‘And tell them Charles tricked you into taking ecstasy? Or that I lost their IP? Or Gavin flew to a warzone and impersonated a press photographer?’ said Shanti. ‘We all love that never-say-die Carlisle attitude, Trent. But it’s not enough this time.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Trent’s shoulders dropped. ‘There’s nothing I can do except sign the papers, take the cash from Charles and hand it straight over to my mother.’
‘Why be a middleman? Get Charles to take it to her directly,’ said Gavin.
‘Fuck, I could just imagine those two together,’ Trent placed his hands behind his head as he walked a slow circle. ‘They almost deserve each other.’
Shanti’s eyes went wide. ‘Hang on, so why don’t we give him what he deserves?’
‘I’d love to, but the bell’s rung. Once he dilutes our holdings, he controls the whole thing. The fight’s over.’
‘Hold up,’ started Shanti, rubbing her palms together, ‘what if the thing he takes control of turns out to take control of him?’
Trent stared at Shanti, waiting for an explanation.
‘I need the name of that Finance Minister Charles was always fawning over. The one from Eastern Europe,’ said Shanti as she rummaged in her backpack for her laptop. ‘And what’s your wifi password, Gavin?’
‘Do you know what she’s talking about?’ Trent turned to Gavin.
‘About my password?’
‘About the Finance Minister.’
‘No, but I think Charles is about to find out what happens when a pissed-off coder decides to rewrite the rules,’ said Gavin, grinning as he watched Shanti punish her keyboard. ‘How can you not love this girl?’
Everything works in theory
Two soldiers stormed into the Minister’s office, rifles raised. They were followed by a heavyset man in a dark grey suit.
‘Where is the money?’ The suited man appeared to be absent of a neck, and his eyes were unnervingly close-set.
‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to figure out,’ said The Professor, gesturing at the piles of paper spread across the table. ‘There are many discrepancies but, at the risk of repeating myself, I am not an accountant. I am a professor of behavioural economics.’
The scrum of advisors and translators seated around the table began to inch backwards, as if trying to distance themselves from the matter.
‘Either you return the one point two billion,’ said the official, ‘or you go to jail. All of you.’ The soldiers raised their rifles slightly higher and swept the room with their barrels. ‘I come back at four pm. You better have some answers, Slizhevsky.’
‘I told you, I’m not Slizhevsky,’ the Professor protested.
‘You very happy running around all week, telling us to treat you the same as Slizhevsky. But now you don’t want us to do that any more.’ He signalled for the armed officers to take up positions by the door. ‘Too late. While in my country, you are Slizhevsky.’
The Professor waited for the official to close the heavy wooden door behind him before whispering to his working committee. ‘What is he talking about? What is this one point two billion?’
The group sat in awkward silence, none of them daring to make eye contact with The Professor. Or each other.
‘One of you must know what’s going on?’ The Professor scanned the group, stopping at a tall, gaunt official from the treasury who had been the most helpful of the bureaucrats so far. ‘Yuri, has this got anything to do with the figures we’ve been looking at?’
‘I. It’s not. There have been…’
Yuri was shushed by several of his co-workers and a heated exchange broke out in a dialect The Professor couldn’t quite place. After some discussion, Yuri prevailed.
‘There were rumours. None of us knows for sure…’ Yuri glanced around the table and then to the soldiers by the door, one of whom had already started playing with his phone. ‘They were about special deals, secret contracts, shelf companies, tech startups and tax breaks all set up by Slizhevsky. The funds were from many programs – tourism, mining, innovation – they all went to these special companies.’
‘That no-one has ever seen! They don’t even exist!’ hissed a young woman in severe horn-rimmed spectacles, stabbing the piles of printouts with her finger.
‘Calm down, we know all this,’ Yuri motioned for the woman to sit. ‘So the Minister, he ask us to move all this money into these nothing companies, tells us it is all approved and then…’
‘Then what?’ asked the Professor.
‘Then now you are the Minister,’ a portly official in a rumpled suit fixed the Professor with a stare. ‘You are Slizhevsky.’
‘What? Me? You can’t possibly suspect that I had anything to do with this? I came here to try to help fix your economy, introduce some new stimulus measures, suggest some reforms, that sort of thing.’ The Professor pushed the papers off the desk in frustration. ‘This has gone quite far enough –’
The re-snicking of rifle bolts brought the macroeconomic discussion to an abrupt halt.
‘I think we can clear this up relatively easily,’ The Professor made a calming motion with his hands then pointed at the phone on his desk. ‘Just a phone call, that’s all.’
The Professor pressed the yellow button on the phone and spoke slowly into the intercom. ‘Yulia, can you get Minister Slizhevsky on the line please?’
After a pause, Yulia’s voice emerged from the speakerphone. ‘You are already on the line Mr Slizhevsky. You want speak with someone?’
‘Slizhevsky. Get the real Slizhevsky on the line.’
‘The real Slizhevsky?’
‘Yes, the man who normally sits in this office. He was here last week.’
‘I am sorry, but I don’t know who was here last week. I am temporary replacement,’ Yulia’s voice brightened, ‘Is someone else you would like for me to speak with you?’
‘Never mind. Thank you,’ The Professor looked up to find the entire room watching him.
Years of teaching – decades, when he added them all up – had won him a respectable standing within the theoretical economics community, tenure and even a few admiring glances from impressionable sophomores. One had even slipped him a love note, just before the final semester exams. All he had wanted, however, was the chance to test his theories in the real world. He’d taken on a few international consulting engagements during semester breaks, but the consulting fees proved to be only a temporary balm. It frustrated him greatly to be asked for his expert advice only to have it ignored. The stint in Singapore had been particularly bittersweet. His behavioural economics modelling had recommended against almost all of the ‘innovative proposals’ the Singaporeans were considering. As a counter, he put forward his own scheme to re-balance income tax brackets and reform the import duty regime. The government thanked him, paid him and ignored him. To add injury to insult, they had cancelled his contract just as he was beginning to build a rapport with a fetching young admin assistant by the name of Christina. They had bonded over his admiration of her extensive collection of high-heeled shoes.
Professor Jensen had almost resigned himself to a life of teaching economic theory (with a sideline in theoretical economics consulting), until the afternoon he got a call from one of the founders of a startup in Singapore he’d almost managed to land a job with. She’d started with a half-apology, explaining their investors had prevented them from offering him the role that they believed he would have been perfectly suited to, before moving swiftly along to the heart of the enquiry: would the Professor be interested in running a small eastern European economy for a week or two?
She explained that the post of Finance Minister of Vitebsk, a small but growing region in the northeast of Belarus, was a life-rental opportunity marked as strictly ‘expert level’ and that he, the Professor, was easily the most expert of all the macroeconomics experts they were considering. It occurred to him now that he should probably have asked exactly how many other macroeconomics experts they we
re considering.
Once she assured him that he would have most of the same powers and responsibilities as the actual Minister, he agreed to help at a substantially discounted rate. The fact that he was using the Singapore Government’s own frivolous investment vehicle to demonstrate the effectiveness of the theories they had paid handsomely to ignore was the icing on the cake. He spent the short flight studying economic data and scribbling in his notebook – he didn’t want to waste his week at the helm of a real-life Finance Ministry by being underprepared.
Upon landing, the Professor was ushered into a tired old stretch Mercedes, the driver either unwilling or unable to make small talk. At the Ministry, he was made to wait several hours before Finance Minister Vasily Slizhevsky appeared, their hurried greetings interrupted by an awkward pause as the two men realised they bore more than a passing resemblance to one another.
Jensen was crestfallen to learn the Minister had not read any of his published theories but he pressed on regardless, eager to present his plans for the coming week. The meeting moved in fits and starts as the Minister took calls on his bluetooth headset without warning, while his aides scuttled about, presenting documents for him to sign. When Jensen tried to engage in some macroeconomic chit-chat, the Minister didn’t appear overly interested, or even that familiar with the topic. What the Minister did appear overly interested in were the ample breasts of his blonde companion, who was introduced only as the ‘special executive assistant to the Minister’. She smiled politely, adjusted her blouse ineffectually and fluttered her eyelids incessantly. The blue light on the Minister’s earpiece flashed and the aides scuttled about, bringing folder after folder of documents to be signed. A moment later, the Minister rose, shook the Professor’s hand and brought the meeting to a close.
‘I think you’ll find everything has been prepared for your tenure. I oversaw the paperwork myself,’ the minister smirked and was gone.
Unwilling to waste even a minute, Jensen began sorting through piles of documents on the elaborate timber desk in the Minister’s office and taking briefings from a variety of aides and officials. On the second day a herd of high school students on a study tour ambled through and he was also asked to approve a banquet menu for an upcoming state dinner but, generally, he was allowed to concentrate on the task at hand. He found a few kindred economic spirits among the bureaucrats, happy to talk into the night, nodding their heads at his ideas then shaking them as an indication of their suitability in Vitebsk. ‘The money,’ they would whisper, glancing around the empty office and taking a long, guilty pull of ministerial scotch, ‘it is gone.’
By the third day the Professor had constructed a wall of cross-referenced printouts worthy of the under-lit Swedish detective series he was fond of binge-watching. He had barely noticed that the assistance, so freely flowing in his first couple of days as Minister, had begun to ebb once the bureaucrats cottoned on to what he was doing. Which was at about the same time the military officials cottoned on to what he was doing.
***
‘What do you mean no longer with the company?’ Jensen bleated down the per-minute international mobile line. He realised now he should have purchased one of those pre-paid calling cards at the airport but, at the time, it seemed a bit of a scam.
‘That’s correct, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with today?’ asked the cheery voice with the lilting Filipino accent.
‘Quite a bit, actually. I’m having a misunderstanding with my hosts and I wonder if you could get your manager to have a chat with them.’
‘So you are on a ShelfLife rental right now is it?’
‘Yes I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Okay sir, and do you have a booking reference number?’
‘A booking reference? I’m not sure. Just let me check,’ Jensen scrambled over to the big wooden desk and opened his laptop.
‘Take your time, sir,’ said the call centre representative, implying the opposite.
‘I’m awfully sorry, I don’t seem to be able to find my booking details.’
‘That’s not a problem, sir. Can I have your last name please.’
Heavy knocking on the office door startled the Professor.
‘My surname is Jensen.’
‘Just for security purposes, can I just ask you to confirm your current billing address and your date of birth please?’
‘Oh, yes, certainly.’ He always felt a little awkward that his current billing address had always been his billing address. The awkward was tinged with sadness as he reeled off the date. So many years, so few adventures.
‘Thank you Mr Jensen, I’m just –’
‘Professor.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Jensen, what was that?’
‘It’s actually Professor.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr Professor, I do apologise.’
‘No, not Mr Professor. It’s Professor Jensen.’
‘Okay, certainly, sir, I mean, Professor.’
The line filled with the sound of a keyboard being punished.
‘Okay, I am having some difficulty retrieving your booking. Can you give me the name and location city of your Host?’
‘It’s Vasily Slizhevsky, in the city of Vitebsk, in the province of Vitebsk, in the country known as Belarus,’ said Jensen, closing his eyes to try and block out the banging on the door. ‘And I do need you to hurry.’
‘Of course sir, and while I’m looking for your booking can I ask you if you’d be interested in staying on the line after we’re done to answer a short three-minute survey about the service you received today?’
‘Okay, fine, but please just put me through to someone who can help me. There’s been an awful misunderstanding and I am concerned that –’
The door left its hinges at the same moment the phone line dropped out. The Professor never did get the opportunity to take that short three-minute survey about the service he received.
***
The camera flashes made it difficult for The Professor to find his footing. The battered Kalashnikov wedged in the small of his back only compounded the problem. There was none of the sassy repartee reminiscent of the TV series’ White House pressers he enjoyed. After a short statement, in Belarussian, from a bloated military official, questions were asked and answered without much input from Jensen. He looked about for his translator, without success.
There was a long pause and he looked up to find the entire room staring at him, with the exception of the military official, who was, in addition to staring, pointing. Jensen was lifted by the elbows and transported from the room as it began to seethe with whirring motordrives and shouted questions. A heavy door closed behind him and he found himself in a much smaller, much less comfortable office, surrounded by the team of assistants and advisors he’d been working with over the last couple of days.
‘What did you tell them?’ hissed a small, mousey bureaucrat.
‘Well, actually, nothing. Nobody spoke to me at all,’ Jensen straightened his sleeves and checked his pockets methodically - a high school excursion to Spain had left him with a life-long fear of pickpockets. ‘At least not in a language I could understand.’
Muffled shouting drew everyone to the grimy window. In the square below, a few hundred citizens had gathered, brandishing placards. A bearded man holding a megaphone led them in a series of chants. A small group of police hovered nearby, observing the crowd as if it were a mild rash.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Jensen opened the door, only to be met by a wall of khaki and submachineguns. He paused for a moment to compose his thoughts, but the feeling of steel on forehead persuaded him to retreat into the office where, once again, he was the centre of attention.
‘Professor, you have to tell them what you’ve found,’ said one of the assistants, clasping her hands together.
‘I rather wish I had the opportunity to do so, but no-one in your government seems to want to listen. It’s something of a recurring theme for me, I’m afraid,’ said Jensen
, adjusting his glasses. ‘But I’m sure we’ll get our chance to explain what we’ve found so far. Why don’t you tell them about the progress we’ve made? They’ll listen to one of their own, don’t you think?’
The room was split evenly between gentle nodding and scathing eye-rolls, but genuine support for Jensen’s plan was not forthcoming. The shouts and chanting from the crowd outside grew steadily as night fell. The advisors and bureaucrats shuffled about in small groups, whispering, arguing, darting glances at Jensen and making hurried calls. Jensen found a vacant section of wall to slide down and rest his head against.
He woke some time later to find the last of the bureaucrats in fevered negotiation with the guards by the door. They shook hands with their captors and were ushered out. Looking about the dimly-lit room, Jensen noted that his sole companion was the temporary receptionist. She was engrossed in a tile game on her mobile. He rubbed his legs as he got up and hobbled to the window. It was hard to see in the darkness, but the crowd appeared to have swollen substantially. Several armoured vehicles had been called in to support the police. Jensen felt the woman’s breath by his ear.
‘It looks like a lot of people want to talk to you,’ she nodded out the window.
‘Yes, but no-one seems to want to listen to me,’ he rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Do you have any idea what is going on down there?’
‘The people. They think this government very bad for taking all the money. Now the people want the money back.’ She turned to look into his eyes. ‘But you have the money, don’t you?’ She shifted closer.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It must be very lonely when you cannot trust anybody.’ She pressed herself against him. ‘But you can trust my body, Professor, because I am your assistant, yes?’
‘I suppose you are.’
‘So when the guards come back, let me help you. We can choose somewhere sunny. Somewhere with not so many people.’ She looked down at the crowd as the first light of dawn began filling the grey square. ‘I think Portugal would be perfect.’
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