many had chosen to wear their national costume – all sitting with their attention focused on the stage. There were Arabs in white robes and headdresses, Africans in brilliant woven shirts, Chinese and Japanese in silk, Indians in saris. It was important to show which countries they represented … which countries they had destroyed … and it was a reminder that delegates had come from every continent. Normally, at the end of the conference there would be a party and everyone wanted to look their best.
Jonas smiled to himself. There was indeed going to be a party in a short while, but it wasn’t the one that everyone was expecting and he was glad he hadn’t received an invitation. Just a few rows behind him, he noticed a man he had known at the London office. What was his name? The man nodded at him and Jonas nodded back. At the same time, he thought to himself, You’re not going to be nodding in a few hours from now. He couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces.
The hall had barely changed since the time it had been built, with vast, golden walls sloping inwards and an arched ceiling high above. There was a stage with a podium and behind it a circular disc that had once carried a map of the world bracketed by two olive branches, which stood, of course, for peace. But this had been replaced with a different symbol:
The sign of the Old Ones.
Jonas sat down, taking his place beside a silver-haired man whom he had also met before. He was a Russian, a man who had sucked so much money out of his country’s oil and gas that it was said that you couldn’t turn a light on in Kiev without his permission. He had lavished that money on himself with homes all over the world, a fleet of yachts and a premier league football team who played privately for him. Behind him, two women were whispering excitedly. Jonas didn’t recognize them but the smell of their perfume was overpowering. It made him feel queasy. Ushers stood at the end of every row, showing the last arrivals to their seats. Everyone had arrived in good time. To have entered the room even a few seconds after the eleven-thirty start time would have meant immediate sacking … or worse.
And at half past eleven exactly, the conference began. There was no announcement. The lights didn’t dim. The chairman of Nightrise simply walked onto the stage and everyone got to their feet, bursting into applause that wouldn’t stop until he had reached the central podium.
It took a long time since the chairman was very old and moved like a tortoise, which in so many ways he resembled. He was completely bald and his head, at the end of an unusually long neck, bobbed forward as he made his way across, as if it was emerging from a shell. His eyes were red and watery. His skin was discoloured, covered in liver spots and so wrinkled that, from a distance, it could have been mistaken for scales. His black suit did not disguise how thin and fragile his body had become with age. There couldn’t have been more than fifteen steps from the wings to the centre of the stage but he took each one of them as if it might be his last.
And finally he arrived. The applause rose in pitch, the audience congratulating him on having completed the journey. The chairman reached out a hand to steady himself and stood there, smiling, enjoying his reception. At last he raised the same hand, showing spindly fingers and grey, uneven nails. It was a signal for silence. The audience immediately obeyed, sitting back down in their chairs.
“My friends,” he began. He had a croaky voice and an accent that could have been Australian or American. Nobody knew where he had been born or where he lived. Like many of them, he probably spent most of his time on the move. “First, let me welcome you all to New York. I know some of you have come a long way and you’re all busy people. I take it as a personal compliment that you should have interrupted your schedules to be with me here today. At the same time, we
Jonas smiled to himself. There was indeed going to be a party in a short while, but it wasn’t the one that everyone was expecting and he was glad he hadn’t received an invitation. Just a few rows behind him, he noticed a man he had known at the London office. What was his name? The man nodded at him and Jonas nodded back. At the same time, he thought to himself, You’re not going to be nodding in a few hours from now. He couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces.
The hall had barely changed since the time it had been built, with vast, golden walls sloping inwards and an arched ceiling high above. There was a stage with a podium and behind it a circular disc that had once carried a map of the world bracketed by two olive branches, which stood, of course, for peace. But this had been replaced with a different symbol:
The sign of the Old Ones.
Jonas sat down, taking his place beside a silver-haired man whom he had also met before. He was a Russian, a man who had sucked so much money out of his country’s oil and gas that it was said that you couldn’t turn a light on in Kiev without his permission. He had lavished that money on himself with homes all over the world, a fleet of yachts and a premier league football team who played privately for him. Behind him, two women were whispering excitedly. Jonas didn’t recognize them but the smell of their perfume was overpowering. It made him feel queasy. Ushers stood at the end of every row, showing the last arrivals to their seats. Everyone had arrived in good time. To have entered the room even a few seconds after the eleven-thirty start time would have meant immediate sacking … or worse.
And at half past eleven exactly, the conference began. There was no announcement. The lights didn’t dim. The chairman of Nightrise simply walked onto the stage and everyone got to their feet, bursting into applause that wouldn’t stop until he had reached the central podium.
It took a long time since the chairman was very old and moved like a tortoise, which in so many ways he resembled. He was completely bald and his head, at the end of an unusually long neck, bobbed forward as he made his way across, as if it was emerging from a shell. His eyes were red and watery. His skin was discoloured, covered in liver spots and so wrinkled that, from a distance, it could have been mistaken for scales. His black suit did not disguise how thin and fragile his body had become with age. There couldn’t have been more than fifteen steps from the wings to the centre of the stage but he took each one of them as if it might be his last.
And finally he arrived. The applause rose in pitch, the audience congratulating him on having completed the journey. The chairman reached out a hand to steady himself and stood there, smiling, enjoying his reception. At last he raised the same hand, showing spindly fingers and grey, uneven nails. It was a signal for silence. The audience immediately obeyed, sitting back down in their chairs.
“My friends,” he began. He had a croaky voice and an accent that could have been Australian or American. Nobody knew where he had been born or where he lived. Like many of them, he probably spent most of his time on the move. “First, let me welcome you all to New York. I know some of you have come a long way and you’re all busy people. I take it as a personal compliment that you should have interrupted your schedules to be with me here today. At the same time, we
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