The Power(72)

Well. This wasn’t what Margot was expecting. But it’s intriguing.

‘I don’t quite see how these things are linked, Madam President,’ she says, although she’s beginning to have a shrewd idea.

‘NorthStar wants the UN mandate to send its own NorthStar-trained female troops into Saudi Arabia. The government in Saudi Arabia is crumbling. The state is unstable.’

‘If the UN approves the deployment, I think it’ll be good news for the world, yes. Securing the supply of energy, helping the government through a difficult period of transition.’

‘It would be easier to make the case,’ says Tatiana, ‘if another government had already successfully deployed NorthStar forces.’ Tatiana pauses, pours herself another glass of the ice wine, pours one for Margot, too. They both know where this is going. Their eyes meet. Margot is smiling.

‘You want to employ NorthStar girls yourself.’

‘As my private army, here and on the border.’

It’s worth a lot of money. Even more if they win the war with the North and seize the Saudi assets. Acting as a private army here would take NorthStar exactly where they want to go. The board would be very happy to continue their association with Margot Cleary until the end of time if she could pull this off.

‘And, in exchange, you want …’

‘We are going to alter our laws a little. During this time of trouble. To prevent more traitors giving away our secrets to the North. We want you to stand by us.’

‘We have no wish to interfere in the affairs of a sovereign nation,’ says Margot. ‘Cultural differences must be respected. I know the President will trust my judgement on this.’

‘Good,’ says Tatiana, and makes a slow, green-eyed blink. ‘Then we understand each other.’ She pauses. ‘We don’t have to ask ourselves what the North would do if they won, Senator Cleary. We’ve already seen what they do; we all remember what Saudi Arabia was. We are both on the right side here.’

She raises her glass. Margot tips hers slowly until it just touches Tatiana’s glass with a gentle chink.

It’s a great day for America. A great day for the world.

The rest of the party is precisely as dull as Margot had expected. She shakes hands with foreign dignitaries and religious leaders and people she suspects to be criminals and arms dealers. She mouths the same lines over and over again, about the United States’ deep sympathy with victims of injustice and tyranny and their wish to see a peaceful resolution to the situation here in this troubled region. There’s some kerfuffle at the reception just after Tatiana makes her entrance, but Margot doesn’t see it. She stays until 10.30 p.m. – the officially designated time that is neither too early nor too late to leave a significant party. On her way down to the diplomatic car, she bumps into the reporter Tunde again.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, dropping something on to the floor and immediately retrieving it, too fast for her to see, ‘I mean, excuse me. I’m sorry. I’m in a … I’m in a hurry.’

She laughs. She’s had a good night. She’s already calculating the kind of bonus she’ll get from NorthStar if all this works out, and thinking about super PAC contributions for the next election cycle.

‘Why hurry?’ she says. ‘There’s no need to rush away. Want a ride?’

She gestures to the car, its door open, its buttery leather interior inviting. He conceals his momentary look of panic with a smile, but not quite quickly enough.

‘Another time,’ he says.

His loss.

Later, in the hotel, she buys a couple of drinks for one of the junior guys from the American embassy in the Ukraine. He’s attentive – well, why wouldn’t he be? She’s going places. She rests her hand on his firm young ass as they ride the elevator together up to her suite.





Allie



The castle’s chapel has been remade. The glass-and-gold chandelier still floats in the centre of the room, the wires holding it up too thin to be seen by candlelight. All these electric miracles. The windows depicting the angels praising Our Lady have remained intact, as have the panels to Saint Theresa and Saint Jerome. The others – and the enamelled paintings in the cupola – have been replaced and reimagined according to the New Scripture. There is the Almighty speaking to the Matriarch Rebecca in the form of a dove. There is the Prophet Deborah proclaiming the Holy Word to the disbelieving people. There – although she protested – is Mother Eve, the symbolic tree behind her, receiving the message from the Heavens and extending her hand filled with lightning. In the centre of the cupola is the hand with the all-seeing eye at its heart. That is the symbol of God, Who watches over each of us, and Whose mighty hand is outstretched to both the powerful and the enslaved.

There is a soldier waiting for her in the chapel: a young woman who had requested a private audience. American. Pretty, with light grey eyes and freckles across her cheeks.

‘Are you waiting to see me?’ says Mother Eve.

‘Yes,’ says Jocelyn, daughter of Senator Cleary who sits on five key committees, including defence and budget.

Mother Eve has made time for this private meeting.

‘It is good to meet you, daughter.’ She comes to sit beside her. ‘How can I help you?’

And Jocelyn starts to cry. ‘My mother would kill me if she knew I was here,’ she says. ‘She’d kill me. Oh, Mother, I don’t know what to do.’