Page 19 of Darling
“His Humble Messengers. Formed in 1982 by a pastor called Lucas Simmons in Logan, Ohio. He passed in 2004, and directorship of the church passed to his son, Jeremiah, who had a more expansive vision for it. Began calling the church an organisation and moved into Televangelism. They opened a church in LA in 2008. Ten years later, a third in Florida. I think they have seven or eight now across the country. They’re reminiscent of the IBLP.” She sees the blank look on my face and goes on, “Institute of Basic Life Principles. Another cult. I mean, non-denominational Christian fundamentalist church.”
I blink, veritably impressed by her knowledge. “Are they… well, above board?”
One side of her mouth pinches “Well, they’re a church, so almost probably not.” I huff out a laugh at the directness. “Why do you ask?”
I’d prepared for this. “I read an article about them in a magazine the other day. Piqued my interest; we don’t have this sort of thing in the UK. I mean, not to this extent.”
She nods slowly, but there’s a look on her face that suggests she might not quite believe it. Perhaps the CIAisfollowing my extracurriculars.
“The article spoke to some people who’d left the organisation, whose families were still… inside. I wondered if they were in any danger; if it was the sort of… organisation… who retaliatedagainst those who left?”
“That I don’t know, sir, but I can see what I can find out if you’d like?”
To say yes would be a risk, I suppose. It’s likely she already knows there’s more to this. It’s likely the CIA knows all about the boy I spent Saturday night with and where he came from, and all I’ve done is confirm everything. But then I think about the sound of Asher’s voice as he said he missed his mom, the look on his face when he explained how he’d left everything behind when he realised he was gay. I think about that devastating smile, and how wild and free his heart is despite all of that, and I feel protective of it. Ofhim. I’m sure he doesn’t need my help or my protection. Christ, he’s done everything by himself so far and has turned out magnificently. But I give Seema a nod anyway.
“Yes, if you could. I’d like to know more about this Jeremiah Simmons person.”
Seema nods. “You got it, sir.”
??
My next meeting is with Micah and Sara about the upcoming ambassador’s dinner next month. A yearly cross-departmental, cross-diplomatic, cultural extravaganza that has more traditions than the swearing in of parliament. Married ambassadors usually delegate this to their spouse, and so I have to okay almost every aspect of it myself. Guest list, wine list, each course (including appetisers), music, decoration, lighting. This one is supposed to serve as an introduction for me, set my stage in terms of style and culture, so there are lots of additional decisions about taste and style preferences that I’ve truly never given much thought to before. What flower do I think best represents me? What scent should the residence have? What colour best evokes me as a person. I’m usually tired after a halfhour of these meetings.
“Have you had any confirmation on whether your son will be attending?” asks Micah, scribbling something down in his notepad, which he favours over a tablet.
“Ah, no, not yet. I’ll call him this evening and confirm.”
Micah nods. “And if he’s bringing a guest, we will need a name and any other relevant details for the vetting process.”
“Of course.”
Sara cuts in, “The tailor from Amalfi is scheduled for next Thursday for the final fitting of your tux.”
“Perfect.” I glance at my watch. “If that’s all for now, I’ve a call with the foreign secretary at three and I have some stuff to prepare beforehand.”
“We can follow up tomorrow, sir, no problem.”
After Sara and Micah leave, I make myself a coffee from the machine in the corner and take it into the conference room—adjoined via a small corridor from my office—with my notes. It’s already been set up for the video call, the screen turned on, and the embassy logo standing proudly in the centre. As I wait, I shoot off a text to Leo to ask if he’s free later to catch up. Then I open up my conversation with Asher. We’ve been communicating, texting, likehisgeneration prefers, but I haven’t seen him since Saturday evening. Felix also prefers to text, and since it was the method that almost ruined us, one would have thought I’d be smart enough not to repeat the mistake a second time. But I’ve learned nothing from Adrian’s gambit, clearly.
Me:
Afternoon. Are you busy?
His response is immediate.
Z (I’d put his initial as Z for Zachary because, despite all evidence to the contrary, I was still capable of being a little careful.)
Z:
If you’re asking, then I guess it means you’re not?
Me:
I’m waiting to take a call
Z:
Of course you are, old man