"I understand." Manual smiled. He sat back down.

"So that's decided then," Vycter said. "This will be presented before the approved press as a law enforcement and military emergency. We'll hold a meeting together by tomorrow afternoon."

"Profiles on the victims?" Ramira asked.

Ramira's subby sprang to life. "Yes, ma'am. One second. Okay. Alan Broadbent. UK Citizen. Helen Obikwelu. Citizen of Nigeria, resident of the UK. Kenneth O'Connell, Citizen of the United States and Natasha Markov, naturalized citizen of the UK, native of Damya. All of them were appointed under a Research Commission for Sentient Rights under the UNHCR. The two Military Security personnel are Abbas Sufian Al-Qadr, Native Resident of fourth quadrant 'Ard-ul-Damm and Ivan Viktor Vikchev, second quadrant Kruv."

"That Damyan one's going to screw us over. Does she have family here?"

"No," Cihangir, Tasimov and Ramira's subby said together. Manual's 'vested interests' hung over them like a cloud.

"They moved out together ten years ago or so," Tasimov said. "She was a member of the Junior Self-Defence League. Junior Armament and everything. Under my class."

"We are well aware, Tyador," Manuel said.

Ramira coughed, trying to break the tension. "Okay, we'll obviously have to notify their native governments. And the UN commission before that, of course. That's the priority for tomorrow morning."

"Then it becomes an international news article," Manuel said.

"Not really, Minister. It will be in the news, probably. But none of the major international media outlets will have any specific details about what happened. Local press will have whatever we give them."

"What's even local press anymore?" Manual grumbled. "What's regional press? Half of them are the BBC's little arse mites."

Nobody really had anything to say that so they sat in silence. Manual lit another Pall Mall and the smell wafted around the room, segueing almost seamlessly into the dissipating cloud of his previous smoke. It only added to the mafia-pub aesthetic for Cihangir. He wanted to throw up.

"Well, if that's settled, let's move on to the investigation procedure," Vycter said. Ramira's subby powered up his laptop and Cihangir clicked for Dernig to start taking notes. That would wake him up a bit, he hoped. Get the little shit to pay some attention.

"How're we divvying this up?" Tyador asked.

"Standard procedure," Ramira said. "Anything south of the last satteltes and across the fence, we handle. With full rights to supervision and everything to you lot when you need it, of course. You handle the inner-city stuff and extend the same courtesy to us. I see no reason to change things around."

"No, that sounds fine," Vycter said. "We'll have to go down there, won't we?"

"Is that a question, CIC?" Manual asked through a cloud of smoke. Cihangir wondered how much of his cigarette was pure show. Special effects to make him look more dangerous than he actually was.

Vycter ignored him. "The sooner we make plans for that, the better."

"I agree," Ramira said. "But there's something I'd like to consider before that."

"What?"

"The Church. Have Poliz actually attempted a consultation?"

"You lot have, haven't you? Loads of times in my memory. But us, I don't know. We'll probably have to check back through the archives or something."

"We haven't," Cihangir said. "At least, not on any official capacity."

Ramira bit her lip, tapping her pen against the dossier in front of her. "Worth a shot. Browing-Harris won't listen to us. We've tried often enough for obvious reasons."

"Won't work," Manual muttered. "It never does. They might give you a sanctified rosary or something but don't expect anything more. Who knows if all that even means anything anyway?"

"See but it might be different if Poliz try. Their argument is...what's the word?" Ramira looked around the room.

"Theological?" Cihangir asked.

"Something like that. Obviously, Browning-Harris assumes we're trying to weaponize Christ. Turn the Heavenly Father into a bazooka or something. Poliz though, that might lead to something. Isn't Jesus all for truth? That's what Poliz does, right? Ascertain the truth."

"Does it look like I give a shit?" Manual asked.

Everyone turned to him, the words not quite materializing but mentally almost a harmonious chorus: do you think we give a shit what you think, you officious prick or something to that effect.

"You've been trying to squeeze this in somewhere, haven't you?" Vycter asked.

Ramira almost blushed. "No, think about how useful it'd be to have Church on our side."

"Nothing's been proved," Tyador said. "Waste of time if you ask me."

"Nonetheless," Vycter said. "The Lieutenant has a point. Take your subby and your subby's subby or whomever," he waved to Cihangir and Dernig, "and pay a visit to the good Cardinal. Take that office Cognac we haven't opened yet."

"Third quadrant finished it," Dernig muttered, sullen. It had been the first thing he had said all evening. He looked up, his face red.

"Go buy some more then, I don't know. Just suck up to them and see if we can get anything. Worth a shot."

"We'll ingress after that's been confirmed," Vycter said. "When's the next blood shipment?"

"Twenty seventh," Ramira said from memory. "That's the day after the day after. Four days from now."

"Minister, I trust you'll pave the way, politically." Vycter smiled, tired, haggard and entirely devoid of mirth.

"It will be brought before parliament. The representatives will have their voice." He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and coughed a little.

Cihangir watched him, a little awed. Manual and his National Core Party had been intermittently in power for most of Cihangir's life, it's composition remaining more or less the same. Other political alliances and formations, the Nationalist Union, the Liberation Party, the Communist Party and everything else came and went around them and National Core sat in the center even when it wasn't, technically, in power. Manual always sat in the centre of the centre, an emaciated, bald spider. The representatives were the party and the party was Manual. And Manual would have his voice.

"Right, we'll discuss that as it comes up. We're done."

In the lobby, Tyador and Cihangir hung back till everyone else had dispersed and Tyador hugged him tight. "How do you feel?"

"Guilty," Cihangir said, walking towards the car.

"What about?"

"About not feeling much else. Give Miss Alghami and the kids my love, Tyad. See you tomorrow."

"Keep keen," Tyador told him and Cihangir repeated the platitude. It was something you told someone who was driving at night. And the cars slowly emerged from the parking lot and emerged into the empty streets, their drivers careful and watchful. As they should be as night had fallen.