The Zima Confession

Richard found himself drifting off into his own thoughts. RCB was almost the perfect target. It was too good to be true. He couldn’t shake off the idea he was being set up. How had Klaus Weber come by that old photo? Why had he turned up at the very moment when he had been awakened by Mitchell? It was suspicious. It was frightening.

“Richard, you’ll be answering to Alexei Petrov.”

Richard was startled out of his reverie. Answering for what? What had he done wrong!

“A-Alexei?” he stuttered.

“Alexei Petrov. Do you know him?” The Project Director had broken off his conversation with the ceiling and was looking directly and expectantly at Richard.

Richard racked his brains for an answer. No, he didn’t know him. The answer was “No.” All he had to do was say “No”.

“No.” Just to be sure he was telling the truth he added, “I don’t remember working with him, at any rate.”

“OK, well Dmitri can take you to meet him straight after this meeting. Dmitri will be working closely with you and you will both be under the guidance of Alexei as Chief Technical Architect for the project.”

Many of the technical people working for VirtuBank in Europe were from the ex-Soviet Union. During Soviet times, quite a few of them had been top mathematicians or physicists working on the space program, missile defence or something similar.

The Project Director resumed his explanation of the situation at RCB, warning some of the bank staff were now in a tricky position, having lost former colleagues they might have relied on for help, as well as IT systems that had still not been properly replaced. He advised them to play this to their advantage and to push things through as quickly as possible, rather than allow it to become a hindrance.

Of course! thought Richard. If everyone’s in such a rush, that gives me an even better opportunity to push my false software through. As soon as the software is installed it will be easy to persuade the bank staff to do only the most rudimentary user acceptance testing. Thanks to the Project Director, everyone round the table basked in a warm glow, feeling confident they would achieve their objectives on time. Especially Richard, whose personal objective would trump everyone else’s.

22. Aphrodite’s Secret

A man may not know his own mind, Richard thought, twirling the black and gold card from APHRODITE’S SECRET (Exclusive Gentleman’s Sauna) round and round in his fingers. He hadn’t pla

Finding out if the whole Mitchell thing hung together – that was the reason why he was now paying the taxi driver for the journey to the club. That was the real reason. Mitchell or Weber? Which one was for real? Mitchell was convincing. Weber had not given the proper identification code. He had mentioned “Zima” out of context. He had mentioned it as though it was an introduction, not as an operation, and he had not offered any instructions for the operation. Weber was probably some sort of imposter. If Melanie had more information, he would be able to confirm it. What he would be able to do about it was another matter.

It was hard to believe Mitchell had committed suicide. Perhaps Weber… perhaps Weber had killed or even tortured him. Richard shuddered. Perhaps that was how Weber had got hold of the codes? Would a professional killer be able to torture and kill someone and have the evidence wiped out by throwing the body under a train somehow? He didn’t know if or how that would be possible, but he knew he would need to be very careful with Weber.

As the taxi drove off, Richard speculated that perhaps he had not brought enough money. He had £500 in twenties in his pocket but he had no idea how much a girl like Melanie would cost. He had an idea that it was a lot though.

He had no particular qualms about what he was doing. It was the capitalist version of an ideal of feminism he’d grown up with. Back in the day, back in the squat in Kelvinside, feminism had been all about freedom. Relationships had been all about free love and one-night stands. But things had changed. Free love was never quite as free as it purported to be. Everyone was jealous of everyone else. Even girls like Line-up-Linda often turned out to be wilder in reputation than reality. Linda liked sex, yes, but as Richard had eventually found out, not quite in the random gung-ho gangbang way that everyone had assumed – or hoped.

This was some sort of throwback to those times. Except that, as Marx predicted, all human relationships had become financial.

Aphrodite’s Secret was in the middle of nowhere, just off the North Circular Road. More precisely, it was in the middle of an industrial estate which was quite deserted at this time of night. There was darkness all around apart from a cosy little scene in an oasis of light.

Included in the oasis of light, just to the right, was a parked Bentley with a personalised number plate. The blank grille of the Bentley’s face neither smiled nor scowled. It was inscrutable. On the left-hand side, an Aston Martin maintained a sickly expression on its visage, as though expressing disgust.

Behind and between the two sports limousines was an impressive red awning adorned with gold trim and tassels. This overhung a plush red carpet. A red carpet that melted beneath Richard’s steps as he approached the entrance. It was as though he had floated there, drawn like a moth.

Thick glass doors emblazoned with decorative gold lettering slid apart effortlessly and Richard drifted through them into the space beyond. Here, the dull thud of music throbbing from the interior quickened the pulsing of his blood. He felt almost faint with anticipation. But he had yet to get through the wrought-iron gate protecting the reception area. Beyond reception, a waterfall gurgled cheerfully down a false cliff, in the middle of which was a not-so-secret, secret door. It was all very snug and reminded Richard of a Santa’s Grotto he had the wide-eyed pleasure of visiting as a child.

A buzzing noise indicated the receptionists had released the electric lock of the wrought-iron gate for him, and he obliged them by opening it and letting himself in.

“Have you been here before?” a blonde receptionist dressed in a clinician’s white coat asked him. It was a genuine white coat that would be worn in a genuine clinic, not a cheap thing that you would wear to a fancy-dress party, and certainly not a “naughty nurse” uniform.

“No,” said Richard.

“The entrance fee is £80. Drinks are free, apart from our bottles of Moet Grand Cru, and the rest is negotiable.”

“OK.”

“What shoe size?”

“Erm. Nine.”

“OK. This is your locker key. Take this bathrobe to change into and wear these sandals after you change.”

Richard wandered to the rustic door dreamily. The dull thumping clarified itself and transformed into proper music as he opened the door. The lighting was intimately dimmed but he was able to see the immediate features of the club quite clearly. There was a wide entrance to changing rooms with lockers just to his right, and directly in front, a raised circular platform on which two stu

There were other guys in the changing rooms. Some of them belonged to stag parties and were quite drunk. None of them were alone. Suddenly he felt quite lonely. He changed, gloomily wondering if Melanie would even be here. He hoped she would be.

By now the stu