The Power

  ‘And by “the people who fund them”, you mean King Awadi-Atif of Saudi Arabia?’

  ‘That’s all I have to say on this.’

  ‘And any comment on why you’ve been sent here, Senator? You in particular? With your connections to the NorthStar training camps for young women? Is that why you were chosen to come here?’

  Margot does a little chuckle that seems entirely sincere. ‘I’m just a little fish, Tunde; a minnow, really. I came because I was invited. And now I just want to enjoy the party, and I’m sure you do, too.’

  She turns away, walks a few paces to the right. Waits until she hears the snap of his camera turning off.

  ‘Don’t start coming after me, son,’ she says out of the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m your friend here.’

  Tunde notices the word ‘son’. Says nothing. Holds it close to his chest. Is glad he left the audio recording running, even though the video is off.

  ‘I could have pushed you twice as hard,’ he says, ‘ma’am.’

  Margot squints at him. ‘I like you, Tunde,’ she says. ‘You did good work on that interview with UrbanDox. Those nuke threats really got Congress to sit up and take notice, voted us the money we need to defend the country. You still in touch with his people?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘You hear they’ve got anything big coming down the pipe, you come and tell me, all right? I’ll make it worth your while. There’s money in it now – a lot of money. You might make a great press consultant with our training camps.’

  ‘Aha,’ says Tunde. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Be sure you do.’

  She smiles reassuringly. At least, that’s what she intends. She has the feeling that, once it reaches her lips, it might have come out more as a leer. The problem is that these fucking reporters are so attractive. She’s seen Tunde’s videos before; Maddy is a huge fan, and he’s actually making a difference with the eighteen to thirty-five voting demographic.

  It’s amazing how – amongst all the talk about his relaxed and accessible style – no one mentions that Olatunde Edo’s videos have been such a hit because he’s handsome as hell. He’s half naked in some of them, reporting from the beach in just Speedos, and how’s she supposed to take him seriously now, when she’s seen his broad shoulders and narrow waist and the rolling landscape of obliques and delts, glutes and pecs of his firm … shit, she really needs to get laid.

  Christ. OK. There are a few young guys among the staff on this trip; she’ll buy one of them a drink after the party, because this can’t be happening in her mind every time she’s confronted with a handsome reporter. She grabs a schnapps from a passing tray; downs it. An aide catches her eye across the room, points to her wristwatch. We’re off to the races.

  ‘You’ve gotta admit,’ she whispers to Frances, her aide, as they climb the marble stairs, ‘they know how to pick a castle.’

  The place looks like it’s been transported brick by brick from Disney. Gilt furniture. Seven pointed spires, each a different shape and size, some fluted, some smooth, some tipped with gold. Pine forest in the foreground, mountains in the distance. Yeah, yeah, you’ve got history and culture. Yeah, yeah, you’re not no one. Fine.

  Tatiana Moskalev is – no kidding – sitting on an actual throne when Margot walks in. A huge gold thing, with lions’ heads on the arms and a red velvet cushion. Margot manages not to smile. The President of Bessapara is wearing an enormous white fur coat with a gold dress underneath. She has a ring on each finger and two on each thumb. It’s like she learned what a President ought to look like from watching too many mafia movies. Maybe that’s what she did. The door closes behind Margot. They’re alone together.

  ‘President Moskalev,’ says Margot. ‘An honour to meet you.’

  ‘Senator Cleary,’ says Tatiana, ‘the honour is mine.’

  The snake meets the tiger, Margot thinks; the jackal greets the scorpion.

  ‘Please,’ says Tatiana, ‘take a glass of our ice wine. The finest in Europe. The product of our Bessaparan vineyards.’

  Margot sips it, wondering how likely it is to be poisoned. She puts the odds at no more than 3 per cent. It’d look very bad for them if she died here.

  ‘The wine is excellent,’ says Margot. ‘I would have expected no less.’

  Tatiana smiles a thin and distant smile. ‘You like Bessapara?’ she says. ‘You have enjoyed the tours? Music, dancing, local cheese?’

  Margot had sat through a three-hour demonstration and talk on local cheese-making practices that morning. Three hours. On cheese.

  ‘Oh, your country is delightful, Madam President – such old-world charm, combined with such focus and determination to move into the future together.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tatiana smiles thinly again. ‘We think we are maybe the most forward-thinking country in the world, you know.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I am looking forward to the visit to your science-technology park tomorrow.’

  Tatiana shakes her head. ‘Culturally,’ she says; ‘socially. We are the only country in the world to really understand what this change means. To understand it as a blessing. An invitation to … to …’ She shakes her head for a moment, as if to clear a kind of fog: ‘An invitation to a new way of living.’

  Margot says nothing and sips her wine again, making an appreciative face.

  ‘I like America,’ says Tatiana. ‘My late husband, Viktor, liked USSR, but I like America. Land of freedom. Land of opportunity. Good music. Better than Russian music.’ She starts to sing the lyrics to a pop song Maddy’s been playing around the house incessantly: ‘When we drive, you so fast, in your car, all boom boom.’ Her voice is pleasant. Margot remembers reading somewhere that Tatiana had had ambitions to be a pop star, once upon a time.

  ‘You want us to get them to come play here? They tour. We can fix it up.’

  Tatiana says: ‘I think you know what I want. I think you know. Senator Cleary, you are not a stupid woman.’

  Margot smiles. ‘I may not be stupid, but I’m not a mind-reader, President Moskalev.’

  ‘All we want,’ says Tatiana, ‘is American dream, right here in Bessapara. We are a new nation, plucky little state bordered by a terrible enemy. We want to live freely, to pursue our own way of life. We want opportunity. That’s all.’

  Margot nods. ‘That’s what everyone wants, Madam President. Democracy for all is America’s fondest wish for the world.’

  Tatiana’s lips turn faintly upward. ‘Then you will help us against the North.’

  Margot chews her top lip for a moment. This is the tricky point. She’d known it was coming.

  ‘I’ve … I’ve had conversations with the President. While we support your independence, as it is the will of your people, we can’t be seen to interfere in a war between North Moldova and Bessapara.’

  ‘You and I are more subtle than this, Senator Cleary.’

  ‘We can offer humanitarian aid, and peacekeeping forces.’

  ‘You can vote against any action against us in the UN Security Council.’

  Margot frowns. ‘But there are no actions against you in the UN Security Council.’

  Tatiana places her glass very deliberately on the table in front of her. ‘Senator Cleary. My country has been betrayed by some of its men. We know this. We were defeated in the recent Battle of the Dniester because the North knew where our troops would be. Men from Bessapara have sold information to our enemies in the North. Some of them have been found. Some of them have confessed. We need to take action.’

  ‘That’s your prerogative, of course.’

  ‘You will not interfere in this action. You will support whatever we do.’

  Margot gives a little chuckle. ‘I’m not sure I can promise anything that sweeping, Madam President.’

  Tatiana turns around, leans back against the window pane. She is silhouetted against the brightly lit Disney castle behind her.

  ‘You work with NorthStar, don’t you? Private military. You are a shareholder,
in fact. I like NorthStar. Teaching girls to be warriors. Very good – we need it more.’

  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.’

  ‘Have you come … for guidance?’

  Allie had looked at the request for an audience with interest. That the Senator’s daughter should be here was no great surprise. That she would want to see Mother Eve in the flesh made sense. But a private audience? Allie had wondered whether she’d be a sceptic, looking to have an argument about the existence of God. But … apparently not.

  ‘I’m so lost,’ says Jocelyn through her tears. ‘I don’t know who I am any more. I watch your talks and I keep waiting for … I ask Her voice to guide me and tell me what to do …’

  ‘Tell me your trouble,’ says Mother Eve.

  Allie is quite familiar with trouble that is too deep to be spoken. She knows it happens in any house, however high. There is no place that cannot be penetrated by the kind of trouble Allie has seen in her life.

  She extends a hand, touches Jocelyn’s knee. Jocelyn flinches a little. Pulls away. Even in that momentary touch, Allie knows what Jocelyn’s trouble is.

  She knows the touch of women and the slow, even background hum of power in the skein. Something is dark in Jocelyn that should be lit and glowing; something is open that should be closed. Allie suppresses a shudder.

  ‘Your skein,’ says Mother Eve. ‘You are suffering.’

  Jocelyn cannot speak above a whisper. ‘It’s a secret. I’m not supposed to talk about it. There are drugs. But the drugs don’t work as well any more. It’s getting worse. I’m not … I’m not like other girls. I didn’t know who else to come to. I’ve seen you on the internet. Please,’ she says. ‘Please heal me and make me normal. Please ask God to take the burden from me. Please let me be normal.’

  ‘All I can do,’ says Mother Eve, ‘is take your hand, and we will pray together.’

  This is a very difficult situation. No one’s examined this girl, or given Allie advice about what her problem is. Skein deficiencies are very difficult to correct. Tatiana Moskalev is looking into skein transplant operations for precisely this reason; we don’t know how to fix a skein that doesn’t work.

  Jocelyn nods and puts her hand into Allie’s.

  Mother Eve says the usual words: ‘Our Mother,’ she says, ‘above us and within us. You alone are the source of all goodness, all mercy and all grace. May we learn to do Your will, as You express it to us daily through Your works.’

  While she speaks, Allie is feeling out the patches of darkness and light in Jocelyn’s skein. It’s as if the thing is occluded: gummy places where there should be flowing water. Silted up. She could clear some of the muck in the channel
s here and here.

  ‘And may our hearts be pure before You,’ she says, ‘and may You send us strength to bear the trials we face without bitterness and without self-destruction.’

  Jocelyn, though she has rarely prayed, prays now. As Mother Eve lays her hands on Jocelyn’s back, she prays, ‘Please, God, open my heart.’ And she feels something.

  Allie gives a little push. More than she’d usually do, but this girl doesn’t have enough sensitivity to feel what exactly she’s doing, probably. Jocelyn gasps. Allie gives another three short, hard pushes. And there. The thing is sparkling now. Thrumming like an engine. There.

  Jocelyn says, ‘Oh God. I can feel it.’

  Her skein is humming steadily, evenly. She can feel now that thing that the other girls say they’ve felt: the gentle, filling sensation as each cell in her skein pumps ions across membranes and the electric potential increases. She can feel that she’s working properly, for the first time ever.

  She is too shocked to cry.

  She says, ‘I can feel it. It’s working.’

  Mother Eve says, ‘Praise be to God.’

  ‘But how did you do that?’

  Mother Eve shakes her head. ‘Not my will but Hers be done.’

  They breathe in and out in unison once, twice, three times.

  Jocelyn says, ‘What shall I do now? I’m …’ She laughs. ‘I’m shipping out tomorrow. United Nations observation force duty in the south.’ She’s not supposed to say that, but she can’t help herself; she couldn’t keep a secret now in this room. ‘My mom sent me there because it looks good, but I won’t really be in danger. No chance of getting into trouble,’ she says.

  The voice says: Maybe she should get into trouble.

  Mother Eve says, ‘You need have no fear now.’

  Jocelyn nods again. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  Mother Eve kisses her on the crown of the head and gives her the blessing in the name of the Great Mother, and she goes down to the party.