“Now wait a damn minute,” Kenerly says.
“Our presentation contains sensitive materials that are only appropriate for upper management,” Yellow Tie says.
Rosso takes a small step toward her. “Listen, Ms. Representative of the Goldman Dome Branch of the Axiom Group. I’m already breaking policy for you by holding this meeting in secret. I see no reason why my officers and advisors shouldn’t hear whatever you have to say.”
Blue Tie leans in close, lowering his already deep voice into a strangely intimate rumble that he has not used until now. “Our ideas require a certain broadness of perspective to be appreciated. We find that people who are not in positions of power tend to lack this perspective. They tend to fixate on details they find distasteful instead of considering the value of the proposal as a whole.”
“Once you have agreed to our proposal,” Yellow Tie says, “you are welcome to share the information with your people in a form that they can appreciate.”
“But I’m afraid at this time,” Blue Tie concludes, “we do need to ask all but executive personnel to leave.”
The Armoury is silent. The muffled sounds of Citi’s citizenry ooze through the walls like the murmurs of ghosts. Watching Rosso’s face, his jaw muscles flexing behind his skin, I feel my cautious confidence sloughing away. He may be stronger than he looks, he may be wiser than Grigio was, more open-minded, open-hearted, and open-eyed, but he has lost control of this situation, if it was ever possible to have it.
“Major Kenerly,” he says without breaking away from Blue Tie’s stare, “you and your team can wait outside.”
“Sir, this is—”
“If our guests prefer to do business in secret, like criminals, we can indulge them for a moment.”
“But sir …”
Rosso looks at Kenerly, his eyes softening. “We pick our battles, Evan. We pick no battles, if possible.”
Kenerly hesitates, then salutes and turns on his heel. The soldiers begin to file out but I find myself unable to move. A thought bounces around my skull, so certain and insistent, I’m not sure it’s mine.
Don’t go. Don’t leave him here.
But I have to.
Don’t do it.
The whisper is faintly familiar, but my head has hosted many different voices, and I’m no good with names.
What am I supposed to do?
Don’t leave him.
“R,” Rosso says. “You can go.”
“No,” I say.
“Go, R.”
“You can’t trust them.”
“They’re not asking for trust,” Rosso says, “they’re asking for cooperation. And I’ll decide if we can cooperate once I’ve heard their pitch.”
Three grins shower me with affability.
Kenerly grabs me by my shoulder, but I don’t budge.
“It’s just a meeting,” he says, addressing me directly for the first time I can recall. “Classified meetings used to be standard procedure.” He seems to be trying to convince himself as much as me. “Move.”
He shoves me toward the exit and I start to walk, falling in line with the rest of the men. In the mirror of a Range Rover I see Rosso turn to face the pitchmen. I see Yellow Tie opening her folder. I hear the noxious warmth of her voice fading behind me. I walk past weapons and trucks and through the long, dark corridor, and the moon looks small when I emerge.
Kenerly and his men take posts outside the Armoury door, but I can’t wait here with these stoic pillars of protocol while my thoughts snarl and bark at each other. I lumber out into the empty streets. The city is asleep. I am alone under the buzzing lamps.
I need a drink.
I PASS ROSSO’S apartment on my way to the Orchard. I can hear Julie’s and Nora’s voices through the window, the Living rhythms that once stirred me like music. I still marvel at how effortlessly they converse, how smoothly they transition between speakers with nearly no break in tempo, much less the long, awkward pauses I’m used to, but it no longer enraptures me like it did. I don’t stop to listen, I don’t close my eyes and sway. My mind is full of hornets.
Although I’ve only been to the Orchard once, the route through the plywood labyrinth unfolds for me like I’m a regular, and I find myself standing in front of the pub’s thick oak door with little memory of how I got here. The yellow tree painted on it has flaked a little since I saw it last. The aluminium siding still bears two head-sized dents. A satisfied smile starts to creep onto my face, but I halt it. Why did I make those dents? What was I trying to achieve by cracking Balt’s head? Was I bringing justice to a man who preys on young girls, or was it just a brain-stem reaction to someone insulting my mate? The kind of primitive reflex that drives the lives of people exactly like Balt?
While I stand there staring at the door, it swings open, smacking me between the eyes. I nearly tumble off the mezzanine.
“Oh hey, sorry!” says the soldier who opened it, reaching out to steady me. “I didn’t see—” He recognises me. He pulls his hand away like I’m a hot stove, straightens up, and leaves without further comment.
I lean against the railing, rubbing my forehead. What do I expect to happen for me in a pub? Am I going to strike up a conversation with the fellows at the bar, talk about sports and cars, wave a beer in the air and lead everyone in rousing anthems of Us vs. Them? No. My ambitions are nothing so grand. I’m just here to make my brain stop working.