by Tor Fleck
‘No caviar,’ snaps Petrov. ‘I can’t stand the stuff. Do you have any fries?’
‘You mean French fries?’ Dimitri isn’t sure he heard the oligarch correctly.
‘That’s right. Preferably McDonald’s, but Burger King will do.’
‘Certainly,’ says Dimitri, wincing a little at Petrov’s Luddite tastes. ‘I’ll see to it personally.’
A waitress appears with an ice bucket containing a bottle of Dom Perignon. She sets a glass on a side table and carefully pours, spilling a little in the process.
‘Leave it!’ Petrov roars. The waitress sets the bottle down. ‘You need to pour slowly,’ says Petrov. ‘Take your time. It needs to be seduced out of the bottle, not raped!’
The waitress bows. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she says, ‘Please forgive me.’
Petrov doesn’t. ‘Tell my man to come in.’ The waitress scuttles off. Schwarzenegger reappears. ‘Yes, sir.’
Petrov hands him the half-filled glass. ‘Test this.’
Schwarzenegger unrolls a black cloth and removes from it a dropper and a brown, label-less bottle. He takes a sample of the champagne and squirts it into the bottle. He shakes it, waits, and then nods. ‘Clear.’ He packs away the equipment and rolls the cloth back up.
‘Stand behind me please,’ says Petrov. ‘I’m feeling … nervous tonight.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Schwarzenegger positions himself at the rear of the box as Petrov pours the champagne himself, downing the glass in one. The lights dim, and the opening strains of ‘La Boheme’ – Petrov’s mother’s favourite – float up to the Royal Box. As patron, he’d pumped millions of roubles into this crumbling dump, yet this was his first visit. The place stank of piss and poverty, but it was worth it to remember his mother. If it wasn’t for her, well … even at the age of forty-two, Oleg Petrov – oil magnate extraordinaire – can’t bring himself to go there. He pours himself another drink, sits back, and closes his eyes.
The tenor rips into the first aria. The soprano responds in kind. Already Petrov’s eyes are welling up. He wipes at them, discreetly. The last thing he needs is for someone to see him crying. He carries on drinking as the music swells and voices soar and soon the bottle is empty and Petrov is drifting off, sinking into a dark hole of stoic mothers and vicious fathers.
A tap on Petrov’s shoulder hauls him from the hole and back into the light. For a second he doesn’t know where he is. Mother? ‘McDonald’s fries, sir,’ the waitress whispers in his ear. Petrov jerks back, insulted at having his personal space invaded. ‘Away!’ he yells, throwing up a hand.
The waitress mumbles an apology and steps back. She replaces the Dom Perignon with a bottle of vintage red, its label faded and indecipherable. Petrov stares at it. ‘What’s this?’ The waitress pulls a note from the pocket of her apron and hands it over with shaking fingers. Petrov takes it and holds it up to the light.
Enjoy the opera, Comrade Petrov
Sergei Topov
State Minister of Culture
Petrov lays the note on the table and picks up the bottle. He has to hold it close to read the label. Romanee Conti 1971. It’s the rarest of burgundies, worth over 800,000 roubles, but of this Petrov is ignorant. He smiles. As one of the president’s closest allies, the Culture Minister is Petrov’s golden ticket, his means of securing an invite to the G20 summit in February. He fills the glass, swirls it around as he’s seen others do, and sticks his nose in. The aroma is intoxicating. He didn’t expect that. He sits back and refocuses on the opera, just as Che Gelida Manina, La Boheme’s famous and emotionally charged aria, begins. He’s about to take a sip of the wine when he remembers he should check it first. He glances behind him. He can make out Schwarzenegger’s shadowy frame, and the sheen from his black brogues.
‘Fuck it.’
Petrov sips slowly, savouring the wine’s delicate notes. It’s like nothing he’s ever tasted before. As he swirls it around in his mouth the aria soars, sending Petrov’s senses into overdrive. He takes a second sip, and then a third. The ’71 is beyond delicious. It’s irresistible. Before he can take a fourth sip, though, Petrov’s windpipe clamps shut. He can’t breathe. He drops the glass and claws at his throat, as a searing white heat shoots down his neck and across his chest. He stumbles from his chair and retches violently, throwing up 20,000 roubles worth of liquidised champagne and McDonald’s fries over the edge of the Royal Box and onto the assembled fur coats and Armani suits below.
La Boheme’s principal cast are so deep into their performance that the screams from the stalls go unnoticed. High above them all, Petrov tears at his tuxedo, his shirt buttons pop-pop-popping as his entire body explodes with pain. The audience are now on their feet, uncomprehending. Someone shouts for help. All are looking skyward, rather than to the stage, where the aria is reaching its heart-wrenching climax. A pair of ushers in matching red trousers burst through the Royal Box’s curtain and race to Petrov’s aid. But they’re too late. Petrov staggers backwards, his mind addled. Father, what have you done? Why don’t you love me? With a final unhuman scream, he tumbles over the side of the box, landing on top of the elderly Madam Ivankov thirty feet below, crushing her thorax and killing her instantly. Two deaths for the price of one. The dealmaker inside the poisoned Petrov would have approved.
Panic. Heels, jewels, jacket tails … they fly in all directions, as escape becomes a priority. The orchestra, deep in their pit, carry on regardless, as the on-stage stars – blinded to tragedy by the relentless spotlights – continue singing to a fleeing mob. But then someone must have come to their senses because now the houselights are up and an armed paramilitary unit are storming the theatre, waving Kalashnikovs and handguns, forcing patrons onto the floor while they secure the building and form a physical cordon around Petrov’s contorted body. Madam Ivankov’s distraught husband, Aleksey, battles to reach his beloved, but is pushed away at gun point. An officer checks Petrov’s pulse. It’s weak, but he’s alive. His eyes open and his chemically charred mouth forms a pattern that may, or may not, be the forming of a word. The officer leans in, but there’s only a dying breath left. Petrov – the fries-loving oligarch, the bath-sharing boyfriend, the loving son – is gone. But he won’t be travelling alone. Within hours, the officer who bore testament to his final breath, the clumsy waitress who served him his wine, even poor Aleksey Ivankov, will also be dead, poisoned by the unidentified nerve agent found on the rim of Petrov’s glass. Even Schwarzenegger can’t cheat death. He’ll later be found impaled on the lead soprano’s dressing room door, a single crossbow arrow burrowed deep into his left eye socket.
14
‘No fucking way!’ said Richard, pouring out two coffees. ‘How’d the bastards find out where your parents lived?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Paul, taking one of the offered mugs, ‘but my old man saw them off.’
‘Oh shit, what did he do?’
‘Chased them up the street with a shotgun.’
Richard spluttered on his coffee. ‘Seriously?’
‘I’m not kidding. He let them have it with both barrels. Literally.’
‘Fuck me!’ Richard wiped at his stained t-shirt. ‘He didn’t kill anyone, did he?’
‘He would have if I hadn’t stopped him.’
‘Your dad’s mental. Where’d he get a gun from anyway?’
‘No idea,’ said Paul. ‘But you’re right, he’s off the scale.’
Richard pulled a seat out from the kitchen table and plonked himself down beside Paul. ‘I told you things would get nastier. Did you get a good look at them?’
‘No, but I think it was our boy in the bunnet again.’
‘Jesus. They don’t stop, do they?’
‘So you do accept that we’re dealing with something more than a grudge match between you and one of your ex-mates?’
‘Okay, okay,’ Richard conceded. ‘Things do seem to have escalated somewhat since my last assessment of the situation.’
‘You think?’ Paul shook his
head. ‘They’ve crossed the line, mate. As my old man said, you threaten a Grant at your peril.’
‘Yeah, but – ’
‘Yeah, but what?’
‘Your dad … he’s ex-SAS, isn’t he? I mean, what have you got, aside from a moleskin notebook full of well-armed free verse?’
Paul reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a memory stick. ‘I’ve got this.’
Richard’s eyes widened. ‘Is that the master?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Paul dropped the stick back in his pocket. ‘It’s my working folder. Don’t worry, the master’s safe.’
‘That’s right,’ said Richard. ‘I forgot you’d secreted it away somewhere. It’s up your arse, isn’t it?’
‘Fuck off,’ said Paul, glancing at the newspaper on the table. The headline caught his eye.
Crisis Deepens As Markets Tumble
‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking the paper up.
Richard rolled his eyes. ‘Oh yes, and there’s that. There’s been a run on the banks, apparently. Stock market’s fallen through the floor. Everything’s in meltdown. So,’ he sighed, ‘that’ll be another ten years of fucking doom and gloom and cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.’
‘See if there’s anything on the TV about it,’ said Paul, nodding to the antiquated portable.
Richard cycled through the limited channels until he found images of young, white-shirted men bickering on trading room floors, cutting to … snaking queues outside banks, looking like they could swallow them whole … riots … and the inevitable looting.
‘Actually, this is quite brilliant,’ said Richard.
Paul was incredulous. ‘What?’
‘Our script’s bang on the button,’ said Richard. ‘Who’d have guessed we’d be cutting edge?’
‘Shh!’ urged Paul. The ‘Breaking News’ banner flashed up and an ashen-faced newsreader announced that the London FTSE had dropped over 10% within five minutes of opening. Investors were looking at an instant loss of almost three billion pounds.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Paul. ‘What if it’s us?’
‘What if what’s us?’
‘What if Agency O actually exists, and we’ve accidentally opened up a can of worms?’ Richard tried to interject, but Paul shushed him with a raised palm. ‘Look at the story in the news the other day,’ he said, ‘about that Russian guy killed at the opera. How’s that any different from the stuff we’re writing about?’ Richard couldn’t argue with that. He knew Paul was right. ‘Think about it,’ Paul continued, determined to hammer his point home. ‘All the shit that’s happening right now … the financial crash, the suicides, the murdered journo. Our script has driven a fucking steam train through of all of that. What if we’ve pissed off the wrong people?’
‘Hey, we’re anti-establishment!’ said Richard, fist-pumping the air. ‘Get in there!’
‘I’m serious,’ said Paul. ‘This is heavy shit.’
‘Okay,’ said Richard ‘let’s suppose, for argument’s sake, that you’re right, and that Agency O is a real organisation, operating in the shadows, running the world, blah de blah, just like how we wrote it. That’d make them a pretty formidable foe, right?’
Paul nodded.
‘Well … why would they bother playing with us? Wouldn’t they just take what they wanted?’
‘Ah,’ said Paul, ‘but we’ve still got the upper hand.’
Richard sighed. ‘The memory stick.’
‘As long as it remains safe,’ said Paul, ‘we remain safe.’
‘And you don’t think you should tell me where you’ve hidden it?’ asked Richard. ‘Just in case, you know, something happens to you?’
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘That would put you in danger too. It’s best if only I know.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Richard. ‘You really do believe this insane shit. This isn’t a Bourne movie, you know. It isn’t even a fucking Austin Powers movie.’
Paul didn’t answer. To him, it felt more like a Tarantino movie. Where everyone dies in the end.
Back in his bedroom, Paul switched on his laptop. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. He checked the plug, turned it off and on at the wall, and tried again. Shit.
‘My laptop’s not working,’ said Paul, walking back into the kitchen. ‘Have you been using it?’
Richard grinned. ‘You tried switching it off and on again?’
‘I’ll switch you off and on again.’
‘That doesn’t even make sense.’
‘Can I use yours?’
Grudgingly, Richard sloped out of the kitchen, returning with a silver HP under his arm.
‘Thanks,’ said Paul. But when he switched it on, he got the same result: a black screen.
‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Richard, grabbing the laptop and turning it upside down.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Paul.
‘I don’t know. Something. Anything.’
‘Screwdriver marks? Evidence of tampering?’
‘Stop thinking everything’s fucking Agency O!’ yelled Richard. He shook the laptop in Paul’s face. ‘My whole life’s on this. How can you be so calm about it?’
‘You backed up your files?’
‘Of course not. Who does that?’
‘Everybody?’
Richard wasn’t listening. He was too busy hammering away fruitlessly at the buttons. Eventually, he gave up and turned to Paul. ‘Well, at least we haven’t lost the script. That’s still up your arse, right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Paul, ‘all the writing’s safely tucked away in my semi-colon.’
‘How the fuck did they get in without our passwords? I mean, if it even is them behind this.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Paul. ‘We’ll take them in to that shop on Byres Road. Get the young techie guy there to have a look. He might even be able to trace who’s responsible.’
‘Will he be able to restore everything?’ asked Richard. ‘I mean, will he see everything I’ve got on there?
‘Don’t worry,’ said Paul. ‘He’s seen it all and more, I’m sure.’
Richard scratched at his head. ‘I’m not talking about porn. I mean personal stuff. You know, like letters. Stuff like that.’
‘Letters? Are you a man of letters now?’
‘Just personal communications with good friends.’
‘Women, you mean.’
‘That sort of thing, yes.’
‘I’m sure he won’t say a word,’ said Paul. ‘No matter what soppy, sentimental gush you’ve spewed out to get your end away.’
Richard smiled. ‘I’m a sensitive soul really.’
‘Yeah right,’ Paul sighed.
‘I tell you what,’ said Richard, snapping the laptop shut. ‘You go ahead, and if your man fixes yours then I’ll drop mine in too.’
‘But he might be able to find out more if he digs around in both,’ argued Paul.
‘It’s okay,’ said Richard, ‘you go first. I can always watch porn on my phone.’ He smiled, but Paul wasn’t convinced. Richard was hiding something.
15
The next day, Paul dropped his laptop in at the computer repair shop. Axel Rhodes, the geeky, bespectacled owner, gave Paul a rundown on what he was going to do to his beloved machine, but Paul could barely follow any of it, and ended up staring at his own perplexed face reflected in Axel’s lenses.
‘So, is it salvageable?’ Paul asked, when Axel finally stopped.
Axel rubbed at the pubes sprouting from the centre of his chin. ‘Hmm …’ he pondered. ‘It depends what you mean by salvageable. If, for example, you mean – ’
‘I mean …’ interrupted Paul, before Axel could fully launch into any more geekidigook, ‘… will you able to trace whether the machine’s been hacked, and, if so, by whom?’
‘Oh that?’ grinned Axel. ‘Oh yeah, dead easy.’ He winked at Paul. ‘Takes one to know one.’
‘Great. And we keep this between us, yeah?’
‘Discretion comes with the territo
ry, my friend,’ said Axel, taking on a strangely fey American accent. He closed the lid and slid the laptop beneath the counter. ‘I’ll call you when I’m done.’
‘Thanks, Axel,’ said Paul. ‘I owe you.’
While he waited on Axel getting back to him, Paul decamped to the library to use their computers. He needed to research psychometric testing; the dialogue he was writing around the subject lacked the authenticity of an insider. Or even someone who vaguely knew what the fuck he was talking about. A quick search unearthed a recent item involving Ipcress, a major data broker, and their dealings with an unnamed social media platform. Paul scribbled notes as he read, flabbergasted. He had no idea private data could be bought and sold, either legally or on the black market. Ipcress had been accused of brokering member profiles of up to 30 million users on the unnamed platform, and of selling them on to key establishment institutions such as governments and political parties. Their unique selling point seemed to be a psychometric system so sophisticated that the data collected could be used to not only predict customer behaviour, but also to influence, and even control, emotional responses, feelings, attitudes, as well as aspirations, wants, and needs. Ipcress’ software harvested all forms of online interaction, from emails and viewing habits to conversations, likes, and follows. It hacked telephone records and collected texts, voicemails, and even live conversations. It could also replicate individual profiles, enabling them to be re-formed, like emotional plasticine. The more Paul read, the more frightening the implications became. The psychometrics acted like a giant sponge, soaking up personality traits and individual characteristics in order to hardwire the human brain to accept, conform, consume, and act the way Ipcress wanted them to. Charges of blackmail and extortion were inevitable, given the extraordinary reach of the company’s data mining ability.
Paul stopped to take a breath. He’d thought that, with his script, he’d been writing fiction. Yet here it was being presented as truth. How was that possible? And who the hell were Ipcress anyway? He returned to the computer and found their website. He had to scroll through page after page of bland corporate nothingness – strange, considering the level of scandal the company had attracted – before finding the nugget of gold he never knew he was looking for. Tucked away on the last page, at the very bottom, was a line in extremely small print.
