“Shpeak your mind. Mush better,” slurped Igor, wiping his chin, which was dripping onion shards.
“We still don’t know why we’re here,” I said.
“What do you think is our biggest danger?” asked Gudrun, who had better soup control. “A nuclear holocaust, perhaps?”
“Cosy subject for a nice evening out,” replied Alexei, licking her fingers: the asparagus was superb. “So I’ll toss in climate change. Ice caps melt, Europe floods, leaving just Max and me sitting on top of our alp.”
“Tempting to joke it away,” agreed Gudrun.
“How about this, then?” Igor temporarily abandoned his soup, removed his wallet from a breast pocket and extracted a coloured piece of paper about the size of a luggage label; placed it on the tablecloth.
We studied it, perplexed.
On the left was a map of North America. At the bottom was written ‘Stadt Vohwinkel’. On the right a poem in German, apparently a parody of Goethe. In large letters the explanation, ‘Fünf Billionen Mark’.
“How good is your German?” asked Igor.
“Zero,” replied Alexei. “I’m a numbers girl. As for languages, always failed my French exams; gave up on Russian; can just about manage English.”
I said, “Many of our apartments are in German speaking countries, so I can cope.”
“Then you’ll see this is a Five Billion Mark note issued by a town called Vohwinkel during the German hyperinflation of the 1920s,” said Igor. “The doggerel on the right compares the plight of the old continent with the prosperity of America - hence the map.”
“A valuable piece of history.”
“Not really. They printed stuff like this by the bucketful. But this one is in good condition and more interesting than most, so maybe worth a few dollars. Take a look at the small print round the edges.”
“It compares prices in 1923 with those nine years earlier,” I reported. “For example, one pound of potatoes had gone from three Pfennigs to eighty-five Milliard Marks. Eighty five Milliard! How much is that?”
“Good question,” replied our numbers girl. “You need to start by asking how much is a Billion. In Britain it used to be a million million, while across the pond it had always been a mere thousand million. Sometime in... I think it was the seventies... we fell into line with the Yanks. Slimmed down the British Billion, which, like theirs, is now a miserable thousand million.”
“And a Milliard?” I asked.
“Not a term we use,” replied Alexei. “Although you may come across it on the continent. What a Milliard might have meant a hundred years ago in Germany I don’t know. Lots of noughts, that’s for sure.”
“Germany eventually reached fourteen noughts after the opening digit. Whatever you want to call that,” said Igor.
“An interesting side dish to our soup and asparagus,” said Alexei. “But where’s all this leading?”
Again the waiters brought a break in the discussion: more full plates, confit de canard with thinly sliced potatoes, onions and a dish of mixed veg for me. I don’t recall what the others had. When the dead starter plates had been removed and the main courses were ready for demolition, I said,
“Delicious food, Gudrun. Spectacular wine, Igor. Now, where were we? Ah yes... Alexei was wondering whether there was any connection between a nuclear holocaust and a Five Billion Mark note.”
Gudrun smiled. “Indeed there is. Have you been to Japan?”
Two heads shook.
“Wonderful country. Highlights being the two Atomic Bomb memorials: in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Only cities ever to have been nuked. Horrible at the time, of course. Total devastation, millions killed, many others left radiation scarred. But with hindsight an almost benign event, because it showed the Japanese people the price you paid for trying to rule the world. Made them model citizens.”
“Today Hiroshima and Nagasaki are two of the nicest cities you could wish to visit,” said Igor. “Modern, well run... I particularly like Nagasaki because of its setting, on hills around a bay. There’s even a bit of Britain, Glover Garden, home of a Scottish merchant who started a business there.”
“Improve your city with a Nuclear Device,” I said. Too flippant, I suppose, but the conversation was becoming surreal. Igor allowed himself a smirk. Gudrun was not amused. After a painful hiatus, I was rescued by Alexei, who held up the Five Billion Mark note and asked,
“Are you saying this is more deadly than an atom bomb?”
“Long term, yes,” replied Gudrun. “We’ve seen how utter destruction brings people to their senses. Today it’s difficult to find anyone less warlike than the Japanese or Germans. But look what happened when this little fellow got to work.” She pointed to the bank note.
“Imagine you’re a German in 1914, the first date it mentions,” said Igor. “The past century has been a miracle of progress. The few wars have been short and victorious. Standards of living are at an all-time high. As it says here, a pound of potatoes costs three pence.”
“Then comes another war,” Gudrun took over. “This time neither short nor victorious. Many young men don’t come home. But the fighting has all been done in foreign fields. The fatherland has escaped destruction.”
“Until this arrived.” Igor waved the Five Billion Mark note. “While physical damage can be repaired, this innocent looking piece of paper attacked the very fabric of society. It destroyed wealth. What Germans had spent a lifetime - generations - building up was suddenly gone. Pouff! The family savings vanished.”
“By the end of 1923 Germany was drowning in these,” said Gudrun. “Eighty-five Milliard marks to buy a pound of potatoes, it says. Well, you’d better be quick about it because by afternoon of the same day you’d be having to fork out maybe two hundred Milliard marks. Economic anarchy.”
“Hyperinflation was Hitler’s best recruiting sergeant,” said Igor. “Led to world war two.”
“The lessons of hyperinflation have been well learned,” said my lovely figures lady, without total conviction.
“History never repeats itself exactly,” said Igor. “The same problems, maybe, but they come with a novel twist. For nearly a thousand years we’ve been living in the age of the promissory note.”
Again Igor delved into his wallet, food growing cold on his plate. This time his evidence was a severe looking Winston Churchill, offering ‘nothing but blood, toil, tears and sweat’. A bog standard Bank of England Five Pound note.
“Look at the other side, the one with Her Majesty,” said Igor, “which ‘Promises to pay the bearer on demand the sum of Five Pounds’. In theory I could go up to Buck House, knock on the door and demand that the queen give me five quid. In gold, perhaps... I don’t know. Coins go back a long way, at least to the Greeks and Romans; but carting heavy and valuable metal around was difficult and dangerous, so some time in the Middle Ages they started using these promissory notes. What we call banknotes. Inherently worthless, but they created an economic system that has served us well.”
“You may have noticed Igor speaks of these in the past tense.” Gudrun waved contemptuously at Sir Winston and the Five Billion Marks. “Bits of paper representing wealth may linger on for a few more years, but already most of us pay with plastic. And bank online. Commerce is now electronic.”
“So goodbye to the banknote forger,” said Igor. “And barrowloads of inflation-hit banknotes. Welcome instead to the computer hacker. The problem, damage to our wealth, has not gone away, it has merely morphed into something different. As it’s new, we’re still not too good at fighting it.”
Gudrun dipped into her bag and came up with a photo of a bland looking young man, but further discussion was again interrupted by the waiters, who proceeded to clear the main courses and query our dessert desires.
The Cliveden chef must have done his stuff because we declared ourselves replete. Well, almost. Perhaps we could manage a little cheese. Which also forced upon us a glass of vintage port. Except for Alexei, who insisted that fortified wine
s gave her nightmares. I didn’t want to be woken at dead of night by hysterical screams, so she was excused.
After that we were allowed to turn our attention again to the photo of Gudrun’s young man: early twenties, chubby pale white face, brown hair parted down the middle, clean shaven.
“His name’s Freddie Ricketts,” she explained. “Twenty-four years old and lives with his mother in Acacia Road.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
Gudrun was puzzled. Her English was perfect but apparently did not extend to the fact that Acacia Road, although often a genuine address, was also a sort of joke.
“Skip it,” I continued. “Freddie Ricketts, you said. What’s so special about him?”
“He’s a genius with figures,” replied Gudrun.
“A hacker?” asked Alexei.
Gudrun nodded. “Most mathematicians are of course perfectly normal...”
Alexei, “Thank you!”
“But those with exceptional numeracy skills are often on the Asperger’s scale. Which means they may be rather strange as human beings.”
“Has Freddie been a naughty boy?” asked Alexei.
“He’s only been in the spotlight once,” replied Igor. “A complex case involving bank transfers. So complex the DPP decided a conviction was unlikely and dropped it.”
“Since then Freddie has kept a low profile,” added Gudrun.
“Why are you interested in an odd young man from Acacia Road?” I asked. “And what’s it to do with us?”
“Our experts put Freddie Ricketts amongst the half dozen most brilliant computer kids in the country,” replied Gudrun. “Maths geniuses tend to mature early, so at twenty- four he’s probably at the peak of his powers. He’s been foolish enough to pop his head above the parapet once and appears to have learnt his lesson. The world of computing is difficult enough to penetrate at the best of times and we know next to nothing about what Ricketts is up to.”
“You think he may be hatching something?” asked Alexei.
Igor shrugged. “We simply don’t know. All we do know is that he’s chanced his arm once and he’s one of those whiz-kids with the ability to create financial anarchy. A modern version of German hyperinflation. We desperately need to keep an eye on him.”
“Our task is made more difficult by the fact that, as I’ve mentioned, Ricketts is... I hesitate to use the word ‘abnormal’, but can think of no other,” said Gudrun. “A loner with tunnel vision. Doesn’t do parties or pubs, where alcohol might loosen his tongue. No girlfriends, who might let slip some pillow talk. Ricketts lives with his mother and appears to spend sixteen hours a day in front of his computer screen. No outside interests.”
“A final problem is that these social misfits often find it difficult distinguishing between right and wrong,” said Igor. “They may bring the whole of the economy to its knees without fully realising what they are doing.”
“Okay, you have a problem,” said Alexei. “Perhaps you’ll explain where Max and I fit in. I presume we’re not sitting here on account of our pretty faces.”
“Gaining access to the world of people who wish to harm you is never easy,” said Gudrun. “Usually means years of spadework to gain their trust. Spy novels are forever rehashing the theme of the ‘sleeper’, inserted into the enemy camp, to hopefully produce results years later. Computer crime is a particularly hard nut to crack because people like Ricketts seem to be immune to the usual temptations of wine and women.”
“When Gudrun met you in Val Fornet she spotted a possible opportunity, which she then discussed with me,” said Igor. “We can only get at Freddie Ricketts by entering the one world he inhabits with such obsession. We have now been presented not only with two people in the same age group...”
“If you think for a moment I’m going to spend hours on Facebook with some nutter in Acacia Road...”
Igor’s placatory hand stopped Alexei’s outburst. “Please, please... hear us out.”
Reluctantly, Alexei simmered down.
“As I said, you’re of a similar age,” continued Igor. “Which is important because Ricketts and you two will talk the same peer group language, which we older folk can’t hope to match.”
“The clincher,” added Gudrun, “is that Alexei is also a numbers person, so can meet Ricketts on his home ground.”
Alexei seemed set for another outburst. Instead she asked, “What about Max? Does he feature in your grand design?”
“Can’t tell,” replied Igor. “These are early days. Ricketts may turn out to be a firework that fizzles dangerously for a while before dying out. But that’s a chance we don’t want to take. Many of these computer troglodytes have repressed urges, which we may be able to bring out and exploit. Freddie has made occasional mentions of sun-drenched beaches, white water rafting, that sort of thing. He may be daydreaming, who knows. It’s all unknown territory, so one day Max may get his chance.”
“Whether or not Max is directly involved doesn’t matter,” said Gudrun. “We’ve found that these situations work much better as a team effort. Alexei will need support.”
“Alexei won’t need support because she won’t be doing it,” said the lady in question.
“A normal reaction,” said Gudrun, not at all put out. “All we ask is that you think about it. A week or two perhaps. But not forever.”
“I already have a job which I enjoy and pays well,” Alexei pointed out. “Why would I want to spend my free time listening in on some weirdo’s computer chat?”
“It would only involve a few minutes each day,” said Igor. “At least to begin with. We already have software that picks up alarm words, but robots can only do so much. We need the human input. Someone who can get under Freddie’s skin. If this reveals anything out of the ordinary, we can reassess.”
“My answer is still no,” said Alexei.
“A personal question for both of you,” said Gudrun. “Do you think you’ll be in the same job ten years from now?”
Alexei and I exchanged shrugs.
“Twenty years on and I can almost guarantee you’ll be on different planets,” said Igor. “Alexei’s current employer, Morgan Durlacher, has a reputation for paying top dollar, but also for ‘letting go’ those that under-perform; even if it’s only a temporary downward blip. She’ll also start hearing ticking noises from her biological clock. Babies replacing balance sheets as her priority.”
“Max has a different problem,” said Gudrun. “At present he’s having a ball. Who wouldn’t want to spend winters in the snow and summers in the Aegean? But his employer, Supreme Holidays, is a family concern, which, like all of its kind, is an incestuous organisation, control passing down through the generations. As an outsider, Max has risen about as far as he is likely to. If he has not already done so, he should be thinking about a job with better prospects and money.”
“Helping with some cyber snooping is hardly a better job,” I said, perhaps too brusquely. Gudrun’s comment had touched a raw nerve. I knew I couldn’t continue as a snow and surf bum forever.
“We’re offering you a commercial opportunity with admittedly vague prospects, but no downside,” said Igor. “I believe the expression is... ‘sip it and see’...”
“Suck it and see.”
“Ah yes... well, we’re offering you a small, part-time job. Which you can... suck and see.”
“You used the word ‘commercial’,” said Alexei. “In my world that means money.”
“Of course. Should have mentioned it,” said Gudrun. “We’re prepared to offer you a one year contract as ‘consultants’. Lovely word that: can mean almost anything. Two thousand pounds paid into your account every month by direct debit.”
Alexei asked, “Two thou between the two of us? Or each?”
Igor answered, “Each of course. For just a few minutes a day, checking on what Freddie Ricketts is up to. If we hit pay dirt and Ricketts needs more attention, your fee will be adjusted accordingly.”
This time Alexei
did not reject the offer out of hand. As number two in their proposed scheme, I bided my time, curious to see what she would say.
After a long pause for thought, she replied. “We’re sitting here because we happened to witness an... event... on a ski slope. A so-called accident. Would I be required to apply similar measures to Mr Ricketts?”
“No, no, of course not.” Gudrun was dismissive. “Kuznetsov was an unusual case. Almost unique. Normally we just gather information. Then, if necessary, apply pressure by...”
“Less violent means?” I suggested.
“Why don’t you come and visit our headquarters?” said Igor, in a hurried attempt to change the subject.
“Then you’ll be able to see for yourselves that the Stockmann Institute is not some fly-by-night organisation,” added Gudrun.
“But respected and well-funded by some of the biggest names in industry,” said Igor.
“Most of whom remain anonymous?” I asked.
Igor smiled. “Some. Not all.”
“Where is this headquarters of yours?” asked Alexei.
“Oslo,” replied Gudrun. “My home town. Summer is upon us. A wonderful time to visit. I assume your labours in the City of London allow you a certain amount of free time?”
While Alexei was pondering this offer, I piped up. “Count me out. In a few days I’ll be off to Greece for the summer. It’ll be all go until the autumn.”
“I’m sure Sea Supreme could spare you for a few days,” said Igor. “We would of course fly you from Athens to Oslo, all expenses paid.”
“And you’d be able to spend a few days with Alexei,” said Gudrun.
Devious woman! She knew I would kill for a chance to see Alexei again.
“Sleep on it,” said Igor. “A lot to think about. We’ll meet up again at breakfast. If you’re able to tell us your decision then it would be helpful. Our offer won’t be on the table forever.”
“If Freddie Ricketts does turn out to be a problem, we need someone on his tail as soon as possible,” added Gudrun. “I also think you’d find him an interesting project. Might lead to greater things. Might not. Who can tell? You’ll never know unless you give it a try.”
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