The Ambassador (4 page)

The Prime Minister scooped himself another portion of dessert. ‘I still say we should have made learning Chinese compulsory. China may not be hostile indefinitely. You’ve got to think ahead. Our grandchildren may bless us for it one day.’

‘So what about you, Strether?’ the King asked. ‘How does it feel, coming from a small country?’

Strether’s mouth opened and shut. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘Oh, well, not
small
, exactly. But not big, either. Smaller than us – the European Union. Russia alone is the world’s largest region, larger than China. I may not be bred for my brains, but I know that much. That makes Europe the biggest. Doesn’t it? And China’s second. You’re third. A third-world country.’ He tittered.

There was an embarrassed silence. The water-ice must have had alcohol in it; the King’s cheeks were flushed. ‘I suppose that’s right,’ Strether said doubtfully. ‘We’ve had to come to terms with that. But, you know, when you sit in the middle of that huge continent as I’ve done most of my life, you don’t see it that way. It’s only when you’re brought face to face with the – ah – true size and power of Europe, that it dawns on you.’

‘That was always the intention,’ Sir Robin said softly. ‘The founding fathers – ours, I mean, not yours – were determined to set up an empire to rival the Americans’. And, eventually, to outdo and eclipse you. Which we have.’

‘Don’t let it bother you, Strether,’ Maxwell Packer intervened smoothly. ‘We will stay friends. Hands across the Atlantic. The Special Relationship. And remember, we are in the front line against the Chinese, not you. It’s our troops who protect the liberties of the free world now. Though you’re always welcome to join in.’

Strether felt extremely uncomfortable and was conscious of having been put in his place. A career diplomat would have known what to say next; instead, he reached for his coffee and made a play of stirring it.

The elderly Lord Chamberlain appeared to be dozing. From time to time the officer prodded him gently upright, but otherwise seemed to have no role, though he was listening with quiet interest. Prince Marius also had said little. Strether caught his eye. Perhaps in response, Marius sat forward and made to change the subject by turning to the Permanent Secretary.

‘How are the plans for the Celebration going? You’re on the Committee, aren’t you?’

‘For my sins, yes.’ Sir Robin readily took centre stage. For Strether’s benefit, he added, ‘The Great Celebration, to which you, Ambassador, will be invited as a most honoured guest.’ He sighed. ‘It will be a busy year for firework manufacturers with the
end-of
-the-century
commemorations. And next month, I suppose, one cannot avoid observing the anniversary of the signing of the Treaty of Rome, but every year Europe Day drives me straight to my Prozac.’

He warmed to his theme. ‘Europe Day will be a mere rehearsal for the events on New Year’s Eve. The Tower of Babel writ large, with chaos thrown in. You wouldn’t believe such sensitivities still existed, or such puerilities. We are to have days on end of Latvian folk-dancing, Israeli transvestite popstars, Russian opera, Scandinavian plays – Strindberg
and
Ibsen, in Swedish. The Tibetan monastery in Scotland is putting on a day-long display of chanting. The Ukrainians are running a camel hunt. The Irish are reviving
Riverdance
, though they’ve forgotten the steps. The Venetians want a gondola race simultaneously up the Rhine, Thames, Seine and Oder tracked by the Astra 42 satellite. The Square Mile here in London is to have a four-week lottery game in which the winner breaks a bank. The only ones making any sense are the Saxon-Germans and French. The Saxons are offering an AleFest in every major city throughout the Union with free beer, while the French –’

‘– will do a cook-in in each region, with free perfume samples for every lady from sixteen to ninety-six!’ Maxwell Packer finished. ‘Well, why not? The French have always adored
la
différence
. They like to give pleasure.’

‘Not lost our quintessential characters, as you see,’ the Prime Minister pointed out. He drained his glass. ‘That’s why ÉNA has become so important. The top boys and girls can talk to each other and get things done, while the ordinary mortals indulge themselves with folk-dancing. And we politicians rant, rave and exercise our modest influence through local assemblies weighted down with tradition. The House of Commons, I mean. To which, with apologies, sir, I must now return.’

Chairs were scraped back. The King rushed over to the door, heaved it open and could be heard calling to staff that the meal was finished. The Lord Chamberlain was awoken and helped to his feet. Hands were shaken once more, courtesies and compliments exchanged. The Prime Minister hurried off, followed at a more dignified pace by the two older men. The King and the attaché disappeared through another door. Packer seemed to know his bearings and slipped away. The soulless cameras followed his passage and paused as if bereft. Strether was left in the capable hands of Prince Marius, who walked him slowly through another set of fine rooms and back to the front courtyard.

‘Well, Strether, I hope you found that enjoyable.’ On his own Marius seemed larger, more dominant. It took some skill to wax and wane like that, always to fit in.

‘Bill,’ Strether said resignedly. ‘Call me Bill. Yes, it was fascinating.’

The Prince chuckled. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t use the given name here except for close intimates. It’s not polite. They are treating you with due decorum, in fact – going quite far in using your surname.’

‘Oh? I don’t get it.’

The two men strolled towards the gates, avoiding the fierce sun wherever possible. The embassy water-bus was waiting, lolling gently on the tide. The Thames sparkled invitingly; a cormorant on a post flexed black wings then suddenly lifted and dived, surfacing with a wriggling angel-fish in its beak. On the far shore the queue for the afternoon’s palace tour chattered excitedly. The Swiss Guards ceased to lounge at their approach and presented
arms. Marius saluted.

‘The surname is used between those who went to school together. It’s the custom in Europe, implies they’ve known each other since childhood, which, in the case of upper castes, is likely to be true. But I’ll call you Bill, if you prefer. And I’m Marius.’

‘Thanks. And thanks for looking after me, Marius, I appreciate it. Say, did you mean it when you said you’d show me around?’

‘I’d be delighted. What would you like to see? Parliament, certainly. That will be arranged. The underground cities: yes, I know you have them, but nothing like ours. Global warming has changed everything drastically, you know. And you must inspect the troops at the front – Maxwell was right to mention that. Then how about leisure? You are not married, no? You can come with me to the Toy Shop, if you like.’

Strether allowed himself a quick smile. ‘Thanks for thinking of that. I’d like to get to know – I mean, I think it’s time …’ He stopped, embarrassed, but the younger man patted his arm.

‘Understood. I’ve read your file, naturally. We have some charming women over here. When you are in Brussels for Europe Day in May I will take you to our gentlemen’s club, the Forum. Now, have I missed anything important?’

Strether shuffled his feet. ‘I’d like to see …’ He hesitated. ‘Sorry. It’s difficult.’

Marius turned his back on the impassive guardsmen and spoke low. ‘You’d like to see the laboratories, is that it? You want to know about our genetic programme?’

Strether nodded dumbly. He was conscious of blushing furiously. Marius laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not open to the public, as you’d expect, but you’d be a privileged visitor. Leave it to me. But be warned. It can be quite a shock when you go there.’

‘Yes, I guess so. There are so many questions I want to ask. Will that be allowed?’

‘You can ask me. After your visit, preferably. I will try to be straightforward with you, my dear Bill, but just remember this. We in Europe are certain its activities are central to our well-being. Essential, indeed. We regard ourselves as in many ways far ahead of America, you know. Go with an open mind, and don’t be alarmed at what you see.’

They parted cordially and Strether settled into the water-bus. The Prince had declined the offer of a lift and was now hailing a water-taxi heading in the opposite direction. Strether envied the easy style of the young aristocrat: he seemed so comfortable, in contrast to the clumsy American who was painfully aware of how inadequate was the show he made in such sophisticated company.

But perhaps he should not have revealed that he had heard of the Toy Shop. Nor hinted that his curiosity might overcome any moral scruples, should the chance arise to visit. What he had had in mind, when the fair sex was mentioned, was not a lady who earned a living at it. Marius had spoken of charming women in Europe; those he had seen so far, though few to talk to, had impressed him mightily with their poise and grace.

Maybe it was only a matter of sending out the right signals when the moment arrived. And being watchful, ready. Like those damned cameras, whose eyes seemed to follow him wherever he happened to go.

‘You would think’ – Lisa Pasteur grunted to herself – ‘that with all the advances’ – gasp – ‘available to modern science’ – heave – ‘at the end of the twenty-first century,’ –
pant
– ‘we might have found some better way’ –
oh, Lord
– ‘of staying fit’ – puff – ‘without so much bloody
effort
.’

The rowing machine pinged. The six minutes were up. The drag on the flywheel slackened as the machine’s androgynous voice sighed encouragingly: ‘Well done, Lisa. You were within three per cent of your score two days ago.’

Lisa pushed back a lock of dark hair that had escaped from the sweat-band and wiped her brow on her forearm. She bowed her head till her pulse stopped racing, then reached for a capsule of isotonic concentrate. The chilled drink tasted both salty and sweet and made her grimace.

Time for a tone-up of her upper arms. Lying back on a bench, feet placed firmly on the ground, she swung the batons in tidy arcs over her head, twenty, forty times. Her shoulder muscles were protesting too early; the weights seemed heavier than usual. Still muttering crossly, she switched to the lateral-pull machine, seated herself squarely and reached upwards. At the first tug her spine jarred and she stopped dead.
Darn it
.

Perspiration beaded on her forehead and on the backs of her hands. In the training shoes, her toes wriggled stickily. The new non-metalloid leotard clung to her rib cage, showing off in silver and lilac stripes the womanly outlines of a flat stomach and curved hips. She chided herself for the momentary weakness that had allowed her to purchase the idiotic outfit. Self-coloured cotton was definitely more sensible.

Around her other lithe figures paused with words of sympathy. The sessions for the obese came later; experience had taught that both groups were happier if kept apart. The spring sunlight streamed through the skylights. Perhaps she should have gone for a run instead. As she stretched and towelled off, the wall computer offered the results of her monthly blood test. A pinprick at the start of the session was sufficient.
Cancerous cells, nil. Pre-cancerous cells, below normal levels.
Okay.
Cholesterol: 4.2 mmol/litre.
No risk of heart disease there.
Haemoglobin, 14.
Excellent, almost athlete standard.
Thyroid function:
satisfactory. Serum prolactin: 470 mu/1, serum FSH 3.8, LH 6.1.
Consistent with
pre-menstrual
state.
Prostaglandins, gamma linoleic acid (GLA): normal. Leucocyte count, high.
Could that mean a mild respiratory infection?

Her back had ceased to twinge, but a bout of water relaxation would help. Medication would sort out both the PMT and the possible cold, but she would rather not take it. What was the point in introducing enhanced disease resistance into the genes then bludgeoning the system with chemicals? Instead she headed for the flotation tank: on a quiet afternoon in the gym she would have it to herself. As she entered, soft neon lights began to glow in ever-changing colours and Mozart’s flute and harp concerto filled the cubicle.

She felt unusually tense. Even on her back, with warm, viscous liquid lapping against her thighs and rose perfume in the ionised air about her face, conflicting thoughts jostled in her mind.

Thirty-four. Quite young; below the average age for marriage, and still with years to go before the average age of first conception. With hormone therapy, indeed, she could
conceive any time up to her eighties. Strictly speaking, there were no limits; it was a matter of personal preference. The biological clock could be altered, suppressed or postponed at will. At any age eggs could be surgically removed and united with the designated sperm
in vitro
. Or ready-made fertilised cells, already inspected, might be selected from the bank. Motherhood could be bought off the shelf. But instinctively Lisa sensed that none of these advanced alternatives would do. The niggling desire for her own genetic baby had crept to the surface. It was as impossible to ignore, as much a
part
of her now, as the shape of her own breasts bobbing in the scented water.

The conception would be done under a microscope, of course. And once the embryo was created, the best that modern medicine could offer would swing into action. A surrogacy could be arranged, though a laboratory pregnancy was by far the safest. Since she was an NT and must protect herself, and her child, giving birth the old way was to be avoided. But she wanted her
own
baby, flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone. That much was undeniable, and had been for more than a year.

What was lacking was the man to share the partnership. And the joys, and horrors, of parenting.

The problem wasn’t sex, as such. The division between sex and childbearing was complete. The physical act had few undesirable consequences: except, unavoidably, that the unwary fell in love as ever, and could be betrayed or abandoned, their emotions in shreds. Nothing new about that; human nature did not alter. The other risks were few. Sexually transmitted diseases had been eradicated, first by vaccination then by genetic manipulation, though new bugs were an ever-present feature; nature was always, infuriatingly, one step ahead. Both men and women enjoyed casual liaisons and professed to suffer no damage. Lisa did not care for such lack of commitment and chose not to sleep around. She was not averse to a fling, but she had never learned to value sexual gratification for its own sake. She preferred to know the name of a partner whose hair she might find on her pillow in the morning.

What about the possibility of bearing a child without a partner? Artificial insemination was commonplace for professional women like herself, but its clinical heartlessness did not appeal. Nor did the murkier and mainly illegal processes that could reproduce a human replica from a scrap of one’s skin. So strong were the prejudices against such deviancy, indeed, that Lisa had not considered it for a moment. Such action required a misapplication of the genetic programmes on which she worked, to which she had devoted her life. She would not dream of doing that, for purely selfish purposes. And if she were found out, it would probably cost her her job.

It was far better to stay within society’s norms. Marriage had been through a bad patch until the turn of the century, as feminist theory conspired to make men expendable. Then the disaster of that movement’s long tail of detritus, sole-parent families – mostly women, mostly poor, their children distressed and at serious disadvantage – had at last hit home with policy-makers. The rejection of ‘independence’ in favour of ‘interdependence’ had been hesitant to begin with and had provoked furious debate. But women, Lisa reflected, had wished to have it all, and hormone therapy made that easy. Now monogamous marriage was celebrated as the best environment for both adults and children, and was encouraged by tax incentives, fashion and example.

She should be setting that example. The accepted pattern was a career lasting fifteen or twenty years, then wedlock and children. So she was right to be thinking about it, if a trifle early. A combination of family life and work was entirely acceptable for both partners, provided that neither parent was ever completely absent. That pattern, repeated research showed, was healthy both mentally and emotionally. The offspring were serene and comfortable individuals, able to accept responsibility and with high social skills. If this fomented laziness, especially among the highest castes, it could be countered by dosing the embryos with a dash of extra ambition. Her own parents had requested it for their children, which was why she occasionally felt driven, as in the gym. Beneath, though, was the growing realisation that she had begun to yearn for a settled homelife. The troubling questions were, How? and, Who with?

He had to be kind, but not necessarily handsome – appearance was so much a matter of transient taste, and as a scientist she prided herself on deeper values. Intelligent, certainly, though perhaps not in her own field: nightly conversations about her research would probably irritate rather than stimulate her. Older, possibly: a father figure had intense appeal. Mostly, it was his character that counted. And how much she meant to him, how much he cared, and how capable he was of telling her.

No man lingered round the corner. Nobody available, and suitable. Nobody terribly interesting, to tell the truth. Once, she had thought so, but the two of them had been too young and had drifted apart. The taste of love had lingered. She knew, or felt she knew, what love was about. The prospect did not frighten her, but it was daunting. And it was not the only worry she faced.

Her project at the genetic laboratory had reached a crucial stage. Within weeks she should discover why that chromosome kept breaking down, and set in train the arduous business of elimination. It galled her that mistakes had recently entered her realm with such regularity. Others might call her a perfectionist, but to Lisa it was a simple matter of scientific competence and control. To maintain the highest standards, everyone in the chain had to be devoted to the programme and respect its disciplines. Anything else was perverse and counterproductive. One might almost think that somebody
wanted
human chromosome 21 to keep breaking: somebody further up the line, faceless and nameless, who dealt with the early foetal material before it came anywhere near her own dispassionate investigations.

One thing was quite obvious: whoever it was, he (or she) was playing a dangerous game. Someone, perhaps, with an unfortunate taste for the macabre.

St Martin’s-in-the-Fields was deserted, as he knew it would be. At this time, early in the year, there were no festivals, no particular reasons to attend and thank God, though the blossom and the glory of early spring never failed to make his heart dance.

Mike Thompson slipped into a pew, knelt briefly then sat, hands clasped in his lap. The carved angels looked down mutely on a solidly built man in faded khaki drill, his face weather-beaten, his blue eyes deep-set, with that ruggedness Strether had noted at the palace. In the stillness of the afternoon, shafts of sunlight slanted from the church’s windows high above the oak gallery. The tips of ancient gilded plasterwork on the ceiling glowed as the light slowly shifted. Dust motes hung in the air.

He had sung here, in the choir, as a small boy. It was more common then, and quite
acceptable, for the military to be believers. The third generation of NTs had only just made their appearance; older manners still predominated. Remembrance Sunday had not been abolished till 2070, ostensibly on the grounds that it had become obsolete. But the year before young Michael, then aged eleven, had sung ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ with gusto in a church over half full. Indeed, he could still recall the words of ‘Abide With Me’. Perhaps the dislike of commemorating the dead of forgotten European conflicts was understandable; the bones of the First and Second World Wars mouldered in neglected cemeteries, while the interregnum and even the Restoration were passing from living memory. The change, however, probably had more to do with the accession of the Russians to the Union in 2060 and the atheistic opinions of the newly elected Vice President, who claimed his ancestry back to Stalin. 

The soldiers’ hymn. He hummed it under his breath, loath to disturb the peaceful stillness.
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Sung on battlefields from time immemorial before facing the bullets; and at the end of a day, as the bloodied remains were collected and prepared for burial.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
Superstition, much of it. Both sides calling on their God for protection, and professing to believe in the same deity. Each man asking for personal protection that day, and for his comrades and loved ones.
I triumph still
–. Wishful thinking, of that he was convinced. No God of any value would take sides: the battles were of mankind’s own creation.

Yet the superstitions of the prayerful were irrelevant. The shallow simplicity of their belief did not rule out a superior power. If such a being existed, most soldiers would rather have it content than displeased. Thompson was bred, he had been told, with specially sharpened spatial and numeric abilities to broaden his martial range. His father, a renowned four-star general, had also requested psychological insight and man-management skills for his son, for whom he had great plans. Thompson suspected that his slowish progress up the promotion ladder – he had barely been gazetted as Brigadier at the age of forty, and had only just made it to Lieutenant-Colonel – might have made the old man impatient, had he lived to see it. The General had not approved of that International Studies degree at Oxford, either: idleness, he had called it. His son’s appointment as an aide to King William might have impressed him, though he would have spotted that palace duty could be mind-numbingly tedious. The father’s death when his son was at Sandhurst had freed the young man to grow at his own pace. None the less, it was at moments like this that Thompson was grateful for his traditional Christian upbringing.

Officially the Union was still God-fearing though its citizens were more than lax in attendance, in contrast to the durable fundamentalist revival in the USA. In Britain most churches had closed and had been converted into housing or mini-malls. Even the latter-day
arrivals in Europe, Sikhs and Moslems, bewailed their vanishing congregations, while European Judaism was confined to a few squabbling suburbs in Golders Green, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

As for Christianity, Serbian and Russian Orthodox observance had replaced Roman Catholicism as stylish among the glitterati. The Church of England had wilted under the burden of maintenance of its great cathedrals. One Archbishop of Canterbury had hit on an answer. It had been decided to save the jewel of the Anglican rite, Westminster Abbey, by dividing up the days of the week. An auction was held and sealed bids invited (the Catholics held aloof from what they regarded as a disreputable exercise). The results might have been foreseen. Night after night the ancient stones rang to the sounds of strange music, wails and caterwauls from New Age cults and the like, while an astonished public crept in to watch. That was why Mike Thompson preferred St Martin’s: he was alone, but still the church preserved an atmosphere of sanctity. The same could no longer be said of the Abbey.