boats here were small sailing boats, small enough to be drawn up on the beach near where Anwar walked. The wind blowing in from the pewter-coloured ocean set their ropes ringing against the metal masts.
The embankment was mouldering brick and weathered concrete, in various shades of black and khaki, randomly cracked and randomly repaired. Weeds grew at the joints of concrete and brickwork. There were occasional pedestrian underpasses,leading to the other side of Marine Parade.They were walled with stained white tiles, like old public toilets (which they sometimes became).
It reminded him of his favourite immersion hologram.
He stopped about halfway between the two piers, and looked back at the New West Pier. His eyes, if he willed them to, could have adjusted to show him the Cathedral complex in fine granular detail, so he could compare it inch by inch with what he remembered of the original Royal Pavilion. He decided not to ramp up his vision. He kept his senses at normal most of the time, especially sight and hearing. To amplify them too much might betray his identity. He was looking forward to seeing the Cathedral close-up, however.
Time. He started walking back towards the New West Pier.
He flipped open his wristcom and told it the number he’d been given. The number answered promptly.
“Anwar Abbas, to see Archbishop del Sarto.”
“Yes,Mr.Abbas. Please go through the main gate and wait in the maglev concourse. Someone will meet you.”
Parked along Marine Parade were some heavy multi-wheeled vehicles. “Patel & Co, Builders. You’ve tried the cowboys, now try the Indians.” The slogan was nearly ninety years old, and on the back of it Patel Construction had become a major concern. They were here to refurbish a suite in the conference centre which would be used for the formal signing of agreements at the conclusion of the summit on October 23, assuming agreements would be reached. They wouldn’t, not entirely, but something would be cobbled together. Probably.
He passed through the security and identity checks at the main gate without problems: as far as they could define it, he was unarmed and had an identity. The main gate opened out immediately into Gateway Station. It was the full width of the Pier, and echoed its style: pearlescent white arches supported the glass roof, like a giant inverted ribcage. There were four platforms, and the maglevs simply travelled back and forth the two miles from Gateway Station to Cathedral Station. They were fully-configured bullet trains, white and streamlined, >with all the internal appointments. In view of the shortness of the journey something less elaborate would have done, but the New Anglicans wanted real trains, not a fairground ride.
Anwar stayed in the station concourse, as requested. One maglev was just arriving at Platform 1, not an unusual occurrence considering there were four of them and their two-mile journey took ninety seconds. Among the people disembarking was a tall man who made straight for Anwar. He wore a casual but expensive light grey suit and dark shirt, an outfit not unlike Anwar’s. His hair was dark, cut short, and receding. His build and gait was one Anwar recognised. Shoulder holster, he noted from the drape of the well-cut jacket, and a flat knife carried in an implant on the left forearm, under the sleeve . Slim build, like Anwar, but slightly taller. Thin face, high cheekbones. Meatslab.
“Mr. Abbas? I’m Gaetano Vecchio, the Archbishop’s head of security.”
They shook hands.
“So this is what a Consultant looks like. I don’t think I’ve met one before.”
“Ah...and who else has the Archbishop told?”
“Just me and her personal staff.”
Anwar didn’t push it, for now.
They eyed each other. Each of them knew the other’s abilities, and each of them knew that Anwar was in a different league altogether.
“She’s the one who wanted you here,” Gaetano added, “not me. But that’s a conversation for another
The embankment was mouldering brick and weathered concrete, in various shades of black and khaki, randomly cracked and randomly repaired. Weeds grew at the joints of concrete and brickwork. There were occasional pedestrian underpasses,leading to the other side of Marine Parade.They were walled with stained white tiles, like old public toilets (which they sometimes became).
It reminded him of his favourite immersion hologram.
He stopped about halfway between the two piers, and looked back at the New West Pier. His eyes, if he willed them to, could have adjusted to show him the Cathedral complex in fine granular detail, so he could compare it inch by inch with what he remembered of the original Royal Pavilion. He decided not to ramp up his vision. He kept his senses at normal most of the time, especially sight and hearing. To amplify them too much might betray his identity. He was looking forward to seeing the Cathedral close-up, however.
Time. He started walking back towards the New West Pier.
He flipped open his wristcom and told it the number he’d been given. The number answered promptly.
“Anwar Abbas, to see Archbishop del Sarto.”
“Yes,Mr.Abbas. Please go through the main gate and wait in the maglev concourse. Someone will meet you.”
Parked along Marine Parade were some heavy multi-wheeled vehicles. “Patel & Co, Builders. You’ve tried the cowboys, now try the Indians.” The slogan was nearly ninety years old, and on the back of it Patel Construction had become a major concern. They were here to refurbish a suite in the conference centre which would be used for the formal signing of agreements at the conclusion of the summit on October 23, assuming agreements would be reached. They wouldn’t, not entirely, but something would be cobbled together. Probably.
He passed through the security and identity checks at the main gate without problems: as far as they could define it, he was unarmed and had an identity. The main gate opened out immediately into Gateway Station. It was the full width of the Pier, and echoed its style: pearlescent white arches supported the glass roof, like a giant inverted ribcage. There were four platforms, and the maglevs simply travelled back and forth the two miles from Gateway Station to Cathedral Station. They were fully-configured bullet trains, white and streamlined, >with all the internal appointments. In view of the shortness of the journey something less elaborate would have done, but the New Anglicans wanted real trains, not a fairground ride.
Anwar stayed in the station concourse, as requested. One maglev was just arriving at Platform 1, not an unusual occurrence considering there were four of them and their two-mile journey took ninety seconds. Among the people disembarking was a tall man who made straight for Anwar. He wore a casual but expensive light grey suit and dark shirt, an outfit not unlike Anwar’s. His hair was dark, cut short, and receding. His build and gait was one Anwar recognised. Shoulder holster, he noted from the drape of the well-cut jacket, and a flat knife carried in an implant on the left forearm, under the sleeve . Slim build, like Anwar, but slightly taller. Thin face, high cheekbones. Meatslab.
“Mr. Abbas? I’m Gaetano Vecchio, the Archbishop’s head of security.”
They shook hands.
“So this is what a Consultant looks like. I don’t think I’ve met one before.”
“Ah...and who else has the Archbishop told?”
“Just me and her personal staff.”
Anwar didn’t push it, for now.
They eyed each other. Each of them knew the other’s abilities, and each of them knew that Anwar was in a different league altogether.
“She’s the one who wanted you here,” Gaetano added, “not me. But that’s a conversation for another
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