AT THE SAME time, miles north, Councilwoman Maria Fernandez and Councilwoman Aida Almasi approached the World President’s Residence, in what was once called Manhattan’s Museum Mile. They paused for a moment to look up at the elaborate stonework that crowned the building. Openmouthed granite gargoyles stared back.
“It’s like a fairyland castle,” said Maria.
“Right,” said Aida, “or Dracula’s tomb.”
Maria and Aida were good friends. They were also both relatively green as public officials. Maybe, they thought, that’s why they got the invitation from President Nal Gismonde. Maybe he thought it would be easy to manipulate them, or get them to ease up on their very public complaints.
Maria and Aida were both in their late twenties and had both been named to the city council in last year’s cycle. They knew their positions were largely ceremonial, but both firmly believed in the squeaky wheels getting the grease. And so, against all odds, they kept squeaking. Even if it sometimes meant confronting people who wished that they would simply shut up and disappear.
That’s why, when the invitation arrived, they decided to make the most of it. In her journal that morning, Maria had scrawled the words of a twentieth-century diplomat: “You negotiate peace with your enemies, not with your friends.”
So here they were, prepared for a polite audience with a man who repulsed them in every possible way.
“Remember, hang tight,” said Maria as they passed through the outer perimeter.
“But don’t take any crap,” replied Aida.
They both laughed—nervously. Dark humor was one of the many things they had in common. And although they openly pooh-poohed the trappings of power, their pulses were starting to pound. This meeting was a very big deal.
“Ready for teatime in hell?” asked Maria.
“Pass the sugar,” said Aida.
The front of the Residence was patrolled by armed guards, augmented by a fleet of surveillance drones weaving overhead like buzzards. Maria and Aida presented their passes and papers and were waved through to an entry corridor. There, in harsh contrast with the Beaux-Arts design of the building itself, sat a massive military-grade full-body screener. Passing through the machine’s imposing arc one at a time, the two women and everything they wore and carried were quickly analyzed.
Then, as if the electronic clearance were not enough, they were required to stand on low platforms under bright lamps. Guards tapped their knees apart and poked their arms into outstretched positions and then—more slowly than necessary—ran gloved hands up and down their entire bodies.
“Have a beautiful day,” said the guards as they completed their pat-downs.
Neither Maria nor Aida responded. A few steps away, they paused to straighten their clothes.
“I think they picked my pockets,” whispered Maria with a tight smile.
“I think I just re-lost my virginity,” Aida whispered back.
They composed themselves and walked forward into a small portico, where a stylish assistant, a woman about their age, was waiting.
“Good morning, councilwomen,” said their escort. “My name is Kitani. Please, follow me.”
As if to wash away the indignity of the screening, Kitani smiled and ushered them gracefully through a door and into a long hallway with a checked tile floor. In here, Maria and Aida could almost imagine that they had been invited to a society function in the middle of the last millennium.
“Is this your first visit to the Residence?” Kitani asked, looking back over her shoulder.
“It is,” said Maria.
“I can’t believe people still live like this,” said Aida. Her comment edged more toward disapproval than envy, which Kitani politely ignored.
“The Residence is an absolute treasure,” said Kitani. “Made even brighter by your presence, of course.”
Kitani had a comforting warmth about her, as if she were truly interested in her guests. But it was lost on Maria and Aida. They were just taking in the spectacle, mentally measuring the opulence around them against the makeshift apartments and squalid group residences where most city-dwellers now lived.
“You’re probably wondering how many rooms the Residence has,” said Kitani.
“Not really,” Maria mumbled under her breath.
“Thirty-two,” Kitani continued, “with eight full baths. The floors are Italian marble, the moldings solid oak, and each of these balusters,” she said as they passed a curved staircase, “was carved from a single piece of ivory.”
Maria leaned close to whisper into Aida’s ear, “Nice. An elephant graveyard.” If Kitani heard, she was trained to pretend that she hadn’t.
The councilwomen were shown into a first-floor dining room, with high ceilings and gilded central skylights. At the far end was a dining alcove, sheltered under an arch of elaborately carved wood. A table for three was centered in the intimate space.
“Please,” said Kitani, sweeping her open hand toward the alcove. Maria and Aida slid into the cozy nook and onto perfectly formed antique dining chairs.
“The world president will be here soon,” said Kitani. “Have a beautiful day.”
At this point, if being gracious was part of the game, Maria was willing to play along.
“And you as well,” she said, though mostly to herself. Aida just nodded and put on her best fake smile. She hated this charade with her entire being.
Kitani seemed to evaporate behind a panel they had not noticed. As she left, the women heard the soft sound of classical music floating through the space, mixed with the sound of chirping birds.
When they heard the latch of the main door turn, they looked at each other and nodded.
He was here.
“Showtime,” whispered Maria.