‘Why will they ask me to choose a country?’ Jensen tried to wriggle from her embrace.
‘Why, my love, for the exile, of course.’ She closed the distance between them once more.
‘Exile? Who is being exiled?’
‘Oh my wonderfully mad Professor,’ she ran a hand through what was left of his hair, ‘you don’t need to play games with me now. We’ll have plenty of time for that in Portugal, yes?’
‘It’s not a game. I need to know what’s going on. Please.’
She stopped mid stroke and her smile fell. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh my gott!’ She blew a stray lock of hair from her face. ‘They will come and ask you where the money is. You will tell them. They let you keep a little bit, but not too little, then put you in a helicopter and fly you wherever you want to go. You promise never to come back. They will hold press conference, telling everyone you escaped, but the clever police found out where you hid the money. Then the police will split the money between themselves and the military. They buy some big guns and some shiny planes. Then everyone make a big party and we start again.’
‘A party?’
‘Why you don’t know anything about this? This happens every time,’ the assistant placed her hands on her hips. ‘You are the Finance Minister, no?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘But at least you know where the money is, yes?’
He was ashamed at how fond he had become of having his hair stroked by his assistant. ‘Not really.’
The assistant gave a snort, turned and stamped over to the door, rapping it violently. After a brief, flirtatious conversation with the guard, she disappeared without a backward glance.
The sound of breaking glass drew the Professor back to the window. The crowd was chanting with renewed enthusiasm at the line of soldiers protecting the parliamentary building. An armoured truck nudged its way to the front of the crowd while a news van nudged its way to the back.
On the one hand, the protestors seemed like everyday citizens, unfamiliar with violence and posing no real physical threat to the soldiers. On the other hand, there were an awful lot of them, with thousands more pouring into the square as the sun rose higher. On a theoretical third hand, The Professor was not sure what the protestors had been told of his involvement. It would probably be wise to explain the situation before the mob reached their own, possibly violent conclusion.
It took several minutes of pummelling on the heavy wooden door to get the guard to open up.
‘Vot?’
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with the protestors?’
‘Nyet.’
‘It would only take a minute, I just want to make sure they understand everything correctly.’
‘Nyet.’
‘Well, can I talk to someone from the government, to find out what’s going on?’
‘Nyet.’
‘How about your boss?’
‘Nyet.’
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Nyet.’
Jensen sighed. ‘Well, can I have something to eat, please?’
‘Nyet.’
‘At least let me use the bathroom.’
‘You want bath?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind, but no, I need the toilet. For God’s sake man, I’ve been in here all night. Please.’
The guard looked along the long hallway in each direction and nodded tersely.
***
Jensen stood on the lid of the toilet seat, the narrow window offering a glimpse of the square below. He could just make out the soldier on the roof of the armoured truck, but he appeared to be facing away from the crowd. A couple of protestors climbed onto the roof of the truck, dancing around the soldier, waving banners. Soldiers then moved through the crowd, smiling and receiving slaps on the back and open bottles of wine from the protestors. The Professor rubbed his eyes and strained his neck, trying to make the scene make sense.
A loud cheer broke out as the crowd surged towards the building, lifting bottles into the air, pumping fists and taking selfies. Drones hovered overhead and reporters walked along backwards with the surge, addressing their cameras and adjusting their hair as they went. Brutal thumping on the stall door startled the professor and a foot slipped into the bowl.
‘Out, Professor. Back to room. Now!’ the guard shouted through the thin plywood door. ‘You make big trouble for me, understand?’
A quick blow with the butt of the rifle splintered the lock before Jensen could reply. The guard grabbed a handful of jacket and dragged the Professor back down the corridor, slinging him into the office with the grace of an airline baggage handler. The door slammed shut and Jensen sat, pondering his sodden shoe.
A moment later the door flung open again. The guard walked backwards into the room, hands raised, staring at a thicket of rifles held by a mixed dozen of protestors and soldiers. They started shouting and pointing. Jensen cowered in the back of the room.
‘Enough!’ The cry silenced the group and a small woman in camouflage stepped forward. ‘You are the Minister?’
‘No. Well, sort of.’
‘You know where is the money?’
‘I found some records of funds transfers but it’s not entirely clear –’
‘The hostage is not co-operative,’ the camouflaged woman announced to her walkie talkie.
‘Let’s take him upstairs, present him to the comrades,’ one wild-eyed protestor proclaimed, reaching down to grab Jensen by the sleeve. ‘They will see what we have achieved together, using the will of the people as a collective force for meaningful political change.’
‘Just take him upstairs, Jako. Leave the slogans to someone more qualified.’
Jensen was escorted up several flights of stairs, past offices filled with fluttering papers and gently burning desks. Protestors and militia ran giddily through the corridors, pausing to tear framed paintings from the walls, topple filing cabinets and pose for selfies. Jensen was marched into a grand office, littered with debris and manned by a group of about twenty rebels working a bank of laptops and barking into cell phones. The room came to a standstill as the soldiers announced their cargo.
‘Put him in that office,’ said one of the rebel leaders, pointing at a glass cubicle across the room. ‘Nastya and I will deal with him.’
The door swung shut and Jensen pushed himself back into the office chair. The student leader wore a red beret and a goatee. Jensen could smell his garlicky breath as he and the camouflaged woman hovered in front of his face.
‘Do we need to restrain you, Minister?’ said Nastya.
‘I’m not the minister,’ said Jensen. ‘I’m just a professor.’
‘Bullshit, you are Slizhevsky. Look,’ said the student leader, holding a printout of the Minister. ‘He’s lost some weight, but it is him.’
‘He also lost the people’s money. Our money,’ said Nastya, drawing a pistol from its holster.
‘Yes, the resemblance is remarkable, but I assure you I’m not the minister. You have to believe me,’ Jensen’s voice trembled. ‘I’m a professor. Of behavioural economics.’
‘Then what are you doing here, pretending to be Slizhevsky? Your assistant said you know where the money is but you refused to share it with her.’
‘She’s just as bad as those greedy dogs in the Ministry,’ said Nastya. ‘You should not have let her go, Danik.’
‘She was just a temp, Nastya. She doesn’t know anything,’ he said, adjusting his belt. ‘I have her phone number if I need to get more proper debriefing.’
‘I’m the same. Just a temp,’ said Jensen. ‘I’m not Slizhevsky, I was just renting his life for a week.’
‘That makes no sense to me, I think,’ Nastya crossed her arms and squinted at Jensen like he was an experiment. ‘Why would anyone want to do such a thing?’
‘Answer her,’ said Danik, poking Jensen
in the chest. ‘Why do you want to be this scum? Even for a week?’
‘I wanted to test my economic theories. In the real world,’ said Jensen, his eyes darting around the small office, confirming only one door. ‘Really, you’ve no idea how frustrating it is when no-one wants to listen to your advice.’
‘And how did you trick Slizhevsky into letting you impersonate him? Did you have him killed? Did you get plastic surgery for your face? Who’s funding you?’ Nastya raised her pistol. ‘We want some answers we can believe in.’
‘It was a website, a portal, they let you rent other people’s lives,’ Jensen sputtered, squirming back into the chair and raising his hands to cover his face. ‘They called me, asking if I wanted to be a Finance Minister for a week. It was Slizhevsky who tricked me. He stole the money, got me to take his place and then disappeared. You have to believe me.’
‘I say we shoot him now,’ Nastya clicked the safety on her pistol.
‘Wait! Wait! Let’s think about this,’ Danik stepped between Jensen and the pistol. ‘Listen to the people outside. They are united. The students, the workers, even our brothers in uniform. They have seen the truth. They all want change. But first, they want someone to blame.’
‘Then they should blame Slizhevsky,’ said Jensen, peering around Danik’s shoulder.
‘No-one is talking to you,’ Nastya levelled the pistol at Jensen’s forehead.
‘Nastya, please.’ Danik reached for her arm and guided it gently to her side. He leaned in close and whispered. ‘What happens if we go out there and tell our comrades their money is gone and the thief has escaped? We’ll look like fools. Maybe they even blame us. The protest is peaceful, for now. That could change very quickly.’
‘We promised them a revolution,’ hissed Nastya. ‘And all we have is an imposter and his economic theories.’
‘My theories would have worked. They would have given you what you want.’
‘What?’ Nastya barked at Jensen.
‘Redistribution of wealth. That’s what you want, right?’ said Jensen.
‘Yes. For a start,’ said Danik.
‘Don’t forget collective bargaining, the emancipation of the workers, the right to artistic freedom,’ Nastya’s speech gained momentum. ‘These are the legitimate aspirations of the people.’
‘Well, yes, the artistic stuff generally comes later, but with a simple recalibration of your taxation regime, a more progressive application of a bracketed framework and fiscal stimulus in areas of the economy that flow to the sectors where your demographics are strong,’ Jensen paused to take a breath and check his audience were still with him, ‘I can install a policy platform that will achieve those goals.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Nastya shook her head.
‘Economic reform,’ Jensen started to smile. ‘The invisible hand, but guided by a new understanding of personal motivation in a societal framework. It’s behavioural economics. Very advanced, very exciting. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.’
‘I’m only in second year of business school. We’re still covering the basics,’ said Danik, turning to keep an eye on the group of militants in the main office, most of whom had drifted back to their laptops and phones. ‘This theory of yours, how quickly will it emancipate the workers?’
‘I’d need better access to official economic data. My models are based on what I could gather before I came here. But from what I’ve seen of your records so far…’ Jensen gave a little laugh.
‘How long?’ Nastya raised her pistol again.
‘Three to five years,’ Jensen swallowed hard.
‘We could all be dead by then!’ yelled Nastya. A few of the militants looked up from their screens.
‘Calm down, Nastya. Revolutions are fast, but change is slow,’ said Damik as he coaxed her arm lower, smiling and nodding out to the main office. ‘We just need to buy some time. Explain to the people that change is coming. Professor, how confident are you that your theories will work?’
‘I’ve devoted my life to the study of economics and psychology,’ said Jensen, straightening in his chair. ‘I assure you there is almost zero possibility my policies would not have the desired effect on your economy. But I’d need ministerial-level access to data and policy-making apparatus.’
Danik led Nastya to a corner of the office, whispering in her ear. Eventually, she nodded and he kissed her. Danik stood beside Jensen’s chair, placing a hand on the professor’s shoulder.
‘How would you like to be doing job for us?’
***
‘Wake up,’ a boot tapped the Jensen on the shin. ‘It’s for you.’
He blinked at his laptop screen, filled with random letters. Jensen rubbed his forehead where the keys had left an impression. By the orange glow coming through the balcony doors, Jensen guessed evening was approaching. He could still hear the chanting and singing from the crowd in the square below, but it sounded more upbeat, less demanding.
He rubbed his neck and tried to stand up, but his legs were numb. A military officer handed him a satellite phone.
‘I need to know if you have been harmed in any way.’
‘What? Who is this?’
‘If you have been harmed or are in any physical danger, just say the words, “My hosts have been treating me very well.”’
‘Well, they weren’t at first, but we seem to be getting along much better now,’ said Jensen.
‘So you are physically unharmed?’
‘I’ve got a bad case of pins and needles,’ said Jensen, rubbing his thigh. ‘Otherwise I think I’m okay. I haven’t eaten anything since morning, though, and I’ve been working all day.’
‘What do you mean working?’
‘Economic policy doesn’t write itself, you know. Now, who is this? Who am I speaking to?’
‘I’m from the Home Office. Before our team attempts the extraction, I need you to listen very carefully and follow my instructions.’
‘Extraction?’ Jensen, gripped the arms of his office chair.
‘We think there’s a very real possibility of an invasion. Perhaps armed conflict. You may be in some danger.’
‘If you’d said that to me earlier today, I might have agreed with you. A lot of people have pointed guns at me over the last twenty-four hours,’ said Jensen. ‘But I think we’ve sorted things out now. We’ve got some alignment on our short-term goals and the public seem in favour, so we’re putting together a hundred-day plan to get some quick wins on the board. I’m working on it now. They’ve given me an office.’
‘Professor, this is a secure satellite uplink, so if there’s nobody in the room with you, you can talk freely now.’
‘I have been,’ said Jensen. ‘Why would I do otherwise?’
‘It’s a bit soon for Stockholm syndrome, but you may be suffering post-traumatic stress disorder.’ The voice spoke in calm, measured tones. ‘Your appearance on the balcony earlier today, along with the rebel leaders, was a very high-risk situation. You did well to play along with your captors, but it can sometimes provoke a violent response when they realise you’ve betrayed them. So I need you to sit tight. Neutral behaviour form now on. As I said, our extraction team is en route.’
‘I’m not playing along, sir,’ Jensen stabbed his desk with his forefinger. ‘I’ve been asked to construct a new economic policy framework and that’s what I intend to do.’
‘Professor. I need you to try and focus. The situation is escalating rapidly. It is possible that Latvian forces are marshalling on the border, just a few hundred kilometres from your current location. We believe they may mount a hostile invasion within hours, to exploit the political instability you’ve caused.’
‘That I caused? What do you mean I caused?’
‘You recently purchased the right to assume the identity of the Finance Minister of Vitebsk. Is that correct, Mr Jensen?’
‘Well, yes,’ Jensen took a deep breath. ‘But that was just a rental from some online startup. Now
the protest leaders want me to stay. They want me to help them re-design their economy, it’s a very exciting opportunity. You can’t extract me now, we’re just getting started.’
‘Stay calm, Jensen. Keep away from windows and balconies. Try not to let them move you out of the room that you are in now.’
‘All I wanted to do was test some economic theories,’ a note of disappointment crept into his voice.
‘Yes, professor. Now hand the phone back to the rebel leader in the beret.’
‘You want to speak to Danik?’
‘You’re in dialogue with them?’
‘Well, you can’t draft someone’s economic policy framework if you’re not on speaking terms, can you?’
‘And they understand you’re not the real minister?’
‘A couple of the leaders are aware. It was actually their idea. I think they told the crowd that I’ve joined the protest. Well, not me. Slizhevsky has. They explained a couple of my new theories, asked for some time to draft some new policies. It’s gone down remarkably well.’
The line buzzed and made a squelching sound, as if the receiver was muffled by a hand.
‘Excuse me? Hello? Are you still there?’ said Jensen, rising from his seat.
‘Jensen. Stand-by for further instructions,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘We’re going to need you to be the minister for a little while longer.’
We can be heroes,
just for one day
‘Are you paying for this room or am I?’
‘I just gave most of my money away,’ said Gavin, turning out his pockets like a street mime. ‘Besides, you’re the one who chose this ridiculous confection.’
‘When in Rome,’ said Shanti, fishing her wallet out of her shoulder bag.
‘That’s for two nights is it, Ms Menon?’ the hotel receptionist gave a slight bow as he took her credit card with both hands.
‘Yes. We’ll take the buffet breakfast and your deluxe spa package as well.’
‘I’m glad this is coming out of your payout,’ said Gavin, taking in the ornate hotel lobby. ‘Or what’s left of it.’
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