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“Andrew got me to fly over to see him. That was when he gave me this handbag. It’s Miu Miu,” she explained. “He was always giving me lots of little things like that.”
“So you felt obliged to help him out because of that?” Richard asked, returning to the subject of the envelope.
“Not exactly. I decided it would be a good idea because, I thought that, seeing as we got on so well together in Helsinki, I thought maybe if I helped you with the envelope, you would quite likely be interested in seeing more of me.”
Richard was surprised but delighted with this idea, but before he could express his delight she added: “As a customer.”
9. A Word For Winter
Karl Marx was right. In late capitalism, every human relationship would be based on money. Now that the idea was in Richard’s head, it was pretty much irresistible. The idea of Melanie, that is, not the idea of Karl Marx being cynically correct.
So it seemed Melanie had simply taken the opportunity to advertise herself to a prime potential customer in return for helping Mitchell. Fair enough. He wondered if he’d paid for her services back in Helsinki. He couldn’t remember handing over any money, but then he could hardly remember anything about that night. So maybe that was the explanation, and it hadn’t been romantic infatuation after all, which was a shame. But he wouldn’t mind seeing her again anyway, even on those terms.
Whatever the case, Melanie would have to wait until later. In fact, she might need to wait until he could afford a Miu Miu bag or two. She seemed to imply she thought he could be as good a customer as Mitchell had been in that respect. Unfortunately for her, that was most unlikely; he had a hard enough job paying his normal bills, never mind trying to pay for an expensive ‘girlfriend’.
Anyway, right now, all he wanted to do was open the envelope. He watched Melanie walk off, back in the direction of Knightsbridge. For some reason, he wanted to make sure she wouldn’t see him opening the envelope. That act was going to be too private. It was possibly even dangerous. By the time he judged she was far enough away, he was itching to get it open and have done with it.
Some burka-clad women were waddling towards him, and skaters suddenly appeared and sped off. He would need to head further into the park, into the trees. There he would be alone. Alone, and therefore vulnerable in a different way.
He began walking further into the centre of the park, looking for a quiet bench. He wanted to be sure no one was watching. He also felt he had to sit down to open the envelope. He was so nervous about it; it was worse than getting exam results. He could feel his heart beating. At last he found a quiet park bench.
The burka-clad women were well in the distance now, being overtaken by some joggers. He sat down. With trembling hands, he ended up accidentally ripping the envelope open so clumsily that it burst apart, sending a flash-drive and a smaller envelope spinning into the air. Fortunately, they were both white and easily visible. He scrabbled to retrieve them, quickly and anxiously checking the ground at his feet to make sure nothing else had dropped out. Nothing had.
He stared at the small envelope, almost as though it was beyond belief. Something that was impossible had finally happened.
The word was clearly marked on the small envelope. The word he had been waiting for. There it was… ZIMA!
“Zima” (in fact, ‘зима’ in Cyrillic) was Russian for “winter”.
It was too good to be true! A wave of relief swept over him, as though he had been trapped, but the trap had sprung open, releasing him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had never felt such a feeling of elation and freedom. Soon the whole world would be free!
He opened the second envelope, but it was almost as though the second envelope was reversing the spell the first had cast. He was already becoming aware that, in reality, the word Zima had not liberated him; not yet. Instead he would be moving, in some intangible way, into a world of shadows and danger.
But at least he now knew. The sense of anticipation had been replaced by a calmness. Now he knew where he stood. He knew for certain he would need to do everything carefully.
The second envelope contained a key and a message from Mitchell.
“Richard, if you are opening this envelope it is because something has gone wrong for me. I left this message with someone I could trust, so they could pass it on to you. This is a copy of the key to my desk (#31). There you will find the remaining instructions. Too bad that we could not work together on this.
You blanked me in Helsinki. Please, you must proceed now. This is the only chance.”
Richard blinked. “Blanked him?” He closed his eyes and tried to remember. For some reason, he put his hand to his forehead and immediately felt stupid and self-conscious about it. He was distracted by the image of himself posing thoughtfully. Suddenly the trees darkening in the distance were the Tulgey Wood in which the Jabberwock lived.
“As in uffish thought he stood.”
He couldn’t remember. There was nothing. No real memory at all of what had happened in Helsinki. He decided that it could not be important anyway. Everything was clear now; now he knew what he had to do.
All of this had taken years, and had been delayed by months by the misunderstanding or miscommunication, or whatever it was, in Helsinki. Now he could not contain his impatience – he wanted to get hold of those instructions immediately. He had to remind himself he needed to do all of this very carefully, but his thoughts were in turmoil. What if I go back to the office with the memory stick and someone asks to see what is on it? Is there going to be anything on it or in the instructions that would be explicit or incriminating? If so, is it better to keep them (the memory stick and instructions) separate to reduce the chances that they will incriminate me?
But the turmoil didn’t end there. It swept around him like a maelstrom: If I have to keep the memory stick and remaining instructions separate, how might I do it? He weighed his options anxiously. He thought of taking the stick home first, before going back to the office, or putting it in a locker in a train station, or hiding it some- where in Hyde Park, or even posting it to himself in an envelope.
But he’d waited years for this and didn’t want to leave it anywhere until he knew what it contained. Now he had it, he somehow couldn’t let go of it, whatever the risk. He was stuck with it, held in its power like Gollum and the One Ring To Rule Them All. It was his “precious”.
He would have to go back to the office. Why was he so worried someone there might ask why he’d come back? Returning to the office wasn’t such an outlandish thing to do. So what if he was carrying instructions that would sabotage the entire banking system? Why on Earth would anyone ask to see what he was carrying? No matter how incriminating the material was, no one would have any cause to ask to see it. Finally, he succeeded in reassuring himself he might as well go back and get whatever it was out of Mitchell’s desk as soon as he could.
???
He was back in the tube, on his way back to the office. It was already building up to rush hour. The tube was busy. Richard held the memory stick in a fist made by his right hand and kept it in his pocket. Whenever he became desensitised to it through familiarity with its shape, he would give a little squeeze to reset his perception of touch. As though, if he didn’t, it might really vanish. The idea the whole thing was, in any case, just a dream, also haunted him. Even the preposterous notion some particularly expert pickpocket would be able to steal it from within his grasp nagged him.
He had to do everything else with just his left hand. He kept his Oyster Card in his left-hand pocket so that it would be easy to get through the tube barrier.
10. Four Seasons
(Glasgow – 1977)
Richard had gone to meet Eddie in the Socialist People’s Party bookshop on the top floor of a tenement building in Queen Street. As usual, there was no one there except whoever had volunteered to man the till. Today it was Linda McPherson, who had doomed herself to sit in the store for hours with little prospect of a paying customer.
There wasn’t a huge demand for the sort of books stocked by the Socialist People’s Party bookshop. They were mainly thin revolutionary pamphlets that preached only to the converted. Or, at the other extreme, academic tomes probably only read by the writer and his publisher.
Once, Richard’s attention had been caught by one of these mighty works, bound in three hefty volumes – A Revolution Betrayed: The History of the Soviet Union from 1917 to 1956. He imagined it might be interesting to read this to get an insight, from a non-capitalist viewpoint, of what had gone wrong, and understand what had gone right. But after struggling through two pages of academic sociology-based language, Richard had slotted the book back where it belonged – to gather dust on the top shelf. As usual, Eddie was dressed in the uniform of the party: a black donkey jacket and dark blue jeans. His thinning black hair was combed tight onto his scalp. His eyes blazed angrily through thick-rimmed black glasses. In his own mind, he had earnestly avoided following any of the current fashions. In doing so, he had spectacularly failed to avoid the fashion peculiar to the Socialist People’s Party.
He went to open the back room and found it was locked. “Hey Linda, we need tuh get through ra back.”
Linda, in her guise as a post-feminist punk dominatrix, condescendingly unlocked the door to the back room to allow them through. She was in charge today. She scowled at them through her thick, dark make-up.
“Next time let me know when you want tae use that room,” she said in a voice that could curdle milk.
“Sorry Linda. You know ra both ay us anyway,” said Eddie.
Linda didn’t think this worthy of a reply. She simply resumed her task for today of looking bored, sitting with her legs daintily crossed, on a chair next to the till. She flicked open a paperback novel and directed her bored attention to its pages.
Eddie ushered Richard into the room and locked the door behind them.
They sat down side by side at a table in the centre of the room. Eddie seemed very tense, as though it was he, not Richard, who was about to commit to this.
“Nice posters,” said Richard. There were no windows in this room. On the far wall there was a row of four Soviet posters, depicting winter, spring, summer and autumn. Each poster had the name of the season in Cyrillic at the top and a transliteration in English letters at the bottom. They were evidently printed for tour- ists, though there was hardly such a thing as a Western tourist in the USSR at that time. When visiting the Soviet Union, Western visitors had to go via an official route as civil servants, trade unionists, in school parties, or some other form of official delegation. Individual tourists were a rare species.
“Archie brought thum back. He loves his hoalidays in Russia.”
“He told me all about it. He even told me about the posters. He was dead chuffed with them.”
“Yup. He likes his Russian culture.”
“I guess it’s harmless enough.”
“Yeah.”
The way Eddie said it reminded Richard that Eddie knew there was considerable doubt in his, Richard’s, mind about the USSR and how harmless it was. In itself, that wasn’t a great betrayal. There was doubt about the USSR in the minds of most people in the People’s Party. The old-timers like Archie still hadn’t shaken off their pro-Soviet tendencies, but many of the younger guys looked to China as the main hope of a socialist future. Some of them, like Richard and Stuart, didn’t like any of the current examples of socialism.
“Must be terribly expensive to travel there though.”
“Contacts via ra unions. It’s all organised by his union. It’s dirt cheap, apparently.”
“Probably subsidised.” Richard didn’t hide a slightly sneering tone in the word “subsidised”. What was he, he asked himself. Some sort of “perfect market” apologist? Was it wrong for committed Party members to be subsidised? Especially when they were going on a high-minded cultural exchange to see one of the few working examples of a supposedly socialist country.
Richard felt embarrassed. He wondered if Eddie had noticed his sneering tone. To his dismay he realised he probably had, because Eddie was looking sideways at him; what he was saying amounted to a defence of Archie: “He has to go to a lot ay seminars while he’s there, cuz it’s supposed tae be an official visit, but he loves rat kinda hing anyhow.”
“Not my idea of fun though.” Richard winced to hear himself. Now why had he blurted that out? A lot of the stuff the activists did wasn’t fun. It was to do with attending long, boring meetings; committee work. They didn’t rush around doing exciting stuff. They didn’t try to assassinate anyone or commit terrorist acts, but they were quite convinced that passing resolutions at their meetings would eventually lead to international socialism, to fairness and equality. Richard didn’t mean to criticise this, only he wanted to short circuit it. He wanted something more direct. Something truly revolutionary.
“Anyway, wur here fur a purpose, Richard. You sure about this by ra way?”
Richard was aware that some of the Party members, including Eddie, doubted his sincerity. He was thankful that Stuart had vouched for him and convinced Eddie to take his plan seriously. Their first meeting to discuss things had gone well. This was the final hurdle. All he had to do now was avoid hesitation. Deep down he knew he was more committed and had clearer ideas about his objectives than any of the others, even Eddie.
“Dead sure. I don’t need any more discussion about it.”
“OK. We’ve been told what we need fur codes. We need things that you’ll remember in any context, mibby years frae now. Things that will stick out but no’ too much.”
“OK. I know that already from the last meeting.”
“You’ll write them down, and stick rum in this envelope, but don’t let me see rum. I’m no involved. I’m just goanie pass ruh envelope oan. As we discussed before, ruh first contact might be quite tricky. Someone just turning up out ay ra blue one day…”
“OK. So…” Richard wanted to check again if this was OK. “I need to be quite sure of one thing: that no one will know me personally. They’ll know me only as a set of code words that matches a person who’s going to identify himself and his location once a year (or no more than four times a year if things change quickly). I have to do this via a specific type of advert in a specific newspaper, as we discussed. This means a handler can locate me and then can identify himself to me using the first code word, or code phrase.”
Eddie nodded, “Yes, that’s the deal. Happy with that?” “Everything seems OK to me. I only have your word that you’re not going to look at the codes though.”
“You don’t need tuh worry about me, I canny do anything with the codes.”
Richard was agitated. “But how…”
“Listen, whit mair can ah do? For whit it’s worth, you can have mah word if you want it. You huv the word ae Eddie MacFarlane, the guy that’s nivvur let anybuddy in the Party down.” Eddie looked angrily at Richard. “OK, Eddie, it’s fine. This is a bit more stressful than I expected.”
“Your handler won’t have anything tae identify you by except these codes. And no one else will know them.” Eddie seemed to be trying to say it in a reassuring way.
“I don’t want to leave a trace of who I am.”
“That’s already agreed. Ah think ris wull work out just fine. The codes for the first contact just need to be quite exact so rut, wance we’ve goat a use fur ye, we assign a handler. He gets ra code words and then gets in touch with ye.”
“It’s all good Eddie.”
“Ruh hing is, you may never hear frae anyone. This all depends on you getting into some sort ae position where yu’re goannae be useful. It also depends on you no aborting when yu’re coantacted.” Eddie paused. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say this but he was going to anyway. “By ruh way if you want tae abort fur ideological reasons dae it now, right? I don’t want tae be part ay a complete waste ay time.”
“No problem, Eddie. I don’t know why you doubt me. I trust the Party. I’m in agreement with its overall objectives. As far as I’m concerned, aborting is only for operational reasons – if there’s an obstacle. We can suspend and resume if we have doubts and only abort if we know for sure there’s an insurmountable problem. We discussed it all in detail back at your place. We went through lots of different scenarios. We even did some role play exercises, as you know.”
“Remember, frae now oan yu’re no going tae be dealing wi’ pals. There’s gonnae be no Stuart, no Eddie, no naebuddy tae help frae now oan. I know ruh guy that I’m handing this envelope tae, but I don’t know what kind of person or group that it goes tae efter rat. We have tae trust that it’s someone competent.”
“I’m sure it will be. I’ve never met anyone in the Party that was a fool.” He hesitated and then decided he’d better say it. “One thing though, Eddie. As you know, I’m not interested in marches or any of that sort of agitprop shite. I want this to be something real. If I’m going to do anything, I want it to be something significant. I don’t want to find that my mission is to unplug the photocopier or put some scratch marks on the boss’s car.”
“Fur this idea of yours to work, we have to hope that you end up somewhere useful.”
“That’s not looking too good at the moment. I might need to try to change the course of my degree a bit. Accountancy would be good but I don’t fancy it. I might have to add in a bit more Economics.”
“Ah wish ah could just casually say stuff like that. I struggled tae get a few O levels.”
“Well, I’m not saying it will be easy, but I need to find something that gets me somewhere.”
“Ah’m still worried. As soon as you get a decent job as an accountant, or whatever, you’ll be wan ay ‘them’ – the bosses. You’ll be driving around in a fancy car waving two fingers at yur old coamrades.” Eddie’s face was already starting to twist in anger at the thought.
“It’s not like that at all, Eddie. This is more important than making a few quid for myself. I want to see a new kind of society. If an advanced country like Britain can give a lead, the world will follow. It will transform the lives of millions of people. The way society’s organised just now, money and status are intertwined. In the society we want, the link will be broken. Do you see what I’m saying? Money …” he gave a grunt of disgust. He’d said stuff like this before anyway. He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Eddie knew what he meant.
“Right, OK, let’s get oan wi’ it. So this is what you need tae do. This is the list ay actions that need codes.” Eddie pushed a form towards Richard. “You already have this list from our last meet. I’ll go out tae ruh bookstore and leave you tae write codes that corre- spond to each of these actions. When yu’re done, droap it aw in ruh envelope here and I’ll come back in and get it. Take yur time. Yu’ve got aw day. I’m just going to go outside and chat to Linda while you get ruh codes written.”
Eddie went back out to the bookshop and left him to it.
Richard already knew his words. Four of them were right there on the wall in front of him: Zima, Vesna, Leyta, Ocyen. He needed something memorable and knew this would work. For identification, he needed phrases that would jump out. Hopefully the ones he had decided on were ones that he could remember no matter what, but anyone else (who overheard by accident) would presume to be just some sort of literary quote. He took out his copy of the codes that he’d decided on and copied them neatly onto Eddie’s form:
Identify handler: When the stranger returns you must wake up.
Discuss: You will remember me again when we meet one day, though we have not met.
Identify operation: Zima (Winter)
Suspend: Vesna (Spring)
Resume: Leyta (Summer)
Abort: Ocyen (Autumn)
He read them all one last time. He was happy enough. He folded the form neatly, put it in the envelope and sealed it. He stuffed his own copy back into his pocket. He would burn it later.
11. Focussed
He was a young man then. Now what was he? Nearly sixty! His life had gone past like a dream. He’d got into IT, then banking software. He had never settled down anywhere.
More years had passed than he had expected. He felt like one of those Japanese soldiers hidden in the jungle from the forties until the seventies, not realising WWII was over – except this war, the Class War, was not over. It hadn’t even started. The memory of choosing all those code words had faded to a blur. It all seemed not quite real any more. The codes themselves were firmly imprinted in his mind, even though, for many years, he had given up on ever hearing them. He even wondered if they had been totally serious at the time. Well, they must’ve been, because here he was: about to take the biggest risk of his life to put their plan into action.
In fact, he hadn’t climbed very far up the ladder to a position of any particular power. He hadn’t climbed to the dizzy heights he might have imagined as a student. Even Stuart’s progress had been greater – university lecturer, or whatever he was. That part of the plan had been a complete failure. In the end it was just luck that had put him into an IT job in the banking industry, where he believed he could carry out his plan. Where he was now, he was too lowly to attract much attention, but he had real opportunities to do damage – he was trusted to deploy software for an important private bank. If only the Party realised what they could do with him, and if only they had the right resources to exploit the opportunity. He had access to a weak point in the banking system. He could deploy software that could sabotage an important private bank. He could deliver a psychological blow that would spread uncertainty and panic among some of the richest and most powerful people in Europe.
He’d almost given up on getting anything from the Party when now, at last, it had become obvious that the financial system, still recovering slowly and painfully from the financial crisis of 2008, would not survive a further shock. At last they had sent him the package he’d been hoping for.
He’d lost touch with Stuart and Eddie years ago. Of course, losing touch was part of the deal. The last he’d seen of Eddie was an angry face, mouth wide open, shouting. Eddie’s enraged face shouted out of a photo in the Evening Times. That was Eddie: he had a short fuse. The accompanying story was that he, and several others, had been arrested on a demo in support of the miners during the miners’ strike in the eighties. The strike had failed. After that, the old-style socialism that Richard had grown up with, but never really believed in, had died worldwide.
Richard could remember the photo of Eddie almost as though it was projected into space in front of him. The furious anger of his face shouting out of the newspaper was iconic of those times. So many of the activists back then were angry young men. Angry, but not well focussed. Richard speculated that, deep down, Eddie wasn’t motivated by a desire to change society; he merely wanted to exorcise his own demons. Give vent to his fury at the world.
But Eddie was never more calm than he was that day when Richard handed the codes to him. That day they had both been focussed on achieving something.
12. A Real Campaigner
To begin with, Eddie had been shocked Richard had come up with this plan. He was also somewhat suspicious of his motives. Eddie sometimes doubted if Richard was even a socialist of any sort. Stuart had vouched for him, though, and Stuart knew him better than anyone. Stuart was rock solid. A real campaigner.
