Agency

80 The Square Mile

Arriving at the bottom of the Denisovan Embassy’s annoyingly melted staircase, the place’s décor definitely having a cumulative effect on him, Netherton immediately spotted one of Lev’s redheads, though not yet draped in security sequins. This one was dressed, it struck him, as though it might be a publicist, but in fact was exactly the opposite: a counter-publicist. A cousin of Bertie’s, the fallen coachman, but where Bertie’s every movement had been remotely inspired, be that doing whatever coachmen did or homicidally attacking you with a bung starter, the redhead’s primary boast was zero connectivity. In a society in which most objects of any complexity whatever could recall anything they’d ever encountered, this one remained in a permanent state of tabula rasa.

“Good morning, Mr. Netherton,” it said, evidently remembering his name. How was that possible, if it had no memory? He made a note to ask Lev, once privacy had been established. “This way, please.”

The place was busier now than he’d seen it, perhaps the result of this being a traditional hour for breakfast. Following the bot-girl toward the catacombs beneath Hanway Place, he glimpsed Bevan Westmarch, a former associate from his own days as a publicist, seated at a crowded table. Wetmark, Rainey called him, having also worked with him. Now he clearly saw Netherton. Pretending not to have noticed him, Netherton continued after the bot-girl.

Lev had chosen a larger table than their last, Netherton saw, evidently to allow room for a full English breakfast he’d already finished, as evidenced by various side plates. For Lev, Netherton knew, a full English was stress-eating. He himself, he assumed, wasn’t expected to have breakfast, full or otherwise, though a place had been set for him opposite Lev. A girl, a real one, or in any case unfreckled, was just then putting a white bowl of café au lait at his place. “How are things in Cheyne Walk?” he asked, seating himself uncomfortably on yet another stalagmite.

Lev looked up, across the remnants of his solitary breakfast. “The divorce wasn’t a good idea,” he said.

“But it was hers, wasn’t it?”

Lev looked gloomier still. “The affair,” he said, “wasn’t a good idea either.”

“That never struck me as like you, frankly,” Netherton said. Which was true, given Lev’s attitude toward his father’s so-called house of love, in Kensington Gore.

“I was a fool,” Lev said.

Netherton, who’d known Dominika almost exclusively as an unseen yet forbidding presence in the Notting Hill house, tried to look sympathetic.

“Why are you making that face?” Lev asked.

“Sorry,” Netherton said, abandoning the effort. “These stools don’t agree with me.”

“You looked as though you were gurning,” said Lev.

“Do you think there’s anything to be done about it,” Netherton asked, “the marriage?”

“I don’t know,” said Lev. “I’m trying to consider all options.”

“I can see that it’s getting you down,” Netherton said, picking up the bowl and sipping. “I’ll be of any help I can, but now, perhaps, we should—” At which point he saw Lev looking at something behind him. He put down the bowl and turned, discovering all six bot-girls, now sequin-draped over identical outfits. “Certainly,” he said, turning back to Lev, “assuming you’re ready.”

“Begin,” Lev said, unenthusiastically, to the troupe.

Which they did, all turning, as before. With the circle formed, facing outward, their arms stretched overhead to uphold the shawls, the spiral storm of sequins rose, forming its dome above them.

“Is it working now?” Netherton asked.

“Yes,” said Lev, glumly.

“Would someone wishing an end to Lowbeer’s office be named Yunevich?” Netherton asked.

Lev instantly looked glummer still. He nodded, twice. The gabble of the breakfasters in the place’s busier end peaked, then fell, seeming to recede, then rose again.

“If I understand Lowbeer correctly,” Netherton said, “we’ve just fulfilled my sole actual purpose here. You now know whether she sees good reason for your having brought a previously unnamed individual to her attention. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Lev. “Do you know who he is?”

“No,” said Netherton. “I’m not required to. And I’m quite happy to have as little as possible to do with her work, as you well know. She employs me to help her with her hobbies.”

“Hobby,” corrected Lev, “there being only the one. The person we’d be discussing, if you’d allow me to, isn’t my sort of klept.”

“Klept are scarcely your sort, period,” Netherton said, “and that’s been my impression since we’ve known one another.”

“This goes beyond that. Not my father’s sort, nor my grandfather’s. Different roots entirely.”

“He’s not Russian?” Netherton asked, having assumed this to be impossible.

“Russian,” said Lev, “but descended from Soviet functionaries, rather than émigré ’garchs. Klept, but something else as well.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Extremely low profile. Not given to ostentation, either as displays of wealth or demonstrations of power. Never entertains. Attends no functions outside of the Square Mile, and few enough there. Very much a creature of the City. Even there, though, he keeps to the deepest processes, those of the least transparent sort.”

The City, Netherton had heard Lowbeer say, explaining the klept to Flynne, had long been, and well prior to the jackpot, a unique species of semi-autonomous crypto-state, the single least democratic element of elected British government. It was this singular status, according to Lowbeer, that had allowed it to ride out the eventual collapse of democracy. That, and its core expertise in laundering money, had brought it into a mutually beneficial synergy with the émigré oligarch community, dominated by Russians, who had themselves first been attracted to London by the City’s meta-criminal financial arcana, plus the lavish culture of personal amenities for those requiring same. With this in mind, he picked up the bowl of coffee and regarded Lev over its rim. “He doesn’t sound like someone who gives much away.”

“Impossible to read,” Lev said. “Another era entirely. Older than Lowbeer.”

Netherton drank, lowered the bowl, unfurled a white linen napkin, and wiped his mouth. “If there’s anything further you want me to tell her…”

“No,” said Lev, “that’s it. My father’s uncle understands him to be pushing the idea of removing her.”

“That’s that, then,” Netherton said. “I missed seeing you, since Thomas was born, and I’m sorry you’ve been going through all that with Dominika.”

“Thanks,” said Lev, slumped on his stalagmite. “I wish I could say that my father needing my help with this business is proving a welcome distraction, but the timing really couldn’t be worse.”

“That’s understandable,” said Netherton. Taking his leave, he assumed, would require cessation of sequinning. “If your father’s troupe here have no memory to be read,” he asked, recalling having wondered this on his way to the table, “how is it one of them knew my name?”

“It did,” said Lev, “but no longer does. I showed it an image of you, before your arrival, told it your name, and what to do when it found you. As soon as it had done so, it forgot both your name and your appearance.”

“I see. Stay in touch. Not just about this.”

“Time,” Lev said, raising his voice, and the sequins came spiraling down, the bot-girls lowering their shawls in unison.