Auckland, New Year’s Eve 1999
Graham sat in his penthouse, swilling the whisky in his glass slowly as he looked out across the crowds thronging the streets, ready to greet the new millennium. Even the pedants who insisted the next year marked the end of the old one were out there, ready to join a collective expression of defiance at the stupidity of the new calendar that more and more countries were going along with.
Graham was proud of them, even as he sat apart in the dark. Part of him had been tempted to join the festivities, but knowing how close they had come to disaster he was determined to remain alert — the glass in his hand was there to fiddle with far more than for drinking from, the ice long ago melted.
All field agents had had their leave rescinded, deployed on the streets here, in Wellington and Christchurch and essentially anywhere that was having any kind of officially organised civic celebration. The fact that many threats had been neutralised was no guarantee that some malign actors hadn’t slipped through the net.
He was still, technically, on duty in case of any last minute issues. Then again, he was never really off duty, these days. In a position like his, one was expected to be permanently on call. He had even used an extension cord to allow the old-fashioned telephone that usually sat on his desk to join his glass of whisky on the little side table, just in case.
It was the “television crews” that had got to Graham most, ridiculously enough. It was commonplace for the world’s media to want to cover the celebrations here. And so no one had spotted until it was almost too late how many of those visiting contained one or more individuals for whom this was their very first gig.
Graham knew that there were also a few — mercifully only a very few — home-grown “activists”, though most that they had picked up had been receiving some sort of assistance, be it in financial or practical terms, from elsewhere.
And all of it over what year it was about to be.
The telephone rang suddenly, its trilling filling the dark emptiness of the room.
Graham very deliberately took a small sip of whisky before putting the glass down to pick up the receiver. “Featherington,” he said.
“Good evening, sir.” It was Fiona, the co-ordinator who actually was on duty this evening. “You asked for a report.”
He had, indeed, at 2345 sharp. It was much later than he had realised. “And?”
“Everything is proceeding smoothly, nothing untoward detected and all agents have reported in on schedule.”
“Very glad to hear it,” Graham said.
“Happy new year, sir,” she said, but something in the tone of her voice indicated that her heart wasn’t really in the sentiment.
“And the same to you,” Graham said. He was about to hang up when something made him say, “Remember, nothing lasts forever.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fiona said.
“All this troubles me, too, you know,” Graham said. It was rare to the point of unheard of for him to discuss his own feelings. Perhaps he had had more to drink than he thought.
He could picture the wan smile on Fiona’s face as she said, “I know, I know.” And then the way her expression would have turned darker as she added, “But it’s all just so absurd.” She forced herself to brighten. “As you say, though, nothing lasts forever.”
“Goodnight,” Graham said. “I’ll see you when I’m back next week.”
“See you then, sir. Goodnight.”
Graham waited until he heard the soft purring of the phone line before hanging up himself, then turned his attention back to the view outside: the crowd was getting excited now as the moment approached.
Fiona was right: the whole thing was absurd. Foreign intelligence agencies — ones who had, until the last few years, been amongst their closest allies — had tried to disrupt the New Year’s Eve celebrations to … what, make some sort of ridiculous point? Not that there was even that much of a point to be made; it was really nothing more than a pathetic resentment that anyone dared not to acknowledge their new dating system.
The world was going quite mad, in Graham’s opinion. And while he genuinely believed what he’d said to Fiona, he was increasingly unsure whether he personally would live to see the end of it.
At least none of the plots they’d uncovered had been intentionally lethal, though Graham had his doubts that some of them wouldn’t have involved unintended casualties or caused dangerous stampedes as the crowds panicked.
But how much longer would things stay at that level? The reports coming from elsewhere about the treatment of the mathematically gifted were concerning, to say the least. It wouldn’t take much for the paranoia to grow to the extent that the occasional extra-territorial assassination might be seen as justifiable. Woe betide anyone who showed a little too much talent in that direction, even if they happened to be a citizen of a country that refused to join the insanity.
And, if or when that line was crossed, what guarantee was there that it would remain as a shadow conflict of espionage and subterfuge? At the moment, diplomatic and trading links kept an increasingly fragile peace in place. But if 2000 was now judged to be too high a number to try to count up to for the year, then surely global GDP of 30 trillion didn’t mean anything at all.
Graham raised his glass in an ironic, silent toast to his counterparts elsewhere who were seeing out the final hours of what they called year 12.
Year 13, indeed. Unlucky for some. Or so it was very much to be hoped.
Graham knocked back the rest of his whisky and allowed himself a smile as the fireworks began.