The Zima Confession

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.

So Eddie had decided it would at least be worth discussing the plan. After the discussion back at his flat, Eddie had been quite convinced that Richard was genuine and capable too. That was why he’d gone to the trouble of getting in touch with contacts that could make it happen. After the final meeting, as the months went by, he’d begun to have doubts again. But it was too late by then.

It hadn’t been too late at the moment Richard handed him the envelope. At that moment, all he had to do was nothing. Richard would never know he’d sabotaged the plan. But even though Eddie had his doubts, on balance he thought it was worth the risk of going through with it. His own personal risk was very limited. So he handed the envelope over. Before he did, Eddie did something to ensure that, even though Richard would have no idea who his handler was, at least his handler would know Richard – he slipped a photo into the envelope.

Eddie had noticed something about Richard – he didn’t quite seem to live in the real world. He talked about things as though they were academic or theoretical. Maybe that’s why he was so calm when they were sorting out the code words. Maybe the reality of the situation was hidden inside a whole abstract fantasy.

Eddie didn’t live in any fantasy world. He’d had a tough upbringing. He lived in a rough part of Glasgow. He knew every time they went on a march or handed out leaflets, there was likely to be someone who wanted to give them a good kicking. He also knew that what could happen to Richard might be a damned sight worse than taking a kicking from a few fascists.

13. Instructions

Though it was not yet five p.m. it was already quiet in the office. Most of them would leave early to try to beat the rush, or go for a drink so that the rush hour had died down before they actually set off home. The rush ‘hour’ in London starts around four p.m. and goes on until around seven p.m.

As Richard opened Mitchell’s drawer, he was aware Jim Callan was approaching down the corridor of the open-plan office. His heart sank. Should he close the drawer quickly? A brown envelope was the one and only thing in there. Should he try to pick it up before Callan saw him? It was too late for that. In any case, he was only looking into a drawer, for Christ’s sake, not stealing the Crown jewels. Just keep calm.

Jim Callan was not someone who would just come and casually talk to you. He would always plant himself strategically before you and puff himself up a bit before starting a conversation. He did that now.

“I thought that was Mitchell’s drawer.”

“Don’t know. It’s a hot-desk. I had the keys.”

Callan eyed Richard malevolently. Whatever he did, Callan always did it confrontationally. There was a long, intense silence as though Callan was a judge in a reality cookery contest and was about to vote Richard out.

“The hot-desks are over there.” He pointed to the area behind reception, near the managers’ glass cubicles and the break-out room.

“I guess they moved them. I was given this one ages ago. Maybe they did it by mistake,” Richard offered.

“What you need it for anyway?”

“I kept some tax forms and things here for safe-keeping while I was away in Moscow.”

Callan paused again, preparing to escalate the level of confrontation. But this time he seemed to realise it was none of his business anyway. He relaxed slightly, perhaps to catch Richard off-guard.

“How was Moscow?”

“Expensive. Painfully expensive. The per diems barely covered our food. We were all teetotallers by the time we were done.”

Callan allowed himself a little smile at this. All the consultants drank like fishes when they were away from home. “I mean how did the project go?”

“Not bad. The project’s still ongoing but they’re into phase three now. I’m back in the UK for a bit.”