time. For now,she’s anxious to meet you.”
Ninety seconds later they disembarked at Cathedral Station and rode the glass lift to the Cathedral complex.
Anwar recalled his previous visits to the original Royal
Pavilion: a deeply eccentric building, the definitive example of eighteenth-century European chinoiserie, swamped with flamboyant detail and surface ornamentation. In front of him was an exact replica, but clad in the same white ceramic/ metallic material as the Pier, and surrounded by other buildings, architecturally matching, forming the Cathedral complex. Everywhere were domes and minarets; stone latticeworks, balconies, arches, and spires; turrets, buttresses, crenellations. Even in the September afternoon light they gleamed.
The original Royal Pavilion stood in its own Garden, a small park of lawns and shrubbery and old spreading trees, with a main gate—the Indian Gate—commemorating the soldiers wounded in the First World War who were hospitalised in the Pavilion. This part of the New West Pier, widened and elevated, allowed space for a full replica of the Garden. It followed the year-round planting scheme of the original. Even in late September, trees and shrubs were in flower: hydrangeas, fuchsia, witch hazel, yellow broom, goldenrod. But there was no replica of the Indian Gate; again, the New Anglicans knew when to tread lightly. They’d decided that to replicate a memorial would be disrespectful and commercially unwise.
They walked through the Garden and into the Cathedral. In the original Royal Pavilion, the inside was even more heavily ornamented than the outside: the Octagon Hall, the Long Gallery, the Banqueting Hall, the King’s Apartments. Here, however, the resemblance ended. None of the interior had been reproduced. Most of the ground floor was the Cathedral proper, a large light open space of minimalist white and grey and silver, with pews of unadorned pale wood and no stained glass anywhere. No service was in progress, and there were only a few groups of visitors and worshippers present.Instead of the usual smell of old incense there was a trace of perfume: an expensive perfume with fresh citrus notes, breathed out softly through the climate-conditioning.
Leading off the open space in front of the altar—also unadorned pale wood with a simple silver cross—was a wide staircase. They took it and came out on the first floor, where the Cathedral offices were housed. The landing was long and wide, walled and floored in white and silver. Gaetano pointed to a floor-to-ceiling door of plain pale wood at the far end.
“She’s waiting for you in the Boardroom.”
2
Levin was gone.
He’d been sent to Opatija alone and unarmed, with all his tracking and monitoring implants deactivated—essential for this particular mission. Now, five days later, they remained deactivated. Nobody had seen or heard from him.
Rafiq was writing another of his neat, courteous letters. He handed it to Arden Bierce.
“Please go to Chulo Asika’s house in Lagos and ask him if he’ll come here.”
Arden Bierce brought Asika in another of the UN’s beautiful silvered VSTOLs. He was offered missions frequently, and she was familiar with the journey: VSTOL to and from the UN Embassy in Lagos, taxi to and from his house. (Anwar lived near enough to the UN to pass as a senior employee who occasionally got flown to Kuala Lumpur, but generally it was considered less than discreet to land a VSTOL on a Consultant’s lawn.) Asika nicknamed her Charon because she ferried The Dead. She liked him but didn’t like the nickname.
Asika’s company was designing and building the set for an upcoming production of “Six Characters in Search of an Author” at the National Theatre in Iganmu, Lagos. Asika’s wife had been one of The Dead. When she became pregnant, seven years earlier, she retired and they married. She now had her own career, as well as two children, and they lived in their family house in Lagos from which
Ninety seconds later they disembarked at Cathedral Station and rode the glass lift to the Cathedral complex.
Anwar recalled his previous visits to the original Royal
Pavilion: a deeply eccentric building, the definitive example of eighteenth-century European chinoiserie, swamped with flamboyant detail and surface ornamentation. In front of him was an exact replica, but clad in the same white ceramic/ metallic material as the Pier, and surrounded by other buildings, architecturally matching, forming the Cathedral complex. Everywhere were domes and minarets; stone latticeworks, balconies, arches, and spires; turrets, buttresses, crenellations. Even in the September afternoon light they gleamed.
The original Royal Pavilion stood in its own Garden, a small park of lawns and shrubbery and old spreading trees, with a main gate—the Indian Gate—commemorating the soldiers wounded in the First World War who were hospitalised in the Pavilion. This part of the New West Pier, widened and elevated, allowed space for a full replica of the Garden. It followed the year-round planting scheme of the original. Even in late September, trees and shrubs were in flower: hydrangeas, fuchsia, witch hazel, yellow broom, goldenrod. But there was no replica of the Indian Gate; again, the New Anglicans knew when to tread lightly. They’d decided that to replicate a memorial would be disrespectful and commercially unwise.
They walked through the Garden and into the Cathedral. In the original Royal Pavilion, the inside was even more heavily ornamented than the outside: the Octagon Hall, the Long Gallery, the Banqueting Hall, the King’s Apartments. Here, however, the resemblance ended. None of the interior had been reproduced. Most of the ground floor was the Cathedral proper, a large light open space of minimalist white and grey and silver, with pews of unadorned pale wood and no stained glass anywhere. No service was in progress, and there were only a few groups of visitors and worshippers present.Instead of the usual smell of old incense there was a trace of perfume: an expensive perfume with fresh citrus notes, breathed out softly through the climate-conditioning.
Leading off the open space in front of the altar—also unadorned pale wood with a simple silver cross—was a wide staircase. They took it and came out on the first floor, where the Cathedral offices were housed. The landing was long and wide, walled and floored in white and silver. Gaetano pointed to a floor-to-ceiling door of plain pale wood at the far end.
“She’s waiting for you in the Boardroom.”
2
Levin was gone.
He’d been sent to Opatija alone and unarmed, with all his tracking and monitoring implants deactivated—essential for this particular mission. Now, five days later, they remained deactivated. Nobody had seen or heard from him.
Rafiq was writing another of his neat, courteous letters. He handed it to Arden Bierce.
“Please go to Chulo Asika’s house in Lagos and ask him if he’ll come here.”
Arden Bierce brought Asika in another of the UN’s beautiful silvered VSTOLs. He was offered missions frequently, and she was familiar with the journey: VSTOL to and from the UN Embassy in Lagos, taxi to and from his house. (Anwar lived near enough to the UN to pass as a senior employee who occasionally got flown to Kuala Lumpur, but generally it was considered less than discreet to land a VSTOL on a Consultant’s lawn.) Asika nicknamed her Charon because she ferried The Dead. She liked him but didn’t like the nickname.
Asika’s company was designing and building the set for an upcoming production of “Six Characters in Search of an Author” at the National Theatre in Iganmu, Lagos. Asika’s wife had been one of The Dead. When she became pregnant, seven years earlier, she retired and they married. She now had her own career, as well as two children, and they lived in their family house in Lagos from which
Similar Books
