“AH, ZEPHYR, MY dearest son,” the Pope says as he struggles to rise and ultimately fails, slumping back into the plush chair with the air of a rich man who has just let loose with a particularly satisfying fart: one made perhaps all the more satisfying for the flunkies who have to stand there, drinking in the air and commenting on its magnificence.
Let me be clear the Pope and I have never met. He’s new and I’m so lapsed I don’t think I even count as Catholic any more. Where he gets off speaking so pleasantly I can’t tell you. I can see Pykes, Dufresne and the Senator are all thrilled to the point of Rapture to be in the flatulent old German’s presence. I make a pained face and keep walking and when the Pope offers me his hand with the big ring on it I play stupid and pump his arm a few times and then sit down at the nearest chair.
“It’s a pleasure,” I baldly lie. “Now what’s this all about?”
My frankness breaks the mood like even the Pope’s weak arse couldn’t. Pykes and Kirkness exchange glances and Senator Keenan emits a girlish chuckle and sits close enough to me she can reach out and periodically stroke my knee, which she proceeds to do with alarming regularity. She is a handsome and well-preserved woman, but up close and looking through the layers of her nearly Baroque make-up, it wouldn’t surprise me if at any moment she suddenly bared yellow fangs and her bloodshot eyes rolled up into her head as she gave in to her desire for human flesh.
“Please excuse Zephyr’s candidness, Your Holiness,” the mayor says with a nervous little frown I’ve rarely seen him wear. “I can only explain that he understands the value of your time and doesn’t want to beat around the bush, as we say here in the States.”
His Holiness waves his hand and looks beneficent as they taught him to in Pope school. I smile, he smiles, the row of unspeaking cardinals smile and Ivory Keenan titters just a little more. Again with the knee.
“It’s regarding the Bloomingdale bombing, Zephyr,” the Senator says. “Paramilitary Zionists called Israel’s Black Commandos have claimed responsibility for the attack. It took twenty-five lives and left a further fifteen people who are still in hospital.”
My memories are the stuff of news footage. I nod and look around the room. A few bland suits have slipped in and one of them, she has the whole black hair/green eyes/big titties thing happening, oh boy, and she begins taking notes with an electronic stylus. I try to catch her eye, but I guess Catholicism comes with the Irish gene and proximity to the Holy Father has put a dent in her receptivity.
“Okay,” I say and resist the shrug.
“The City States Symposium has deliberated,” the Pope says in his heavy-lidded German English. “We have decided we cannot take any position except to condemn all violence that encourages segregation.”
I nod and glance around the room. Pykes looks like a kid too afraid to put his hand up to go to the toilet and might just risk pissing himself before the afternoon ends. Ironically it is his deputy Dufresne who has the poise to pull off the high-powered meeting.
The Pope stares at me until he has my eye. “We will not make any formal statement. However, the government assures me it will endorse a statement of sorts in retaliation for this attack on its sovereign soil.”
I blink, nod again. “Okay.”
It looks like no-one else really wants to speak, suddenly. Dufresne scowls, looking around the room. Finally she rests forward, arms crossed over her knee.
“Zephyr, we want you to go after them.”
I TRY TO think this through for a minute and basically fail.
“You want me to go after the terrorists?”
“Absolutely,” Pykes says.
“On behalf of, and sanctioned by, the United States government,” Senator Keenan says with a bold, affirmative nod.
I glance around the table and eye the cardinals briefly. “Um, where are they, then?”
My question elicits more glass-eyed stares. Dufresne looks at Pykes who looks at Keenan who in turn stares at Kirkness. No-one dares look at His Holiness.
“We understand the security forces in Jerusalem have contained some members of a local cell,” Keenan says.
“Sure, but that’s on neutral soil,” I remark. “That would kind of undermine the whole idea of the neutrality of the City States, wouldn’t it, to send me in there?”
Someone clears their throat. It’s not anyone helpful. I ask, “Um, do you mind if I ask why you want me to do this? Surely the government. . . ?”
“The President feels it would be best not to formally link our response to the government,” the Senator says. “However, a well-known American parahuman, taking the matter into his own hands with the tacit approval of the current administration. . . .”
“Sorry,” I say and risk cutting her off, though Keenan looks far too pleased to be stopped talking for me to call it that. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re after. This attack was launched from within Atlantic City, obviously. Can you give me any information regarding these Commando dudes and any contacts or networks or . . . anything?”
I drift off because of the uncomfortable looks around me.
I hesitantly add: “I’m not sure what you think it is I am able to do about, um, all this. I’m, like . . . I’m a superhero, you know?”
“Terrorism is a crime, Zephyr,” Ms Keenan rebukes me.
“A crime? Yes. A specialist crime,” I say back to her. “This is like . . . like getting hand models to take on the Triads or something.”
“Finally, something sensible. . . .” Kirkness mutters.
“Zephyr, I think you’re doing yourself a disservice,” Senator Keenan says.
“You must have faith, my son,” the Pope adds.
“I’m sorry,” I say and stand with genuine remorse. “If you know where the bad guys’ lair is in Atlantic City, you let me and the Sentinels know and we’ll kick their tails. International terrorism and diplomacy though, that’s just not my bag. Sorry.”
Only slightly less incredulous than they that I’m actually doing so, I open my palms apologetically and walk from the room. The security cadre eyes me as I jostle past. Their eyes are too busy for anything resembling sympathy.
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