“How do you know this minority really is wise?” I asked. “Might they not be as stupid as that majority of fools?”
Gudrun looked uncomfortable. “Most of the time we are just trying to offer an alternative view. Putting a brake on bandwagons. On the rare occasions we have to go further, any action has to be sanctioned by an inner cabinet of five people. It’s like the American President or British Prime Minister, where a single person can’t press the nuclear button on his own just because he’s feeling grumpy.”
I couldn’t resist the obvious comment: “So within Stockmanns it’s the Majority who decides?”
Gudrun, who had paid the bill, got up. Ignored my quip. Just said, “Time for some proper food.”
Alexei and I followed, like dutiful children.
15
Next morning Gudrun arrived at our hotel after breakfast to take us on the official Stockmann inspection tour. Again it started with a brisk walk, sloth being not an option, but today we headed in the opposite direction, towards the hills. When we reached Majorstua station she bought us day tickets, handed us a map of T-Banen, the metro system, and said, “A hundred years ago this is where Christiana, as Oslo was then called, ended. From here on it was fields and forests. Then they started building villas further up, until we have what you see today: suburbs that reach up into the clouds. I’ll be taking you as far as Slemdal, where Stockmann has its base. A quick tour there and the rest of the day is yours. A well-earned holiday.”
After Majorstua the lines spread out, so we had to wait until the third train arrived, which took us up and away, eventually to Slemdal station, from where it was a five minute walk to Stockmanns, housed in a large villa, maybe fifty years old, surrounded by plenty of greenery.
Gudrun had told us most of what we needed to know the previous day, so in terms of hard information this tour was an anti-climax: just people sitting in front of computer screens, although there may have been other rooms off limits. But it did yield one useful insight. This did not appear to be an organisation that was short of money. We were of course in a country that was not short of money. Through the lucky chance of sitting on a sea of oil and the not-so-lucky ability to manage the proceeds sensibly, Norway had become extremely wealthy. Even within this context Stockmanns stood out. It was an impression more than anything else, but I suspected this was the reason Gudrun was showing it to us. Our employers were bankrolled by serious money; it was an outfit able to pay Alexei and me ‘Consultant Fees’ of £2,000 a month for doing very little.
After a tour lasting little more than half an hour, Gudrun sent us on our way by suggesting a visit to Holmenkollen ski jump, a few stations further on.
Although Val Fornet had no ski jump, as a manager for Snow Supreme I was well into winter sports and had once been lucky enough to be checking on our Austrian clients during the Four Hills tournament, when I had been invited to a couple of these events. Skiing is generally not a spectator sport, better for doing than watching, but ski jumping is the exception. How anyone could be mad enough to launch themselves into space with only a couple of planks to land on was beyond me. The world record had recently broken the 250 metre barrier - over a quarter of a kilometre in the air with no parachute. Insanity!
Alexei was of course another skiing freak - that’s how we had met - so a visit to Holmenkollen, the place where skiing had started as a sport, was a pilgrimage for both of us.
Oslo’s premier ski jump has had something like a dozen makeovers since it was first built in the late 1800s and is now as much a theme park as a sporting venue. We began with a visit to the ski museum. Then a snack. The afternoon was adrenaline time: a zip-line whoosh down the jump, then a go on the ski racing simulator.
We arrived back at the Saga in late afternoon, on a high and, as Stockmann was footing the bill there, decided to have dinner at the hotel. Norwegian prices were scary enough to make even folk with salaries like Alexei’s think twice.
For the main course we both chose ‘rype’, a game bird from the mountains, something like grouse I’d guess. And a bottle of red from Oz, which had risen to a stratospheric number of Norwegian Kroner after its humble birth in the Barossa valley: not that we cared. We then got down to discussing what we had learnt from our visit.
“Stockmann seems to be a pressure group with teeth,” was Alexei’s verdict.
“At least they need a majority decision if those teeth have to bite...”
“A Majority decision by a Minority. Really confusing.”
I grinned. “Anyway, Kuznetsov’s joyride down the mountain would seem to have been sanctioned by... I believe Gudrun called it Stockmann’s Inner Cabinet.”
“Vigilante-ism, more like,” said Alexei. “Taking the law into their own hands.”
“Gudrun claims the law is useless in such matters. That it doesn’t properly protect you.”
Alexei shrugged. Took a sip of Barossa Valley’s best. “Well, we are a long way from having to do anything so drastic. We’re being well paid for spending a little time being nice to a rather strange young man. Might as well continue along the same lines. See what happens.”
“You mean you are spending time being nice to Freddie. So far I’ve done nothing. We agreed you should take the brunt of it because you talk the same language: money. But it surely can’t all be money talk?”
“There’s a lot of money talk because he claims to have programmes that can beat the bookies. Not on the horses, roulette, anything like that, but mainly on Premier League football results. Most of us don’t have the time or know-how to pull it off, but this is a guy who spends every waking hour at his computer and is a maths genius.”
“If that’s all he gets up to, Gudrun shouldn’t have much to worry about.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not all. Freddie also enjoys worming his way into the financial strong-rooms of multi-national companies. Not physically of course. Electronically. It’s an ability that’s beginning to gain him a following, most worryingly from an apostle calling himself ‘Panda’.”
“Like the black and white bears?”
Alexei nodded. “Most of us use pseudonyms. I’m Nancy. Freddie is into numbers rather than people, so doesn’t seem interested in finding out more about Panda. I have to tread carefully, so have not yet asked any awkward questions. All I know so far is that Panda is male and lives in China.”
“The country which is investing heavily in the West and already owns much of the Middle East and Africa. The country that some people think is set on conquering the world. Maybe there’s a reason for Gudrun’s paranoia about Freddie.”
Alexei nodded. “Ricketts may be weird, but he’s not stupid. He’s already had one small spat with the law and that’s probably made him careful, so as yet I haven’t come across anything that might be termed illegal. Certainly not treasonable.”
“Are you happy to keep on monitoring him?”
Alexei shrugged. “‘Happy’ is too strong a word. But I’ll do it, yes. Partly because I’m curious. If I take on a job, I like to finish it. And this one is only beginning.”
“As I said, if there is anything I can do...?”
“There might be something...” She looked pensive. “Are you a cat person?”
“Cat, like in pussies? Moggies?”
“Is there another sort?”
There was still a lot I did not know about my beloved, one of the most important being whether she was a cat or dog person. Many a relationship has foundered on the rocks of pet preference. I liked most animals, but if pushed preferred cats. Cats were independent creatures who knew they were superior to us, but were not averse to a cuddle when they felt like it. Dogs, although often adorable, could be almost too obsequious. So, in answer to her question, I admitted to being a cat person.
“Excellent,” said Alexei. “People like Ricketts tend to have obsessions and he has two. Fiddling with figures. And Cobber.”
“Copper, the metal?”
“No, Cobber with ‘b’s, not ‘p�
�s. Cobber is a large tabby that Freddie dotes on. I’ve seen photos of the brute, who seems to spend his nights killing wildlife and the day sleeping it off on a rug by Freddie’s feet.”
“You think I might wheedle my way into Ricketts favour by making nice noises about his cat?”
“It’d be a cinch. Freddie’s potty about the animal. Only feeds it Whiskas, because that’s all it’ll eat: apart from mice, baby rabbits and so on, which it brings in after a night’s hunting and then crunches away on Freddie’s bed.”
“You seem to know a lot about Ricketts that’s nothing to do with money.”
“I try to stay on the straight and narrow of finance, but am forever being diverted by Cobber. If you could take care of puss, it might leave me free to concentrate on more important matters.”
“Will do. Give me an intro and I’ll soon be Freddie’s cyber cat pal.” I was glad to have a chance of doing my bit. Take some of the load off Alexei. And feel I was earning some of their inflated consultancy fee.
Having sorted out our Ricketts’ commitments, Alexei and I turned to things more personal. We both enjoyed our jobs, even though they kept us apart. Brief encounters like this were all the sweeter for being... well, brief. One day we would get down to arranging something closer. More permanent. Perhaps.
Meanwhile, we had the tenuous link of our part-time commitment to Stockmann, an organisation that was both impressive and disturbing. Well endowed, with patrons in high places, it claimed the high ground for the Minority, by which they meant Stockmann itself. In this lofty purpose they did not hesitate to dispose of people they considered dangerous. Kuznetsov - Vishnevskaya - might well have been a dodgy Russian double-agent, intent on eliminating Igor, but we only had Gudrun’s word for it. I could still remember his eyes, wandering, uncomprehending, as he lay dying in the alpine snow. Was Kuznetsov what she said he was? If so, did he really deserve his fate?
And what of our Valkyrie hostess? Stockmann would doubtless have files inches thick on Alexei and me, but we knew absolutely nothing about Gudrun. We’d been in her company long enough that personal details would normally have emerged. Married? Children? Background? Gudrun had been silent to the point of deviousness.
Did this really matter? Alexei and I were being paid good money to cultivate the friendship of a young computer nerd. Report back to Stockmann if we came across anything interesting. Harmless enough. If things escalated, we could always re-evaluate. If necessary bail out.
So Alexei and I enjoyed our last few hours together, before jetting off in opposite directions: to London and Athens. With promises to keep in touch.
16
RICHMOND. NOVEMBER
It was totally unexpected.
I was coming to the end of my autumn lay-off, between Sea Supreme’s summer season and the coming winter with Snow Supreme. For the first time Alexei and I had been able to see each other on a regular basis. This was mainly at weekends, because Morgan Durlacher liked to get its pound of flesh out of her during the week, but for the past month or so we had begun to think of ourselves as a fairly normal couple.
I should have seen it coming, but one of my areas of expertise has always been the ability to stick my head firmly into the sand. Even when, at the end of October, Regal Airlines went bust, I saw no red flags. Although Supreme Holidays used Regal for most of its flights, I had assumed the only outcome would be a minor panic as our office scrambled to find alternative carriers. I was wrong. My employers turned out to have been heavily invested in Regal and when things started to go seriously pear-shaped they compounded their error by pouring yet more cash into the sinking ship.
The vultures were hovering. It must have been obvious to everyone except me. Even when Supreme Holidays waved the white flag and was taken over by LTL, the London Travel and Leisure conglomerate, I was able to maintain a genuinely jokey banter with my mates in our local, the Roebuck.
“Won’t make any difference,” I pontificated. “LTL has bought into the Supreme brand, because it’s highly regarded. Bookings for the new season are excellent. They won’t be stupid enough to throw all that away. The only change for us will be a different lot of names to report to in head office.”
I was almost right. LTL did indeed keep the Supreme brand. And Snow Supreme’s winter season got off to a flying start. But without me.
Had I been one of our Val Fornet foot soldiers, I would soon have been heading for the snow with the rest of them, but in any takeover the one certainty is that the new lot will want to stamp their own imprint on the way things are done. Although Supreme Holiday’s balance sheet was none too healthy, thanks to its ill-advised support of Regal Airlines, this was basically a sound company, so owner Bob Glanville had been offered a good price and would soon be en-route to his yacht in the Caribbean. I had been just far enough up the company’s ladder to have been tarred by the brush of failure, so was offered a redundancy package for six years’ service. Better than nothing, but not Caribbean yacht territory.
With my self-esteem in shreds, I made straight for the obvious shoulder to cry on: Alexei’s. Very sensibly, she made light of it. Pointed out it was not the end of the world. People were fired every day. Especially in her line of business. I should look on this as an opportunity.
“Opportunity!” I wailed. “No one takes on failures.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “All that happened was a company shake-out. Like a storm hitting an orchard. There’s no stigma in being a commercial windfall.”
“How can people tell which are the good apples?” I snivelled.
“Forget other people. Why not branch out on your own?”
“How the hell can I do that? A history degree from a redbrick university, followed by six years as a ski bum. What the fuck does that fit me for?”
“Now, now. No swearing.” A peck on the cheek calmed me down. “I’m your financial advisor, right?”
I nodded.
“First thing to do in these situations is make a financial inventory. Okay?”
Again I nodded.
“You already have a steady income of two thousand a month from Stockmanns. That’s more than some people earn. Then there’s your redundancy package...”
“A lousy eight thousand... won’t last long...”
“On top of which there’s the income from your Richmond flat.”
My Richmond flat...? My Richmond flat! The trauma of redundancy had driven all other thoughts from my mind. Now it hit me. I was not only jobless. I was also homeless, my Richmond apartment having been let out, as usual, for the winter season. Difficult, if not impossible, to change.
“How much will you be getting for your flat?” continued Alexei, all business-like.
“Two thousand three hundred a month.”
“Add it all up and you’re a rich man.”
Hardly rich, but I was beginning to feel more cheerful.
Espying our end-game, I ventured, “In that case, I’ll need some temporary accommodation.”
Alexei grinned. “I thought we’d get round to that. It so happens you’re in luck, because I know a landlady in the Isle of Dogs who’s on the lookout for a client just like you.”
“How much does she charge?”
“A nominal amount to help with the costs. Shall we say four hundred a month?”
“That’s most generous.”
“You would also be expected to perform certain duties. Loading the dishwasher, keeping the place tidy, putting out the rubbish bins.”
“I think I could manage that.”
“Most importantly, you would have to minister to this landlady’s every need. They tell me she can be most demanding.”
“I love demanding landladies.”
“That’s settled, then.” Alexei gave me a proper kiss. “Welcome to Docklands. Let me know when you’re ready to move in.”
I was back to my usual smug self when Alexei added,
“That was the easy bit. Now we have to decide what to do with all this fre
e time of yours.”
She was right. I was faced with a winter of ease and utter boredom: needed a job even more than a roof over my head.
“This is the perfect opportunity to give Stockmann a better return on their money,” she announced.
“Can’t do much more in the moggie stakes,” I said. “I’m firmly established as Freddie’s cat correspondent and could write Cobber’s biography: came from a rescue home as a kitten and is seven years old; returns from hunting expeditions full of fleas; likes to drink water from a dripping tap; crashes in through Freddie’s bedroom window in the early hours, often with a ‘present’, which he chases around until it expires, then dines on it. All gripping stuff, but hardly worth two thou a month to Stockmann.”
“No, but the important thing is you’ve been accepted into the Ricketts cyber circle. Something we can now take advantage of.”
“How exactly?”
“Gudrun said this job was for the long haul. Likened it to ‘sleeper’ spies, who might only be activated years - decades later. I’ve been logging into Ricketts longer than you, but it’s still barely six months. Even so, I’m starting to get a feel for the fellow. Which, surprisingly, I’m finding fascinating.”
“In what way?”
“Freddie’s big motivator may have started off by being numbers for their own sake, but is becoming more about money. His betting programme is doing fairly well, but appears to have limited potential; although bookies welcome the odd big win - it’s good publicity - they hate anyone who systematically takes them to the cleaners. In fact, if a punter becomes too successful, he may find himself shut out. So Freddie’s Premier League programme has to be spread over a large number of betting outlets and involve fairly small sums. Which he’s finding frustrating.”
“You imply he may have found an answer?”
Alexei shook her head. “He’s trying. But is not there yet. The big money is not in betting - which in the case of Freddie’s Premier League effort is also very labour intensive. The big dollars are hidden away in those bastions of capitalism, the large commercial enterprises. Freddie is good at siphoning information out of these megaliths, but extracting cash from them is proving impossible. Hardly surprising, because a company that can’t safeguard its wealth is a goner. However, it’s starting to dawn on Freddie that information is in itself a valuable commodity. Which is why I’m following the seduction technique of Panda very closely.”
ROAD TO MANDALAY Page 8
