A sea breeze kissed Congressman Sam Walsh. He stood on the roof of Vierte, calm, relaxed, exuding something - power? - in his dark grey suit, stars and stripes pin on lapel, white button-down shirt and royal blue tie, pattern of gold fleurs-de-lis, the lily flower emblem of the French royal family. But his hands trembled.
Beside him, Hester. Half a dozen secret service agents waited around the perimeter, scanned the skies. At least two FIM-92 Stinger missile packs were visible to Hester, each capable of delivering six-and-a-half pounds of high explosive to any jet or chopper up to three miles away, at sixteen hundred miles an hour. Two police snipers lay at opposing corners, other snipers breaking the geometric lines on surrounding buildings.
Out in the warm evening sky, two shiny new police Bell 429 helicopters lazily circled the hot zone, feeding digital images to the control centre. Five miles west of Rockaway Beach, a nuclear submarine lurked, two hundred feet below the surface, city-killing nuclear missiles on standby, yes, but the crew focused on their dozen Patriot anti-missile missiles ready to fly at five seconds’ notice. Over in New Jersey, two fully-armed Apache gunships sat on the dock, engines idling, awaiting any hint of trouble. High up, a pair of Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptors - three hundred and sixty-one million bucks a pop, plenty enough juice to keep the military-industrial complex greased - streaked at supercruise speed, twelve-hundred miles an hour, back-and-forth between New York and Washington, until they hooked up with the President’s three helicopter flight. And finally, high above them all, an airborne early warning system, the Boeing E-3 Sentry, scanned all that happened below, a god itching to designate thunderbolt strikes.
‘Very calm evening. What’s their ETA?’
‘Five minutes, sir,’ answered Hester, checking his Darkphone.
Lowering his voice, ‘Is everything in place?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll start serving Louis XVI’s Champagne as soon as the Presidential party arrives. That should make for a nice surprise. All food is ready to go, Sophie’s done an excellent job. All waiting staff are present. Once everybody’s seated, you’ll make your speech and let the feast proper begin.’
‘I’m thinking of another surprise. Once the first course is served, how long in total until the cheese?’
‘Two hours to dessert. There was a staff rehearsal this morning. That will make it 10pm.’
‘6am tomorrow over there. Perfect. How long until news reaches us about the event? Ten minutes?’
‘Maximum, we figure.’
Jesus, this is really happening. So close now. He felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, sore from expectation. Yet he knew what his present was going to be. ‘And his people are ready downstairs, in the secure location?’
‘Yes. So, you make the call for the final activation below. That would need to be immediately after you send the text.’
‘Then we need to get out of here. I’ll be hearing from my wife. Poor thing.’
‘And the rest of the board of Vierte? Have you decided how many of them you’re going to alert?’
‘None of them. We can’t take any chances.’
‘Very good.’
‘And our men?’
‘On the Library and reactor levels. They’re under orders to defend the controls to the death. There will be no emergency shutdown.’
The heavy thrum of three approaching helicopters, flashing lights in the dusky sky over the Hudson. The big yellow H gleamed.
The President beamed as he entered the dining area. The First Lady glowed. The Vice President was immediately drawn to the art while his boss worked the room. That’s why he was the boss.
A small, perfect, classical ensemble, string quartet with piano, played Bach’s Air on a G String. The air trembled.
A Secret Service agent carried the Nuclear Football, a black briefcase that acted as a communications hub between the President and his nuclear forces while away from fixed command centres. The agent was especially nervous, aware that the three people in line of succession were in the one room.
This fact made everybody nervous, except for Sam Walsh, who wondered where the backup briefcase was. Assuming this one goes up in a mushroom cloud with the President, what am I going to do if I want to launch a retaliatory strike for the attack on the Nimitz? Those bastards in Tehran will have to answer for such a brazen act. And if they take revenge on Israel? That’s a price I’m more than willing to pay. And I am a man of action, that’s why America needs me.
‘You okay, Mr Speaker?’
‘Oh? Yes, sir. Just worried about my wife. Sorry.’
‘No. I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘I’m so glad you could make it.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Sam,’ said the President, squeezing his shoulder. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate. Just hang tough. Hey, I’m looking forward to seeing what’s on my plate tonight. Christ, I needed a break from DC.’
His wife appeared, in a long, golden dress that showed off her figure. The congressman wondered, looking then at that police detective who stood nearby with Danny. You took down Rod? I’d like to take you down. Down to the Library. Show you some of my moves.
‘Are you going to show us some of this art, Sam?’
‘Of course. Julia will give you the grand tour. She’s far more knowledgeable. But first, a drink?’
Julia was there then, in a short, red cocktail dress. The President couldn’t decide whether it was perfectly elegant or elegantly slutty. She was followed by two formally-dressed wine waiters, who wheeled a heavy mahogany serving trolley.
‘Mr President, Mr Vice President, ladies and gentlemen,’ called Julia, and a hush fell on the room. ‘In the year 1786, a ship left King Louis Sixteen’s France and made its way to the Baltic Sea, with a precious cargo for the Russian Court. But a calamity befell the ship and she fell to the bottom of the sea. All hands were lost. Now, they say that every storm cloud has a silver lining,’ the room was hers, every ear, every eye, ‘and in this particular case,’ she patted the wooden box, ‘that old adage is completely correct.’ She gestured and the waiters threw back the doors, revealing the temperature-controlled interior, the bottles within. ‘I give you the most unique drink in the world, courtesy of our congressman and the trustees of Vierte Corporation. I give you King Louis’s finest Champagne.’
A burst of giddy applause, gasps and a tangible air of expectation.
As the wine waiters took a bottle each, into shaking, white-gloved hands, a jangling trolley was wheeled out, rows of the finest Waterford flutes.
Don’t spill a drop! The waiter removed the foil, wiped the cork, eased off the wire frame around the cork, then eased out the cork itself, but over a crystal punchbowl that had been placed on top of the cabinet. Just in case.
A gentle pop. Glasses were poured, all in a row. Another pop and everything was going well. More waiters appeared, white coats and silver trays. Glasses were quickly distributed, first to the honoured guests and Vierte directors, then to everyone in the room. Every bottle was opened, save the one that the congressman had sent to Central Park West. That was for the celebration later. The President nodded to Julia, cleared his throat.
‘I would like to propose a toast to our hosts this evening,’ he said, as everyone held their glass to their nose, inhaled the ancient vapours, the toffee and honey and vanilla and wet grass, ‘I really think tonight’s going to go with a bang.’
He held his glass up to the light and they all enjoyed the amber depths, the ancient carbon dioxide bubbles.
Then, the taste, the shock of honey, of liquid sunshine from the frigid depths, from an utterly different world, the taste of royal, sweet grapes, the rich soil of Champagne, the sugars layered upon layer, the complexity astonishing. What chemical reactions have taken place in these bottles over two centuries. The long, syrupy sweetness gave way to the sharp edge of plums and grapefruit and cinnamon. That one sip lasted an age.
‘Oh. My.’
A spontaneous burst of laughter filled the room as the guests realised the truth of what they had tasted. The finest wine ever tasted.
Julia beamed.
The congressman felt a little dizzy, the alcohol rushing into his cocaine-addled veins. Keep it together. You’re almost home.
‘This is the perfect time to enjoy the art,’ said Julia, her arm stretched towards the first piece, a golden, shimmering Klimt, the stare of a beautiful woman in a patchwork dress, one delicious breast exposed, she merging with the background so that only her eyes truly mattered.
The art was arranged on heavy easels, a dozen on either side of the long banquet table, with its perfect linen tablecloths, sparkling silver, fine china, smaller artworks hiding among the flower arrangements. Quite the sight, the ornate picture frames seeming to float, the view of the glistening downtown skyline beyond, helicopter gunships sweeping by, Venus sparkling in the solar afterglow and, here, on Earth, within the frames, the greatest art created by the human mind in its desperate search for beauty, for understanding, for meaning.
Julia noticed the planet, remembered how Jacob called her his Venus, wondered.
She led her little group from masterpiece to stunning masterpiece. Van Gogh. Dalí. Cézanne. Picasso. Monet. Matisse. Mondrian. Gauguin. Pollock. Warhol.
‘Could this be the single greatest collection of art in human history?’ asked the Vice President, his jaw hanging.
‘Probably.’ Is it right to destroy it?
The congressman’s eye was caught by the head waiter. ‘Anybody hungry?’
They took their seats. Glasses were filled with the very best wines from the Vierte cellars.
Congressman Walsh stood, raised his glass of fine red, a 2010 Château Mouton Rothschild. He glanced again at the striking label by pop artist Jeff Koons, Venus of Pompeii, the promise of a voyage. A thing of beauty.
The wine was on the cool side, so the aromas could be released as it warmed up.
He did all the required pleasantries, a sad smile on his face. But very interesting to every single representative of power, greed, need, fear, delusion and madness in the room. They loved him because he was of them.
Two hours, said his watch.
‘Two hundred and twenty-five years ago, almost to the day, to the second. The Bastille was stormed and the rest, as they say, is history. Some say that our broken world can be traced back to that day, that event. That challenge to the twin foundations of civilisation: monarchy and religion.’ He paused, emotionally hurt by the idea of peasant revolution. ‘So here we are, the strongest nation in the world, under attack from all sides, but still believers. We truly believe in a better planet. One where every consumer is treated equally, where every market is open to our corporations and utility builders. One where the average global wage climbs from its present eighteen thousand dollars a year and where every decent worker has easy access to credit. Credit to build, to consume, to grow.’ He held his glass higher. ‘So we salute the genius in this room tonight. We salute our President and all those who work to defend us. We salute the Vierte trustees and the business people who have saved us from the malaise that has gripped entire nations. We salute the great and talented artists whose work graces this room tonight. We salute this great city, this New York. And, most importantly, we salute those that have come before. And we pray for those that will come after.’
He raised his glass to the President. There was a clamour of congratulation.
They drank, a communion of sorts. He tasted the sunny blood of the earth.
The first course was quickly served.
The congressman placed his Darkphone on the table before him, savoured the moment as his back was slapped, ready to send the text that would end this world.
I hate you all. Every one.
A single character would trigger the device, but he wanted to send more. A message. Just for his own amusement.
He would decide over dinner.
Jacob was frantic, that feeling when time slows down, even his drowning heart ready to stop. Breathe!
The door opened and the dagger smelled another kill.
Jacob smelled food.
A waiter was there, a silver tray before him with a plate cover, silver and a linen napkin.
The waiter looked at Jacob, so Jacob put the knife behind his back, stepped away. The tray was placed on the desk and a busboy brought a bottle of red wine with a glass. Jacob saw a man wait just outside the door. It wasn’t anyone he’d seen before, a tall guy with a shaven head, military fatigues. A submachine gun? Fuck!
‘The congressman sends his regards,’ said the waiter, a bead of sweat on his upper lip.
He knew something was going down, he sensed it.
‘Thank you,’ said Jacob. Wait, this is a chance. ‘And can you please give him a message for me? It’s very important.’
The waiter glanced at the guard, who nodded.
Jacob got a blank sheet of paper and a pen.
That blank page terrified him.
What to write?
Then he knew.
He wrote.
He folded the page and gave it to the waiter.
‘Thanks. I’d tip you but I seem to have misplaced my wallet.’
The waiter laughed quickly and Jacob was alone again.
He lifted the cover and found a plate piled high, a little of every course. The presentation wasn’t great, but the rich smells had him salivating like Pavlov’s dog. Though it was likely the sight of the waiter’s uniform that did that. He was suddenly struck by that giddy dizziness that comes when low blood sugar and stress crash into one another.
He slumped into the chair, poured a glass of wine. A long slug, then a stab at dinner.
Hot ballotine of pheasant. Smoked duck. Three perfect, seared scallops. A fillet of salmon, glistening pink. Two slices of butter-soft pork. Some asparagus, carrots and a fondant potato, roasted in a bath of stock until it was fondant, literally melting.
On the side of the plate, a perfect little aluminium foil parcel. I know that fold. With a mouth full of duck, he opened it, found three oysters on the half shell, a wedge of lemon too.
‘Sophie.’ Nobody else would be so thoughtful.
He glugged the oysters, realised that there would be something more. he examined the foil, looked at the plate and how the food was arranged. There was no clear message in the order of anything. He prodded the food with the fork, carefully chewed mouthfuls, drank.
He checked the plate cover, lifted it to look underneath, saw the note taped there.
He found the end of the tape, picked it free.
It was Sophie’s handwriting. He knew it from the specials board. The way she did her R.
THERE’S A VEGAS PARTY IN THE BASEMENT!
He muttered between gritted teeth, ‘What the fuck?’
ALL CAPITALS, shouting. Her code for that really bad night they’d spent, the one that broke them, the horrendous wreck of coincidence and shemales and bad timing. And things getting real messy. The potential for sudden death that shakes you alive. The Vegas Trip. Fear and self-loathing. Jesus! She knows I’m here? That I’ve been drugged, used, then drugged again? What am I supposed to do? Eat. God, that pork would turn a prophet.
He ate.
She fears I’m this stuck. But she still thinks things are bad enough that I’m expected, compelled even, to do something? His mind fizzed across some of the infinite possibilities of what the message meant. In the end, he had nothing.
Venison. Please help.
She’d shown him how she cooked the meat in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag for a very long time in hot water, sous-vide, under vacuum, so that all the muscle and tendons were broken down, the fresh fruits and herbs of the forest marinating the meat, penetrating into its very being. This odd process was followed by a fast roast, or a searing on a very hot pan, to caramelise, to bring colour and an extra depth of flavour. It was very scifi. Then again, it was invented by NASA to feed astronauts.
‘Just incredible, dear. Just incredible how fucked I am.’
He drank.
A creeping fear, his spine suddenly dripping, some primal thing. Picture the silent agony of The Scream.
What if this is the basement?
He went back to the box of surprise, eager for another diversion.
He found a book, very old. An English translation of a French journal. Reputable publishers. A valuable piece.
Versailles, France - 1789
I arrived early to work, across dew-laden lawns and crunchy paths, thinking about a beautiful lock and the simple, exquisite pleasure to be had in its completion. At the main courtyard, the guards nodded blearily, thankful that their shift was almost over. The sun topped the treeline then, throwing a gorgeous pink glow over the building ahead. Somehow, at this time of day, nothing seemed to be wrong with the world. It was as if a fresh start could be made, a new blueprint for a new design. But this optimism quickly faded from me, to be replaced by the melancholy of gilded existence and fear of the dreadful anger that was building outside the walls.
But the project was all that mattered and I allowed his mind to dwell there, pausing by the ordered garden. Perfectly coiffed bushes formed geometric patterns, in the English style, across the lime green lawn. Two gardeners worked carefully on the borders and I took solace from their efforts for, if they could tame nature, couldn't I tame a man's ambitions? I reached the inner courtyard then, more guards. They searched my leather satchel. I walked through the great hall, servants busily removing the leftovers from the night just gone. The sleepers were allowed to slumber, they were stepped over, swept around. Great beams of sunlight filled the high-ceilinged air, lit the ornate plasterwork with its cupids and flowers. The place smelled of candle wax and body reek. A lone violinist sat on a platform, his hair wild, his fingers almost numb. Yet his plaintive air brought a lone tear from my eye. Is music God’s own art?
When I reached the workshop - in truth a parlour of velvet and paintings with gilded frames and standing servants, with an oak bench before the great window - I was met by an aide, the fop from Lyons.
'His Majesty is indisposed at present and would be grateful if you could breakfast in the luncheon room.'
'Of course. Is His Majesty in good health?'
The aide coughed delicately, the back of his hand to his mouth.
'Yes, he is merely overseeing the final selection of some gifts for the Royals of Russia. I shall find you when His Majesty requires.'
I bowed my head and, in keeping with the Versailles code, waited for the King's aide to retreat. For what else can one do when Louis XVI, King of France and Navarre, requires one to wait, but wait?
I found the luncheon room, a kind of holding area for lesser aristocrats and higher commoners. The room was no less ornate than the grand banqueting hall, just smaller and less bright. Some two dozen there, mostly asleep on benches or on the floor, their robes over their eyes, their inappropriate liaisons and drunken exclamations temporarily forgotten.
A minor noble, his first time at the Court of Versailles, managed to lift himself to sitting position. He fumbled with his over-complicated, dated clothes then urinated into an ornate silver soup bowl, sighing with relief as the bitter stream of orange piss rang out, echoing. I wryly noted that the bowl was of the old style, from the reign of the King's grandfather. Reduced now to a pisspot. Such is life. Such is time.
A smile, then.
I found a clean seat near the kitchens and managed to catch the eye of a maid who looked familiar to me.
'Monsieur Gamain?' she curtsied.
She was a fine one, lips red as strawberries, hair black as the King's favourite stallion.
'Francois, please. I await the King's pleasure,' I said. 'Could I trouble madam for a pitcher of something red?'
'I'm no lady, sir,' she said. 'Just a poor girl from Paris. Would sir also like a taste of pistou soup, perhaps? Pistou from Provence? The King was forceful in his praise last night.'
'A poor girl in the palace of the King of France. No bad thing,' I smiled. 'Yes, I would be most grateful for some pistou soup. I can taste the richness of the basil at the mere suggestion. And the potato dish that was prepared yesterday? Was that to the King's pleasure?'
'His Majesty has named it Dauphinoise Potato as it is as delicate and beautiful as Prince Louis-Charles himself. I regret that I cannot offer sir a taste.'
'And how is the Dauphin? Is his strength back?'
'He seemed in better form at dinner. His mother put him to rest early.'
My pulse waltzed shamelessly at the mention of her.
She curtsied again and asked me to follow her to the kitchens. Her face was somewhat brighter now, though the room was still dim, needed the windows thrown open. As we passed the silver pisspot, the ignoble struggled to his knees and vomited a foul amber liquid into the tureen.
'Better out than in,' said I.
I sat at a bright table by the kitchen window. I soaked chunks of crusty, yeasty bread in the snot green pistou soup, then relished the garlicky, basilly greenness of it. A jug of new red wine from Bordeaux made a pleasant accompaniment, all cherry fruits and blackcurrants and sunshine. The maids scrubbed the floor and began preparing chickens and fresh bread for the King's lunch. There was a high level of gossip and chit-chat, an abnormal air of - hard to put one's finger on it - fear? I summoned the maid, asked if there was something untoward.
'Murder, sir. There was a murder in the palace last night. I can't say.'
And she was away and I was back to my pistou and my now scattered thoughts.
A stirring.
I looked up from the soup bowl and found Her Majesty there. Marie Antoinette, and her daughter, Marie Thérèse Charlotte, at her side as always. A ten-year-old woman. I jumped to my feet, my head bowing, the soup spilling, the greenness leaching into my breeches. The Queen, silken kerchief always in hand, leaned forward and gently dabbed at the soup, there on my thigh. Her mouth was by my ear.
She whispered. 'I would like for you to insert your key into my lock, sir.'
I looked to the room. All the maids were on their knees, chins on chests, no eyes seeing. So I brushed my trembling, wet lips against her hot, powdered cheek, ready at last to say -
A cough from the doorway. The King's aide, Buisson.
'Your Majesty,' he said, bowing his head almost to waist level, his right hand and right foot extended. 'His Majesty awaits Gamain.'
'Very good,' said Marie Antoinette, smiling at her daughter. 'We shall join you two today, locksmith. We want to see what all this lock-making fuss is about.'
My cheeks reddened. Another game?
'I am fascinated by keys,' said the woman-child.
Buisson led the way through golden halls, I was taken by the Queen, my hand in hers, Marie Thérèse Charlotte marching solemnly behind. The Queen chatted, gaily at first, then her tone lowering as she told about how the King had become infatuated with the predictions of a seer from the south, a writer of beauty potions and jam recipes who had also written verses pertaining to the future. And all this two centuries in the past!
'Michel de Nostradame, you know of him?'
'No, Majesty. I prefer mechanics and science to religion and superstition. And have these predictions affected the King's behaviour?'
'Only inasmuch as he truly believes himself to be a God,' she smiled, adding with some bitterness, 'a God who must create as many progeny as his loins will allow.'
I understood from the palace gossip that the Queen had been usurped from the royal bedchamber. We strolled on past the portraits of kings past and his mind began to fantasise. To bed a Queen, would that be worth one's life? I glanced at her, her Saint-Cloud porcelain skin and Bordeaux lips and Provencal blue eyes. And the rumours, were they true? Did the Queen host orgies? Did she enjoy lesbian trysts? Did she bed her own son? I found the gossip distasteful and, in truth, felt that it was easy for everyone from the bitter minor royals to the hungry peasants to blame all France's ills on the Austrian, instead of the King's fruitless wars, his advisers' economic incompetence and a nobility unwilling to accept the higher taxes that France so desperately needed. Above all, the King's support for the revolutionaries in America would, it was feared by the Chancellor, eventually bankrupt France.
'And what of the murder in the palace last night?'
'A chambermaid was strangled. She has been buried this morning. I suspect His Majesty will want to discuss the incident with you today.'
An officer approached her then, a captain of the palace's Swiss Guard. He explained that a mob of peasants had gathered at the front gates, begging for bread. She understood that prices had risen sharply since the bitter winter and now, after a wet and feeble spring, there was no respite in sight. She told the captain that under no circumstances was violence to be used on her people and to order the kitchens to produce an extra five hundred loaves of brioche for distribution to them so that their children will see the harvest. Brioche, the sweetened bread. Cake.
The child said 'I should like some brioche too, mama.'
I loved