The 2084 Precept

by Anthony D. Thompson

  "No problem, but I will be visiting Slough that morning. It would have to be after lunch. Say around 1.30 p.m.?"

  "Agreed. And hopefully the authorities will have contacted you again in the meantime and you can fill me in on what is, or is not going to happen."

  "Will do, Jeremy. See you then."

  I gave the small, frail-looking girl a big smile on the way out. Miss Monroe, sexy name. Could be another blinking red light to be checked out when I've finished with my Céline depression, who knows?

  DAY 19

  Same weather, a meteorological depression to match my emotional one. I decided not to go to work today; I would just bill for about four hours or so of analytical tasks (never a good idea to overbill too much).

  I decided to have breakfast in Curzon Street. I went down to the hotel breakfast room for a Lavazza first, and then headed out through the lobby. Little Miss Ugly was there, another big smile from her. And also there was Delsey himself, sitting in a lounge chair waiting for me. It is truly amazing how that guy always manages to look as if the end of the world is nigh. And not only nigh, but not even enough time left to have a cup of coffee before it happens. He reminds me of nothing so much as Banksy’s famous or - as some would say - infamous rendering of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers (or, more correctly, of one of the seven versions Van Gogh painted). An immaculate depiction of portending catastrophe.

  He stood up. "Good morning, Mr. O'Donoghue," he said with a smile, a morose one of course, but hey, a smile is a smile, good for him.

  "Good morning, Mr. Delsey," I said. "Brought my mobile with you, have you?"

  "Yes, of course," he said. "Please accept our apologies for the delay." And he took my phone out of his pocket and gave it to me.

  "Find anything?" I asked.

  "Nothing untoward, except for that Madeira number of course." He looked at me, not really expecting me to elaborate, and I didn't. I looked at the phone instead.

  "Done anything to it?" I asked. Not that I really cared.

  "Of course not, sir." Surprise, surprise, I have become a sir.

  "In any case," he continued, "we would need approval to do something like that and, to be honest, we would have difficulty in justifying such a request at this stage."

  "At this stage?"

  "Well, Mr. O'Donoghue," he replied, "We don't know where all of this is going to lead us, do we? You have created waves, you and Mr. Parker, and you can't expect to be left to your own devices until we have got to the bottom of it, now can you?"

  "No, I can't and no I don't. So why don't you tell me what you and your bosses are doing about it." The word 'why' does not imply a question. It is just that I am one of many who have adopted the American phrase 'why don't you' as a replacement for the simpler and more courteous word 'please'. I think the Americans find it useful for whenever they do not actually want to say 'please' to anybody. So do I.

  "Yes, well, that is why I am here. Perhaps we could take a seat in the corner over there?"

  We sat down, I didn't offer him coffee, I had just had one myself and another one was coming up soon in Curzon Street. I looked over at the desk, Little Miss Ugly was there, watching. I gave her a broad smile, spread some more of that happiness.

  "We had a meeting," he started off. "The aim was to try and involve a few of our top people and to persuade them in their turn to try and involve a minister or two, and then have you perform one or two of those telepathic events, possibly of a more momentous nature. I say of a more momentous nature, because if you have something for the prime minister's ears only, that is what it would take. At the same time, it would be necessary for Mr. Parker to be present in person."

  He paused and looked at me with his half-wink. I didn't say anything.

  "Well…I don't think you can understand how difficult this is. There are huge bureaucratic obstacles. There are a large number of ministries, there are secretaries of state, there are ministers, there are under-secretaries, there is the Attorney General's office, and there is a whole host of other high-ranking officials. Then we have ourselves, the police, and we are responsible to the Home Office, which is headed by the Home Secretary and five other ministers. As you may imagine, a complex labyrinth making it a long, long road to get anywhere near the prime minister. But we have our contacts. We have some tentative agreements with certain important persons for them to attend a one hour meeting on Thursday evening—provisional agreements you understand, and dependent upon your compliance with the conditions I have just mentioned. And the meeting, by the way, would be either at New Scotland Yard or in Whitehall."

  "I have a couple of comments on that, Mr. Delsey. First of all, we can provide a couple of events, as you call them. No problem, providing you accept that they must cause no harm to man nor beast. But we have to be clear on one point. We are not a performing circus. There would be no more attempts to entertain you, your colleagues, or any ministers of any ilk. Either this meeting results in a direct meeting with the prime minister, or it's the end of the story. Finished. Fertig. Terminado. Fini. I therefore suggest that the prime minister be informed of what is going on before the Thursday meeting takes place. He should be prepared to take a yes or a no decision immediately afterwards about a meeting with Mr. Parker, based on the comments he receives from you and your colleagues and from anybody else who deigns to turn up. And last but not least, Mr. Parker will not be attending this preparatory meeting. He will only meet directly with the Prime Minister himself."

  Delsey seemed distinctly uncomfortable about this. He twisted in his chair, he plucked at his trousers—or pants if you are American and like ambiguities—he leaned forward, he wiped his brow, an additional sullenness formed to supplement his customary morosity, and he said in a gruff voice, "I'm afraid we're going to have to insist…"

  "You are not going to have to insist on anything," I said. "I need an answer fast. Otherwise this ends right here and now in this hotel and may God help you, if you happen to be a believer Mr. Delsey, because, mark my words, you will be needing it."

  He considered this for a while. I could read his thoughts. On the one hand, there was a lunatic. On the other hand, there were certain undeniable powers floating around which could, if proven to be authentic ones, be of earth-shaking importance to his country. And then, he had obviously been tasked with arranging this meeting anyway.

  "I will need to consult on this," he said. "We will get back to you later today, if you would be so kind as to keep your mobile within reach."

  "We? And do you mind if I ask who might that be?"

  "It will be me," he said. "I have now been assigned full-time to this case and am responsible for communication. In other words, I am your contact person."

  And that was that. Off he went, and off I went, lighting up a cigarette as I headed for Half Moon Street. I bought the IHT at the tube station and ended up at the same café in which Jeremy had introduced himself to me nearly three weeks ago. I sat at the same outside table in fact, warm enough and no wind to complicate the turning of the newspaper pages.

  And then I took a momentous decision.

  I decided to give up croissants. They taste nice enough and they are not particularly heavy on the stomach, but basically they are a crescent-shaped product specifically designed by the French to crumble apart when you pick them up, and to collapse into a hundred pieces if you are foolish enough to try and do anything with them, such as spread butter or marmalade on them. They also contain an average 34% of fatty oils. I ordered a couple of normal bread rolls and butter to go with the coffee and started on the IHT.

  Debt crises continue down the road to their supernova, shares prices have fallen—I have recouped €15,000—and there were 280 conflict deaths yesterday including 73 Sunnis murdered while praying in their mosque near Bagdad. The only mild interest in the conflicts nowadays is the number of deaths. Syria of course has done a good job of raising the average in recent times. The pope conveyed his condolences to the parents of a kidnap victim beheaded by some
Islam group or other. I skipped other boring articles on politicians arguing about this and arguing about that—this is my view, says the one of them, flap, flap…and this is my view says the other, flap, flap—and turned to the sports pages. Always interesting, and today I got to read about the ongoing increase in bribery and corruption at all levels, up to and including the governing bodies, and the huge amounts of money, effort and time being expended in an attempt to at least limit the extent of drug usage in sport. Well, you wouldn't expect anything else, would you, these sporting activities are conducted by the human race on the planet Earth. Interesting of course, but no more than that. I can't even find the energy to say tut, tut or whatever.

  I decided to check on the two small gifts I had ordered for Roger and Geoff at United Fasteners. I walked up to Berkeley Square, a small, pleasant square, home to Winston Churchill as a child and fictitious home to P.G. Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster and—may we never forget—his servant Jeeves. I turned east, crossed over Bond Street, and dropped into the small engraving establishment located just short of Regent Street.

  No problems, ready for collection on Thursday morning as agreed, they said. It had started to drizzle, so I caught a cab for the short trip back to the hotel. Whether I am being watched or not, I continue neither to know nor care.

  Back in my room I pondered the events of the past few days. Things were not as simple as they had been at the outset. At the outset I had agreed to earn the ridiculous amount of €500,000 from a mentally sick person for merely participating in a number of interviews with him up to a maximum of twelve. Since then, I had agreed to cooperate in trying to obtain a meeting between this mentally sick person and the U.K. prime minister, no less. Admittedly with the assistance of some incredibly amazing mind-bending techniques of which this mentally sick person was unquestionably capable. And my total potential earnings, if I could still believe it, had risen to the nice round sum of €1 million. In return for which I now I had the authorities on my back.

  So the question was, how to earn the remaining money while at the same time extracting myself completely and entirely from the attentions of the authorities. I think a small chronological analysis will assist me. First of all I would have to attend this week's meeting, if it occurred, and hope that the pyrotechnics would be convincing enough to achieve the apparently impossible, namely a meeting between Jeremy and the prime minister. The latter would be under heavy security, no question about that, but then that would not be my problem and in any case Jeremy can take care of himself like nobody else, using those inimitable powers of his, no doubt about that either.

  Secondly, I had to attend my meeting with Jeremy tomorrow and, in order to comply with our agreement, such additional meetings as he may deem to be appropriate. Thirdly, nothing was going to make me change my plans to return to Okriftel this weekend. Monika's birthday was on the Sunday and on the Saturday I had to comply with my long-standing promise to the local mayor to give a simultaneous chess exhibition at the town's technical college. And as for any meetings next week in London, I could just fly over.

  And then I had a tentative agreement to start my Spanish project the week following. The question was, how do I get there without the authorities being able to trace me? With all of today's technology and the global cooperation existing between national police forces, that might not be possible. They would find me if they wanted to, particularly as I had no intention of trying to disguise myself and no idea of how to go about obtaining false passports or driving licenses or other such skullduggery. And even if I did know how, I wouldn’t do it, it’s illegal and I am not the detective-story type.

  On the other hand, I could probably make it difficult for them, cause a few weeks' delay if I got lucky, by which time Jeremy would have had his meeting. Maybe the world's superpowers would be getting together as well, who knows? Jeremy's demonstrations might have achieved that before they decided to lock him up in a high security unit specialized in advanced psychiatric care. Although I would be fascinated to see what would happen if they were to attempt it. By which time, anyway, their interest in me would hopefully have evaporated or at least have transformed itself into a minor and minuscule concern.

  I could drive to Barcelona for my initial meeting with Señor Pujol at his group's head office. No controls at the frontier. And better not to use my own car. Monika would love to swap hers with my Audi for a few weeks or, if not, she would allow me to pay for a rental car for myself in her name. Make it Hertz or Avis and then I could drop the car off at its destination. Or park it in a long-term car park in Barcelona somewhere. And then I could continue on to the loss-making shipping company's offices in Mallorca by taking the ferry to Palma as a foot passenger. My name would be on a ticket and end up in a computer databank somewhere, but as a risk, it was a calculated one. And once in Palma, I could disappear from the hotel after a few days and into an apartment. And no car, just taxis. And not being an employee of the shipping company, I would not be identifiable on its payroll.

  And if it only worked for a short while, so be it, they would start bothering me again. Not that they could do much except annoy me in my view. And by then I would hopefully have been paid anyway.

  Which reminded me to log on and check on the latest €100,000. Not received. No sweat. I'll check again in the morning.

  In the evening, Delsey called. The meeting was confirmed. Thursday at 5 p.m. in Whitehall, the Ministry of Defence. I should please present myself at the northern entrance and Delsey would be waiting for me.

  DAY 20

  This morning was an easy morning—and a pleasing one.

  I had my breakfast, the good old Lavazza and the Chivers, went back to my room and checked my on-line bank account. The third payment of €100,000 had been credited. I was beginning to really appreciate Jeremy, a moral and virtuous person. I always hold people who are totally reliable in high regard, sane or otherwise. I put the money into Nestlé shares. A safe investment given the ever-increasing world population, all of whom need to eat and drink in order not to die, and more and more of whom can also afford quality products as the middle-class segments continue to grow in all of the world's new economies. Certainly, the shares can go up and down depending on the movements, violent or otherwise, of the world's markets, but long-term, the demographic evolution will hold sway. And of course these shares have two additional advantages: they pay a decent dividend, regularly and continuously, and the shares move in line with the Swiss Franc, not the Euro. A good investment in uncertain times in my view. But of course you can never tell, the whole caboodle is just one big, crazy casino.

  I drove leisurely down to Slough and checked up on the progress at Clark's. Everything was proceeding satisfactorily, and at around midday Fred found me outside drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette while admiring yet again—such a minor item, but there you go—the yellow lettering on the dark red background of the new, shiningly clean sign outside the main entrance. Fred was also in cheerful mood. He told me the employees had voted a short while ago to accept the cuts in return for a review of the situation in twelve months' time and a job guarantee until then. Not a problem, he told me, the way things were going. The problem could actually turn out to be the other way round—how to meet increased production requirements without having to increase the workforce.

  I told him I would be in tomorrow for the last time before converting to our new ad hoc arrangement. And then I drove back to London, parked the car at the hotel, took a cab to the Strand, had a sandwich, a coffee and a cigarette, and walked into Jeremy's offices at just before 1.30 p.m. Timely as usual. Prompt and punctual. Jeremy and I complement each other in that respect, if not in other ways, such as mental health.

  The frail but sensuous Miss Monroe was at the expensive reception desk, the smile was warm, the walls were as white as before, the office furniture also, and men and women were investing a part of their lives—a large part of their lives—staring at computer screens. Everything was the same. Including
Jeremy, short blond hair, smiling moon-face, tailored suit, the exception being the tie, a beige and white striped one today.

  "Good afternoon, Peter," he said, "I was hoping we could get started fairly promptly today. Lots of Obrix business to deal with, you know. Refreshments are on the table, just help yourself. And how are things with you?"

  "Things are fine with me," I replied. A lie of course, because of Céline. "And thank you for the recent payment, much appreciated. I am trying to earn it as best I can. I have a meeting in Whitehall tomorrow evening. Quite a gathering, I believe. We will need to make another demonstration or two, perhaps including a very significant one. If we don't manage to totally convince them, we will never get as far as the prime minister. Or at the very least, it would take ages. Will that be possible?"

  "No problem at all, Peter. And in any case, and whether they admit it or not, they must already have a tremendous interest in acquiring some kind of control over these computer-hacking abilities, as we refer to them. And if it takes a meeting with the prime minister to further that aim, then I am sure that that is exactly what they will arrange. As I have said, fear is our weapon. We will just have to scare them a bit, that's all. With no harm to anybody of course. And we'll let them choose, as usual. I am reasonably certain they will select something appropriate. Something convincing, and therefore scary."

  He stood up, strolled over to the window, hands in his pockets, and looked out at the building opposite. He was in a distinctly relaxed and easy mood this morning.

  "Just use our mobile again," he said, "to let me know what is needed. If they try to take it from you, no problem. They can't do anything with it. But I don't think they will, not at this stage. And now…perhaps you could please fill me in on our final macro-subject, ‘Beliefs and Superstitions’?"