The Ambassador (40 page)

With the tongs, extremely carefully, a gram at a time, she pushed the cream to one side and tentatively held up the object, twisting it this way and that, to catch the light. Then she took it to the sink, and washed it clean. As she did so, a broad grin broke out on her face.

‘Winston, you darling,’ she whispered. For now she held in the palm of her hand a minidisk with Winston’s reference number clearly printed in his own writing. And she did not need to put it in the computer to guess what information it would contain.

Strether rang again. He allowed his irritation to enter his voice.

‘Whaddya mean, she’s fully booked? When I spoke to her last week she was complaining that clients were dropping off a bit. She fretted about not having enough. That’s why I hoped to make a multiple booking. She can’t be busy for ten weeks ahead, surely?’

The face on the vidphone was not the slimy moustachioed individual who had greeted him originally. It was older, and thick-set, wearing not a smartly cut tunic but some kind of navy uniform. It mouthed back platitudes at him, and asked whether he wouldn’t like another Marilyn, a younger version, or somebody else entirely – Grace Kelly, since he appeared to like mid-twentieth-century blondes, or Zsa Zsa Gabor or Jayne Mansfield if he preferred the busty type? They were free that evening, and several of the other dates he had specified.

‘No,’ said Strether grimly. He twiddled the knobs on the monitor, but the picture remained resolutely out of focus as if on purpose. ‘I want Marilyn Six – I know that’s her
official title. Otherwise known as Marty.’

‘Otherwise known as Marilyn Monroe, sir. They don’t have nicknames. That item is not available. The management of the Toy Shop has authorised me to apologise, especially to such an excellent customer as yourself, Mr Strether. Would you like to try Brigitte Bardot? Special offer, half price: a new model, to introduce her to the paying public. Fresh from the nursery. Superb value for money.’

‘I don’t want a Brigitte Bardot, fresh or shop-soiled, thank you very much,’ Strether shouted angrily at the vidphone. The picture broke up into jagged lines as if in distress before reforming into the passive shape of the man in uniform. Strether was shocked, and offended by the mention of his name: Toy Shop transactions were normally done by membership number only. He could feel his bile rise, through both frustration and anxiety. For once he would allow himself to sound exactly as he felt. ‘Anyway, if you’re not the management, who are you?’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes, you.’ Strether was conscious that his rudeness was probably counter-productive and not typical of the diplomatic corps, but he was past caring.

‘I am security, sir. Rottweiler SS Incorporated. We’ve been appointed to the contract at the Toy Shop and other establishments in the same group. I’d have thought, given the sad incidents involving your staff, Ambassador, you’d have been pleased to hear that. It’s our responsibility to keep an eye on things from here on.’

Strether sat back, his mouth dropping open. ‘My staffers? What do you know about that?’

‘Nothing significant, sir.’ The man’s face was a blank mask. ‘The investigation is proceeding, that’s all I have here on file.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Strether muttered furiously to himself, and ignored the man’s ‘Beg pardon?’

‘Look,’ Strether continued after a moment’s frosty silence, ‘we’re getting nowhere. I still want to book Marty, and as soon and as often as possible. Are you telling me I can’t, period?’

‘No, sir, not at all. But she’s busy right now, and for every one of the dates you mentioned. Got some important clients. Keeping her occupied.’

‘
I’m
an important client,’ Strether ground between his teeth, ‘damn you. Can you put me through to her? At least I can leave a message.’

There was a pause. The guard’s face seemed to set rigid, as if he had been well briefed to deal with impatience. Then he shook his head slowly and appeared to reach for the off button. ‘I have explained, sir. None of the Toys takes private clients. That particular model is not available. And especially not to you.’

And with that the picture vanished. Strether tried to redial but the number was unobtainable. He banged his fist on the desk till his wrist hurt. Only then, as he stared at the screen with its default picture of scudding innocent clouds across a blue sky, did he ponder what had been said.

And then he thought again of Marty, and began to feel frightened.

In the hazy November sunshine the metallic clunk of hammering rang loud and clear. Around New Parliament Square ranks of temporary seats were being busily erected. Brawny operatives in identical dungarees, their eyes shaded from the light, strained and sweated like so many worker ants, tools dangling from their belts and scaffolding poles balanced on their shoulders. Their efforts were watched lazily by a troop of grizzled guardsmen in
Tudor-pattern
cherry-red uniforms.

Satellite dishes had already been installed in one corner of the greensward and a terrestrial aerial some twenty metres high was under test. Flags had been hoisted from supports painted white and gold in time-hallowed tradition. Overhead cameras were being serviced, extra ones fitted. More workmen swayed precariously on elevated platforms near the Palace of Westminster archway. In their arms were broad blue banners proclaiming a triple hurrah of welcome: to King William, to the new parliamentary session he would shortly open, and (for good measure and to save a few euros) to the new century too.

Sir Lyndon Everidge leaned out of the window, puffing at a fat cigar. With a sigh of regret, he stubbed out the remainder against the stone sill, threw the stub expertly into a distant drainage hole, exhaled and shut the casement.

‘Aren’t you worried that they’ll see you smoking?’ Marius asked, curious. ‘The Prime Minister is supposed to keep the laws of the land, especially in this building.’

‘Ye-es, well,’ the Prime Minister commented laconically, ‘I’m getting past that stage. Can’t do it indoors or we’d set the screaming banshees off – and I mean the smoke detectors, not the lady members. But nobody’d credit it anyway. I’d claim they’d seen another geezer and set up an inquiry. Standard practice.’ He winked towards the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. ‘The day may dawn, old chap, when the fact that a man smokes will be regarded as irrelevant when it comes to whether or not he can fulfil his office. But we’re some way off that at present.’

‘I suppose,’ Marius murmured, ‘you can claim the benefit of the doubt. A well-known figure like you.’

‘The trick is to act not guilty,’ the Prime Minister expanded. ‘Look supreme, and you’ll be supreme. What brings most politicians down isn’t what they
do
, it’s the beaten expression on their mugs when they’re found out. The media scent a wounded victim and go for him. Or her. Me, I don’t give a damn, and it shows.’

He motioned Marius to a leather armchair that looked as if it had seen better days. Like the King’s home, the Palace was a trifle shabby; little money was wasted on it. The Prime Minister settled his ample self in a smarter winged chair with the crowned portcullis stamped in gold behind his head. His back was turned squarely to the moving eye, which trained itself instead on Marius. The sound of a military band in practice floated in through the open window. The humidor, disguised as a ministerial red box, lay open on the table next to a powerbook. The Prime Minister held up the key. ‘You sure you won’t take one with you? Best Cuban, very rare.’

‘No, thanks.’ Despite his ominous errand, Marius found himself in mild collusion with the Prime Minister. As he had remarked to Spartacus, he had known Sir Lyndon much of his life. In years gone by they had travelled together on official delegations, and Marius,
no aesthete, had warmed to the ebullience and drive of the older man. On a tedious trip Sir Lyndon was wonderfully entertaining. They were nominally members of the same party: when he paid attention to a party whip, Marius tended to go through the lobbies with the Prime Minister’s friends – though which parts of the manifesto attracted him and which repelled, he had not been wont to say. Until now.

Next to the humidor was the blue file-box Solidarity had prepared. It had no identifying labels. Marius pushed it politely towards the Prime Minister.

‘I asked to see you, Lyndon, because a number of people have expressed to me grave concerns about the direction of policy. As an elected member of the Lords, I felt it my duty to raise these problems with you. I’m sure, once you understand the implications, that you will take steps to put matters right.’

The Prime Minister planted his elbows firmly on the table. The shiny fabric of his suit stretched across his broad shoulders and slid back from his thick wrists. A jewelled antique Rolex glittered. He put his fingers together like the roof of a house. ‘Go on.’

Marius kept his voice light. The moment for indignation or aggression would come soon enough. He was conscious that a rapid pulse at his throat could reveal his nerves, and wondered fleetingly whether the camera was sufficiently digitalised to spot it. He plunged in. ‘Well, first of all, a range of issues that are normally met with denial. I take it we can talk freely, man to man?’

The Prime Minister nodded gravely. ‘Of course. What issues? Such as?’

‘Political prisoners, for a start. We aren’t supposed to have any in the European Union. But we do. And they’re incarcerated in outlandish places so that escape is difficult, though some manage it and end up as boat people on the shores of America. Where it has become apparent that we are breaking every ethical code in the Union.’

‘Good Lord,’ was the reply. Everidge made a great show of tapping into his powerbook. ‘I’m not sure I have details on this. Go on.’

Marius had not paused for breath. ‘They are subjected to chemical handcuffs – they can survive only if they don’t attempt to escape. There’s a paper about it in here.’ He tapped the blue box. ‘And what are we doing with political prisoners anyhow? This is a free society according to every law ever written. The evidence against them is manufactured and planted. Some are distinguished men, NTs of the highest caste.’

‘But still criminals, my dear Prince,’ the Prime Minister intoned gravely, ‘dedicated to overthrowing legitimate authority.’

‘I doubt it. They have important criticisms to make. And whatever, that’s no excuse for treating them like farm animals. For spare parts surgery. Without their consent. Do you know about that? What are the surgeons thinking of? That is frightful, horrible.’ He enlarged on the forbidden practice, hardly daring to believe it himself.

‘Really?’ The Prime Minister diligently made a note in the powerbook. ‘I will have that matter investigated. Anything else?’

Marius felt his mouth go dry. The camera was aimed straight at him and started whirring slightly, as if a double film were being recorded. He dug deep for his courage and pointed a finger. ‘Plenty. I witnessed a shoot-out in July. I saw a police officer killed by a high-powered laser weapon. Yet nothing appeared in the press – no report of the incident or the death. A complete blackout. And no analysis of why the protest was staged –’

‘My dear fellow! Have you never heard of the oxygen of publicity? We cannot allow such topics air-time.’

‘– nothing about tube strikes, or electricity failures, or rubbish pile-ups. Other deaths have been ignored. Murders are occurring which are not being properly investigated.’

‘Ah, yes. July the fourth. You were with Ambassador Strether.’ It emerged as an accusation.

‘It was US Independence Day. A big event,’ Marius retorted. He wanted to wag his finger again but saw that it was shaking. ‘Anyway, what was going on? Why don’t you find out what they want, and put an end to these confrontations? And bring the murderers to justice, from both sides.’

‘Oh, we will, we will, Prince.’ The Prime Minister’s eyes gleamed. ‘All in good time. Don’t you worry about that.’

A shiver ran up and down Marius’s spine. ‘The place for dissent is here, in Parliament,’ he persisted. ‘Especially on these human rights questions. In proper open debate. Or, failing that, in the press.’

‘But if few dissenting voices are raised in public, maybe that’s because nobody dissents,’ the Prime Minister remarked coolly.

‘You know that’s not true.’

‘I do? And what else, pray, am I supposed to know?’ The odour of cigar wafted from the Prime Minister’s clothes as he leaned menacingly forward, hands still clasped. ‘I get the feeling you haven’t finished, Prince. Tell me, are you on medication? You don’t look well.’

Marius’s mind raced. His hands felt clammy and he dropped them below the table. This interview might be terminated abruptly; he did not have much time. ‘The genetic programme. You should be worried sick about it. Not simply the trivial stuff we see daily, the three-eared dogs, the clones produced for our amusement. Sorry to use –
that word
, but it’s time we stopped the euphemisms. It’s an appalling misuse of science. Though I suppose some foolishness was inevitable, if people are given so much choice.’

The Prime Minister shrugged. ‘I thought you liked free choice, Prince. Or is it only if
you
are choosing?’

Now Marius let his voice rise in anger. He was panting slightly; as he spoke he cursed himself inwardly for having been so foolish, so complaisant, for so long.

‘More than that. The facilities at Porton Down have been hijacked. It’s the premier state laboratory in Europe, the heart of our efforts to improve the human condition. It’s supposed to be tightly supervised, monitored to stringent ethical standards. That used to be the case, but no more.’ Behind the door to the corridor he could hear voices, low and concerned. The brass handle began to turn.

‘I should be most surprised if that were the case,’ the Prime Minister replied formally. ‘The trivial stuff, as you call it, is done privately under licence. Not a government function. But the Porton Down operation is covered by criminal law, and anybody interfering risks the strongest retribution. What exactly are the – ah – miscreants trying to do, in your view?’

‘Wicked things. Altered codes are slipped in, by executive command – from on high. Skin colour is lightened. Docility is increased. Defects are left in, like colour blindness, without any discussion – who decided that? Parental choice enshrined by law is being eroded – the parents don’t know what they’re getting and, increasingly, it isn’t what they’ve ordered.
This seems to be widespread practice.’

The Prime Minister nodded, but his chin lifted slightly as he glanced at the door. The handle stopped moving. ‘Ah, yes. A little over-enthusiasm by some junior clerks. Though I confess it’s not a bad idea. Parents are seldom the best judges.’

Marius charged on, his mind registering the other’s lack of perturbation. ‘And – somebody’s trying to grow a violent gene. Live rejects have been spotted, appallingly deformed. Secret clear-outs at night, like unwanted garbage – that’s being denied, too. Files have vanished, access is barred. Experimentation is taking place far beyond protocols. And someone’s given orders to enhance certain IQs and lower the rest.’

The Prime Minister laughed softly. ‘So what? That’s not a bad idea either.’

Marius rocked back in his armchair in astonishment, his breath coming in quick gasps. ‘
Not a bad idea?
’

‘That’s obvious. It’d benefit our children – the upper caste – and make the Union far easier to govern. My own son-in-law ordered such an enhanced child recently. An IQ of a hundred and seventy. Delivered last week. A baby boy. Delightful little fellow.’ A half-smile played around the Prime Minister’s heavy jowls. ‘I see you don’t know everything, my dear chap. Have they told you about the acceleration project?’

‘I’m listening.’ Marius pursed his lips. He hunched his shoulders against the surveillance, as if his tunic would give him cover. Outside, the band was exploring a repertoire of marches from the glory days of the British Empire. Ceremonial taste had not advanced much in two hundred years.

‘Ah, yes. A splendid development, for which, in due modesty, I can take some credit. You know how most alterations are not effective till the child is grown? We’ve tried gene therapy in adults and, apart from one or two isolated conditions, it hasn’t worked. The graft doesn’t hold, the material reverts. So we’ve had to do it with embryos then wait twenty years or so till the citizen could emerge into society. But not any more.’

Sir Lyndon Everidge’s florid face was creased in smiles. Marius was stunned into silence. The ball seemed to have passed into the Prime Minister’s court.

‘The director of Porton Down,’ Everidge continued, ‘discovered that, provided some growth is still under way, new grafts will take. The latest possible age for boys is fifteen. So if, say, we want to improve character, we won’t have to wait a generation. We can start with youngsters of school age, and have ’em on stream within five years.’

‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Marius slowly. The fear, the shock of what he was hearing, the stuffy room and the sour smell of over-aged tobacco were combining to make him feel quite nauseous. ‘If you wanted to increase their intelligence, you could do it virtually at once?’

The Prime Minister unclasped his hands and waggled one to and fro. The grin on his face stretched from ear to ear. A childhood corner of Marius’s hot mind recalled the last line of the limerick: ‘
the smile on the face of the tiger
’.

‘More or less. Not overnight, naturally. Not everything, yet. And it’s still experimental.’

‘And if you wanted to make them more stupid, and at the same time more belligerent, you could do that, too?’

The Prime Minister’s eyes widened innocently. ‘We could, I suppose. Never thought
about it.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Marius said bitterly. He half rose, and held on to the table to steady himself. ‘It makes my skin crawl. You’ve been in power too long. But be careful. Human beings are not that easily manufactured. They have wills of their own. That makes them highly unpredictable.’

‘No, really? How do you figure that?’

The tension and rivalry sang viciously between them. It came to Marius with blazing certainty that the Prime Minister might not simply throw him out but could have him arrested at any juncture, and would not hesitate to do so. ‘Think, man, for God’s sake,’ Marius rushed on urgently. ‘They may be psychopathic. No normal feelings. Like paedophiles or child murderers. They couldn’t help it, but they could become uncontrollable. If that’s what you’re breeding, it’s insane.’