Everyone raised a hand, except Viktor, of course. He folded his arms and looked away.
“Twelve for. One against. Settled. Welcome aboard, Theo.”
“Now that’s been put to bed, let’s get down to business,” Mara said, taking charge of the meeting once again. “Theo’s video has resulted in great publicity for the cause. People are talking about it everywhere, which is fantastic. But the real challenge we have is convincing the general public that Afterlife Dollars are fake.”
“I agree,” the ex-cop sitting next to Theo added. “When I worked in the fraud division of the police force, I saw how people became impervious to reason when they were under the spell of a con man. You can tell them a thousand times, but they simply won’t listen—even if some part of them knows you’re right. It’s amazing how we can rationalize anything if we really want to believe in it.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Theo said. “You can’t tell people to stop buying Afterlife Dollars—that’s not going to work. You’ve got to make them do it. And I think I know how that might be possible. As you know, before I got fired a few days ago, I was a portfolio manager. As part of my job, I’d been tracking the rise of Afterlife Dollars, historically as well as the recent past. The data threw up some interesting insights that I’d like to share with the group, if I may,” he said, looking at Mara.
She nodded. He took out his laptop and placed it on the table, awakening it from sleep mode. The first slide of his presentation was on the screen: two identical-looking graphs and some text. The group huddled on one side of the table so everyone could see it.
“These two graphs may look similar,” he said, pointing to them. “But they’re not the same. The one on the left shows global Afterlife Dollar investments in the last three months. A nice alpine ski slope as investors, hoping to make a quick buck, are drawn by its appreciating value. The more it rises, the more people think they can make money off it. Make sense?”
He resumed when everyone nodded.
“Good. The graph on the right shows retail sales: the average Joe who’s bought Afterlife Dollars not for investment, but for its perceived utility, i.e., eternal happiness. This one’s going the same way. Now, those of you who were paying attention in economics class will realize that this shouldn’t be the case. When price goes up, demand should fall, right?”
Once again, everyone nodded. Everyone except Viktor, who was looking under his fingernails.
“So why the deviation from the norm? There’s a perfectly good reason. Let me explain with an example. If you went to Albert Cuyp market and saw a pair of jeans for ten euro, you’d automatically assume they were a piece of crap. But if the same pair retails at four hundred euro at a trendy PC-Hoofdstraat shop, then you’re going to see them in a different light. This relationship between price and quality is firmly entrenched in our minds. So the more expensive something is, the less likely we are to question its advertised claim. Especially if everyone around us is doing the same thing.”
“So you’re saying that the high exchange rate of Afterlife Dollars is what’s making it seem credible?” Mara asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. In the absence of proof of the afterlife, it’s becoming the proof. Because it’s expensive, people think there must be something to it. By the same token, if you make the exchange rate drop …”
“People will assume it’s worthless,” Mara completed the sentence. “How do you accomplish that?”
“You somehow need to make banks think that it’s a bad investment. Once Wall Street dumps it, Main Street will follow.”
“Seems you’re missing your old job.” Victor snorted. “Maybe you should call and beg them to take you back.”
“Viktor.” The ex-cop raised his finger sharply.
Viktor looked away and winked at a young girl, who glared in disgust.
“I apologize for Viktor,” the ex-cop said. “But we’re not a bank. We’re a protest group. We don’t influence financial markets.”
“But you do. Whether you intend to or not,” Theo replied. “In the last week alone, the exchange rate has fallen nearly three percent. This is purely from all the protests.”
“But do you think we can actually cause a crash?”
“Anything’s possible. Create a slew of negative headlines through protests, lobbying, use of media … you never know. Sometimes all it takes is a spark to start a wildfire.”
“How do we start a wildfire? Any ideas?” Mara scanned the room.
A hand went up. A woman with a nose ring and short hair. “I met someone the other day. A journalist from Hong Kong. You might be interested in what she has to say. Her name’s Lesley Zhang.”
15.
THE CAFE WAS 1930S STYLE, WITH BIG WINDOWS, brightly painted walls and mirrored drink shelves. A rainbow flag fluttered above the entrance. The only male on the premises, Theo walked to the table under the watchful eye of the spiky-haired bartender.
“Lesley’s running late,” Mara announced.
“How late?” he asked, slipping out of his coat.
She shrugged to say she didn’t know. After sitting down, he ordered a cappuccino, which was delivered to him surprisingly quickly. He sipped his coffee while Mara gnashed her teeth and inserted a toothpick. An awkward silence hung over the table as they looked everywhere but at each other. For two people who went back a long way, they had very little to say to each other.
He’d first met her in high school, an awkward thirteen-year-old with pigtails and braces who shunned the company of people for books. At what point the shyness turned to aggression, he didn’t know. But it had its source in a deep-seated anger born out of unrealistic expectations. Of course the world was a mess, full of injustices, inequities and imperfections, and a certain level of disenchantment was understandable and, perhaps, even healthy. But she took it that step too far, especially with her family, who were penalized for failing to meet her rigorous black-and-white standards.
She cut off her father for switching allegiances from the working-class PVDA party to the more business-friendly VVD. A few months later, she ostracized her mother for questioning global warming, then penalized her sister for taking Mum’s side. She worked in a left-wing bookstore in Spui, but her main source of sustenance was a small inheritance from an uncle who included her in his will to spite her father. The money was a handy financial cushion for someone who changed jobs frequently—either because she got fired or quit out of boredom.
It was the same story with her causes. In her late teens, she was part of a radical feminist group that placed stink bombs in strip clubs. A few years later, he recalled seeing her in an environmental-action rally in Dam Square. Following that, she dabbled in animal rights, and then after the 2008 financial crisis when the world started hating bankers, she jumped on the bandwagon. How soon would she get bored of this? he wondered as he observed her on the other side of the table. A sly look appeared on her face as she chewed her toothpick.
She placed her hand on the saltshaker, wrapping her long fingers around it so it disappeared in her fist. A quick glance—left, right—then she quietly slipped it into her parka pocket.
Theo looked at her.
“Did you just—” He pointed to her pocket.
“What?” She scowled.
“Nothing. Nothing,” he said, suppressing a smile. So that explained the clutter of random objects in her flat: a gallery of kleptomania. It also explained why she wore a parka all the time. He’d assumed it was some kind of a security blanket, but now realized that the garment, with its cavernous pockets, was perfectly suited for petty pilferage.
A few minutes later, a Chinese woman matching Lesley’s description arrived, short and dark with a broad face and a “fuck you” look to go with the punk hair and leather jacket.
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. It became immediately clear that none of them were adept at small talk, so they got down to business.
“What can you tell us about Raymond Li?�
� Mara asked.
“What do you want to know?” Lesley sniggered. “I’ve got enough material to write a book, but no one will publish it.”
Theo tipped his head as he tried to guess her accent. American or Canadian, he wasn’t sure which.
“Why don’t we start from the beginning?” he suggested.
“Okay, here’s a fun fact,” Lesley said. “Did you know that before he became a guru, professing to liberate humanity from the karmic wheel of birth and rebirth, Raymond was a banker for criminal gangs, involved in drugs, prostitution and manufacture of sex toys?”
Theo raised an eyebrow and looked at Mara. For the next forty minutes, they listened quietly to Lesley. After she finished, she sat back and folded her arms, savoring the look of shock on their faces.
“I can’t believe something that started as a means to pay off a gangster debt has come this far. This is crazy,” Mara said, shaking her head in disbelief.
“The man isn’t just a crook. He’s a terrorist,” Lesley spat. “A terrorist co-opts a belief or ideology to further his agenda. That’s exactly what Raymond did. I was on a mission to take him down. Got his victims to file a police complaint. I even reached out to the triads and told them what he was doing with their money.”
“Who were your sources?” Theo enquired.
“Customers, friends, employees. And hookers. You’d be amazed how much he revealed in pillow talk.”
“Do you actually have testimonies where Raymond admitted his product was a fraud?” Mara said.
“Of course. Do you think I’d have gone to print otherwise?” Lesley snapped.
“What happened after your story was printed?” Theo asked.
“The police went to arrest Raymond. He ran away. I was pretty certain they were going to get him. And then …” She inhaled sharply. “Goddamn pandemic. A few weeks later, I was fired from my job. No explanation given. But it didn’t stop there. I got threatening phone calls almost every night. Finally, I left the country, fearing for my life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Theo said. “But you realize you’re sitting on a gold mine of information? There are people out there who believe Afterlife Dollars are genuine. They need to know the truth. About Afterlife Dollars. About the man who created them.”
Lesley shook her head. “Sorry. I’m not going there.”
“Why not?”
“Are you scared of them? Of him? You think he’s going to hurt you?” Mara asked.
“Scared?” Lesley scoffed. “Let me tell you something. I’ve dealt with all sorts of scumbags: pimps, smugglers, hit men, murderers, drug dealers, you name it. I’m not scared of anyone or anything. But you know what I can’t handle? Indifference. When you risk everything for a story and no one gives a shit.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Theo said. “It seems your decision’s based on a risk-reward calculation. You feel the reward of going public doesn’t justify the risk.”
“Mr. Van Aartsen, I tried selling my story to every goddamn network on this planet. But I can’t compete with war, terrorism, Kardashians, and cat videos. At some point, I’ve got to move on. For my own sanity.”
“I understand. But have you seen the protests? People will want to hear your story,” Mara pleaded.
“Lesley, what if I told you I have the means to get your story out there?” Theo said. “What if I also told you we might be able to take down Raymond? Would that appeal to you?”
She looked at him. “How do you intend to do that?”
“It’s a crazy idea. But you’ll have to trust me.”
Lesley laughed. “I stopped trusting a long time ago. On the other hand, the opportunity to fuck Raymond in the ass is too good to pass up. Tell me about your plan.”
16.
THEO STOOD IN HIS KITCHEN, HOT IN THE GRIM Reaper costume, face clenched to look mean. One hand clutched an upright scythe, the other held the weight of Lesley’s transcripts. The red timer light on the video camera blinked a few times before the recording commenced with a beep.
“Hi there. It’s the Grim Reaper again. I’m letting some lucky guy live a few minutes longer to bring you an important message.
“Remember what I said last time? That Afterlife Dollars don’t really exist? It turns out I’m not the only one making that claim. The guy who invented them is saying it, too. Check this out …”
He opened the transcript and read from it.
“June 23, 2002. ‘Raymond told me about his plan. I was shocked. I asked if Afterlife Dollars were real. He said no. I told him it was a con. Of course Raymond, being Raymond, brushed away my objections.’ George Seow, childhood friend.
“Another one: ‘Raymond briefed me to work on an advertising campaign. When I questioned the authenticity of his claims, he simply laughed and said if people could believe in crap like angels and seventy-two virgins, they could believe anything. In hindsight, I wish I’d said no to him.’ Peter Lawler, creative director.
“Oh, here’s a goodie from an ex-employee: ‘I was a part of the Hospital Sales Division. We were instructed to target the sick and dying. The money was good, but after a while, I just couldn’t do it.’
“There’s more where that came from, right here.”
He held the transcript up to the camera.
“You can download a copy at truthandjustice.co.nl. And if you’d like to know more about Raymond Li, feel free to talk to a gangster in Hong Kong. Turns out he was their banker.”
After he finished, he turned the camera off and slipped out of the costume to allow his skin to breathe again. He sat down and reviewed the footage on his laptop. It took him a few minutes to clean it up, but something stopped him from uploading the video straightaway.
For a few moments, he stared at his phone, finger tapping pursed lips. Then he dialed. A baritone voice answered after two rings.
“Hello.” Walter, his former client. They hadn’t spoken to each other since Theo’s dismissal.
“I owe you an apology,” Theo said.
“For what?”
“For selling you Afterlife Dollar investments.”
“Are you apologizing for making me money?”
“I wasn’t trying to make you money. I was out to save my own ass.”
“What a wonderful harmony of self-interests.”
“Our relationship was based on trust. And I wasn’t entirely honest with you.”
“I paid you for your expertise, not your conscience,” Walter said, sounding bemused. “But I’ll accept the apology if it makes you feel better.”
“Actually, there’s something else. I’m about to post another video. You may want to reconsider your position.”
The line went quiet.
“Could you be a bit more specific? It’s hard to respond to vague information,” Walter asked.
“I’m afraid it’s not going to get better than vague.”
“Come on, we can’t get done for insider trading here.”
“Very well. I’m about to reveal something that could affect the value of your investment,” Theo confided.
“So you think I should sell?”
“May I remind you that you no longer pay me for advice?”
Walter chuckled quietly. “You’re a good man, Theo. I miss you.”
17.
WHEN THEO WAS LITTLE, HE WAS THE FIRST among his friends to suspect the truth about Sinterklaas. At the age of five, he’d already figured out that the man in a red stola riding a horse through the narrow streets of the old town was the butcher. And his entourage of Zwarte Pieten who showered children with ginger cookies were members of the local theatre group. But he never said anything to his friends for one simple reason. All this stuff might be pretend, but it was fun. Besides, there was something reassuring about knowing that it was all make-believe. You knew exactly what to expect and were never going to be disappointed.
So year after year, he’d partake in the rituals with full vigor. On the evening of December fifth—the day Father Christma
s supposedly arrived from Spain—he tucked a piece of carrot in his sneakers and placed it beside the radiator along with two beer bottles. The former refreshment for the horse, the latter for Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet.
Next morning, the floorboards thumped with excited feet charging toward the living room. The sneakers and beer bottles had disappeared and in their place was a burlap sack overflowing with sweets and toys. A few feet away, his father stopped reading the newspaper and looked over the top of his spectacles.
Many years later, December fifth crackled with the same excitement, although this time around, the presents weren’t in a burlap sack but on prime-time television. And when it came on, Theo was ensconced on his couch, inhaling wafts of hot chocolate from the mug steaming under his chin.
The program began with a ponderous narration over a montage of occult images.
“What happens after we die? A question that has vexed humanity since the beginning of time. But one product seems to be challenging views that have been held for centuries in Western society. Some people have likened it to the modern-day cup of immortality. Others say it’s a cynical exploitation of our fears. This edition of Big Issue digs deep into the Afterlife Dollar phenomenon, exploring all its facets, including the basic question: is it real? In a quest to find answers, we’ll travel to Hong Kong to investigate the man who invented the product: the shadowy Mr. Raymond Li.”
The first part of the program was pretty much the Lesley Zhang show. For someone reluctant to go public, she appeared to be rather enjoying the limelight, her punk attitude and quick wit on full display for the television cameras. Her sharp answers had the interviewer fumbling on more than one occasion. After this performance, if she chose to write a book on Raymond, Theo was certain it was going to get published.
The next person to be interviewed was a former secretary of justice of Hong Kong. A small man with a wrinkled face and muddy eyes.
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