”
“I understand.”
He studied her a long moment, then reached over and took her hand. “You do, don’t you.”
They remained seated there together, sharing a look deep as the sky overhead, until one of Antonio’s bodyguards stepped over and rapped on the car’s roof. “The ambassador has arrived, capo.”
“I am ready.” Antonio leaned toward her and spoke softly, “I am glad you are here, Elena. Very glad indeed.”
The BBC Television Center looked like a glass barrel with two brick arms embracing the front plaza. When it opened in the early sixties it was the world’s first structure designed specifically for television programming. The young staffer sent to meet them was surprised in a discreet British manner at the sight of them all—Antonio, his two bodyguards, Elena, Lawrence and Sandra Harwood, another pair of guards, two Italian staffers, Nigel Harries, Miriam, and Lawrence’s aide. Elena had ordered Charles to remain in the car. Lawrence ordered his own guards to remain at the entrance. They did not like it any more than Charles had.
The staffer led them through the central block, known within the BBC as the glass doughnut. The news center was structured around a circular control room, with studios extending like arms of a high-tech octopus. Antonio was taken to makeup while folding chairs were stationed behind the cameras for his guests. The atmosphere was tight, focused, electric. Large clocks beat the seconds in exact strokes. Voices were muted, footsteps always one pace off a full run.
A news presenter whose face Elena had observed for years walked by, a white makeup napkin tucked into his shirt collar. He was already past them when he realized what he had just seen. He retraced his steps. “I say, you wouldn’t be the United States ambassador.”
“I am,” Lawrence replied. “Until tomorrow.”
“Andrew Kerr. I interviewed you last year.”
“I remember.”
“Are you involved with this commission?”
“The American version. Assuming we succeed in moving the required legislation through Congress.”
“Could I persuade you to join us on camera?”
“I am not permitted to speak publicly until I relinquish my current post.”
“And that restriction holds until tomorrow, did you say? What if we were to tape the segment and air it later?”
Lawrence hesitated, then said, “That might be construed as a breach of the formal rules.”
The newscaster accepted the decision with bad grace. “Could I convince you to come back in two days?”
“I have to travel back to Washington. But my plan is to return to the UK for further consultations with my colleagues on the European front. When that happens, I suppose—”
“I would be most grateful if you would please confirm this at your earliest possible convenience
. I don’t mind telling you, Ambassador …”
“Lawrence Harwood.”
“Of course. This has the makings of an international coup.” He whirled about, searched, and called, “Agnes! See to this gentlemen’s details, make an appointment to connect with him day after tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.”
The ambassador stared at the empty air where the newscaster had stood until Sandra walked over and said, “Lawrence.”
“Eh. Yes?”
“We are here to pray for one of our own.”
Antonio responded to the newscaster’s first question with, “The definition of an oligarchy is political power based upon economic power. This dual force is then held by a limited number of people or institutions. That is precisely the situation we face today.”
Elena studied him from the safety of her position behind the cameras. Antonio held an almost overwhelming intensity. He was also grimly irate.
The newscaster said, “Would you care to explain?”
“In the United States, the assets of just six banks equal sixty percent of the nation’s annual economic output. In Europe, nine banks control assets worth three-quarters of the European Union’s total GDP. In Asia, the same. Also in South America. In each case, a few financial institutions hold the power of economic life and death.” Antonio spread his hands. “Four oligarchies spread around the globe. Seats on their boards are exchanged. Shares are owned and traded. They do business with one another. They assure their mutual safety and profitability. They fight, but they also cooperate. And one perspective they all share is this: they care nothing for the common man.”
The newscaster was a young man turned old by life beneath the glare of publicity. Andrew Kerr was lean and taut and intelligent. His voice was both melodious and raspy, like a professional runner who smoked cigars on his off days. “And the result?”
“Put simply, these banks have the power to change the rules of the game. Now when there is a problem, they can order their respective governments to rescue them. Even when the banks caused the crisis in the first place.”