“When I was the head of the Department of Justice, we launched an investigation into Raymond Li’s activities,” the man said in heavily accented English. He detailed the long list of charges against Raymond: fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, misleading advertising, association with known criminal elements. Even though Theo had heard it all before, he couldn’t help being shocked by the testimony.
“So if he committed all these crimes, why didn’t you arrest him?” the interviewer asked.
The man said nothing. The camera zoomed in to capture a flash of regret in the eyes.
Next up was Raymond’s former business partner, a man in his mid-forties with boyish good looks. His name was Yau and as it happened, he was the whistleblower who had one day contacted Lesley out of the blue. The subtitles translated his words from Cantonese.
“My official title was sales director. Not that Raymond needed help selling. He could run rings around anyone,” he said. “Afterlife Dollars don’t exist. I can’t say this enough. We don’t actually contact an Afterlife Central Bank to transfer your money. It’s all bullshit, fraud, marketing … call it what you want. I was never totally comfortable with it, but Raymond has a way of making you do things. Finally, I had to quit. But even to this day, I can’t sleep at night, because what you’re seeing now is partly my legacy,” the man declared, exorcising his guilt in public, just like the secretary of justice before him.
Theo slid to the edge of his seat. What would investors make of this? The company co-founder declaring the product an out-and-out fraud.
If you were an investor, what mattered most wasn’t necessarily the truth, but other investors. Or what they were thinking, to be more precise. Your decision to buy, sell or hold would depend on someone else’s decision to buy, sell or hold, or what you thought that decision was likely to be. If you sensed a crash, you’d want to be the first to the exit. It was a tangled web of second-guesses, and what Theo was hoping for was a spate of sell orders to trigger a bear run.
After the program finished, he turned off the TV and went to bed. Next morning, he rose early and checked the Asian markets.
Afterlife Dollars. Down seventeen percent.
18.
THE HEAVY DECEMBER SNOW COVERED THE city’s serrated roofline in a thick, powdery blanket. The canals froze over, serving as a skating rink in the day and dance floor at night. The continued decline of Afterlife Dollars brought considerable cheer to Theo. At one point, it plummeted to nearly a quarter of its pre-November value before a late rally saw it settle at a third. Then came Christmas, and the market was closed for nine days.
The break couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time, as Theo was afraid the festive cheer and the optimism of a fresh year would arrest the downward momentum.
On New Year’s Eve, he went to a party at a friend’s house in a converted warehouse in Java-eiland. When the clock struck midnight, he stood outside on the deck, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets. The roar of the patio heater behind him was drowned out by a chorus of drunken voices counting down.
“10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5 …”
On zero, the sky above the harbor glowed with a shower of colorful sparks, as if someone were trying to weld together a broken heaven. It was the same fireworks, year after year. But this time, he was sober, having not touched a drop of alcohol since the shenanigans at the Halloween party. He still couldn’t believe how his life had changed because of that night. Unemployed and drifting, without another job in sight. What was 2012 going to bring? For him? For Afterlife Dollars?
He braved the assault of drunken hugs and sloppy kisses, then left to go home. The following Monday, the day the markets reopened, he woke up with a slight sense of unease. One that was reinforced by a few things happening in quick succession: A stray snowball smacking him in the side of his face when jogging through Vondelpark. The smoking toaster setting off the fire alarm. His laptop crashing inexplicably. None of them were a big deal individually, but their serial occurrence made the whole seem greater than the sum of the parts, contributing to a vague sense of foreshadowing.
The markets in Asia and Europe got off to a fairly innocuous start. Trading volumes for Afterlife Dollars remained low. The exchange rate fluctuated mildly, evening out after gentle up-and downswings, leading him to surmise that investors were testing the waters.
The holding pattern continued through January. Then one day in February, he was startled by a sudden surge. The exchange rate nearly quintupled in an hour before steadying. By the end of the month, it had pretty much regained the lost ground from December.
Theo frowned at the array of numbers on the computer screen. Red at the beginning of the year, they were now green. The graph resembled a stalagmite. A sharp spike he couldn’t account for.
The reason for this became apparent the following week when he was walking past a tram stop on Leidsestraat. A poster glowing in the twilight caught his attention. The headline, red type set against a white background, read:
“The End of the World Doesn’t Have to Be the End of Your World.”
He leaned closer to read the copy.
“According to the Mayans, the world’s going to end on December 21, 2012. Who knows if that’s really going to happen, but wouldn’t it be smart to be prepared? End-of-the-World Package includes a bonus ten thousand Afterlife Dollars, plus an authentic replica of a Mayan calendar. While supplies last.”
Theo hissed. So this was what was propelling Afterlife Dollars sales. A demand fueled by an apocryphal end-of-the-world story.
He brought it up at the next group meeting in Mara’s kitchen.
“Afterlife Dollar investments are regaining momentum. We need to act quickly before it gets away from us,” he declared, hoping the grave tone would galvanize the group into action.
“I’ve got an idea. Let’s buy some IBM shares.” It was Viktor, the mountain man, dressed in a sweatshirt that looked untouched by a washing machine.
Theo ignored the taunt and turned to Mara.
“What about the petition we sent to The Hague?”
“I got a letter from the ministry saying the matter has been passed on to the relevant department for consideration.”
“A polite fuck-you.”
Mara nodded.
Theo sighed. “I have a suggestion. Slightly controversial. How about a petition to get the pope to denounce Afterlife Dollars?”
“Great. Now we’re jumping in bed with a bunch of kiddy-fiddlers.” The comment, predictably, came from Viktor.
“The pope has over a billion followers. A word from him can jeopardize Bank of Eternity’s operations in many countries, with the potential to trigger panic amongst investors. It’s pure strategy,” Theo explained, hoping the rest of the room would see merit in the proposal. But all he got by way of response was blank faces. A far cry from the starstruck group who’d hung on his every word months before.
“I have to agree with Viktor,” Mara said. “We can’t associate with an organization that burned people at the stake, ignored the Holocaust and forgives pedophiles. Not good for our image.”
“What’re you going to suggest next? Tobacco companies? Arms dealers?” Viktor remarked, twisting the knife.
“Fuck you,” Theo thundered, finally pushed over the edge. “How about coming up with constructive ideas instead of undermining everyone else?”
Viktor rose. “You want to take this outside?” he said, rolling up his sleeves.
Mara thumped the table. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you two? We should be fighting our enemies. Not each other.”
Her eyes slid between the two men, a sharp glare. Viktor snorted and sat down. Theo breathed to slow his running heart.
“Next on the agenda. Fundraising,” Mara announced.
After the meeting concluded, Theo drew her to one side for a private word.
“What’s wrong with you?” She scowled at him.
“What’s wrong with him?” He gestured to Viktor. “He’s never liked
me from day one. You should’ve backed me there.”
“Why should I have backed you?”
“Because we need to stop the damn thing before it’s too late.”
Mara scoffed, “Look at you.”
“What about me?”
“You’re obsessed. You’re missing the woods for the trees.”
He laughed scornfully. “What woods? What trees? Of course I’m obsessed.” Afterlife Dollars had cost him his job. Damned if he was going to let it get away from him.
“Get a grip,” Mara hissed, and left him to join the rest of the group. He stormed out of the flat.
Back at home, he went up to his study and sat down to write a script. A couple of hours later, he was in the kitchen, facing the camera in his Grim Reaper outfit. A costume that was getting more wear than he’d ever imagined.
“Hi there. I’m back to talk about my favorite subject. Afterlife Dollars. Yes, I know, I’ve got a one-track mind.
“I saw a poster from Bank of Eternity the other day, something about some end-of-the-world package. Really cracked me up. What is it with you people and your fondness for Armageddon and apocalypses? It’s like you’re craving this grand finale, a Super Bowl to finish it off.
“Let me tell you something: seven billion dying at once, a logistical nightmare … I mean, I can barely cope with the current volume of eight a minute. Besides, what am I going to do when there’s none of you around? Pick mushrooms? Knit sweaters? So you see, you can bring out the nukes, kill each other in the name of religion or some other ideology, try to destroy the planet, but I have a strong motive for keeping you here. Without you, I become redundant.
“The world’s not going to end on December 21. The Mayans simply ran out of space on the calendar.
“Now go on and enjoy your life before I come for you.”
19.
THE LATE-MORNING SUN CLIMBED OVER THE gabled buildings, wiping away the chilly shadows from Rembrandtplein. Theo slipped out of his sweater and tied it around his neck, a preppy look that put him at odds with the hundreds of banner-waving, slogan-chanting protestors that filled the square.
The demonstration was directed at a chocolate-colored art deco building across the road.
Bank of Eternity.
A roar of applause greeted Mara as she approached the makeshift stage. She walked past Theo, avoiding his gaze when their eyes met.
As she launched into her speech, a dejected Theo slipped into his own world, reflecting on how much this venture had cost him.
For the first time in many years, he hadn’t gone on his annual skiing holiday. He had to think twice each time Mathias wanted to meet for a drink, visit some trendy new restaurant or go to an exhibition opening. After a while, he just stopped answering friends’ calls if they came on a weekend. At the supermarket, he only stocked the cart with store brands. He’d been reduced to living like a student, even though he lived in a house on one of the most expensive streets in the city.
There was one thing worse than a miserable job, he realized. Not having one at all. And after six months of unemployment, there was no light at the end of the tunnel. Leads had gone cold. Headhunters had stopped responding to emails. His contacts wanted nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, his bank account was hemorrhaging; there was barely enough to last a few weeks. Then what?
Theo swallowed.
What’s Plan B?
The sound of a rumbling tram brought him back to the square. Mara was climbing down from the stage after finishing her speech. Once again, their eyes met and once again, she avoided his gaze. Suddenly, Theo felt alone, that horrible feeling of not belonging anywhere, not in the corporate world that had fired him nor with the group that was ignoring him.
He inhaled sharply. Fuck this. He edged his way through the thicket of bodies to leave the square, when suddenly he was stopped by the shrill, wavering sound of a siren. A convoy of police vans swooped into the square and screeched to a halt. The doors slid open, squirting bodies covered head to toe in riot gear. The police swiftly encircled the protestors, a fence of batons, Perspex shields and clicked-down visors reflecting the bright spring sky.
Theo stiffened. In the few protest meetings he’d been to, he’d never seen anything like this—the hard fist of state authority confronting them. He looked around the square and saw the same anxiety in faces everywhere.
“Everybody, please remain calm,” Mara appealed, back on the stage. “There’s nothing to worry about. This is just routine.” But the nervousness in her voice wasn’t saying routine, and neither were her darting eyes. Beside her, the mountain man Viktor twitched his eyes repeatedly as if having an attack of tics. He drew her toward him and whispered something in her ear. She gaped and mouthed “no.” Viktor snatched her microphone and shouted:
“FUCK THE POLICE. FUCK YOU, PIGS!”
A horrified Mara lunged in an attempt to wrest the microphone back, resulting in a tug-of-war for possession of the instrument.
Finally, she succeeded in regaining control of it. “Everybody, stay calm,” she pleaded. “Nothing will happen if we remain peaceful. I repeat, stay calm.”
Theo’s eyes followed Viktor as he departed the stage and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He shook his fist at the police and hurled abuses at them. Egged on by his defiance, the protestors followed suit. The shouting turned to pushing. The police pushed back. A helpless Theo was rocked in a heaving swell of flesh that buffeted a wall of hard plastic shields.
Suddenly, there was a crash of shattering glass, an explosion, a pool of flames spreading on the ground.
A policeman fired something in the air. Bullet? Tear gas?
The sound caused the crowd to disintegrate into screaming fragments, chased by policemen with swinging truncheons. Up onstage, Mara’s parkaclad figure froze as if a curse had turned her into a statue. Theo swooped in and grabbed her before she was struck down by a baton. He dragged her through the human obstacle course in the square, ducking blows that whistled past his ear. She was like a trailer attached to him, her palm sweating in his as he pulled her deadweight along.
They stepped off the curb and into the path of a rumbling tram. Theo carried on, trusting his legs would beat the blue-and-white behemoth lumbering toward them. Just as he was crossing the tracks, her hand slipped from his grasp, causing them to separate. Seconds later, a low thunk, followed by a bloodcurdling scream, then a sickening crunch.
Mara!
But it wasn’t her. She was right behind him on the curb, gaping at a pair of legs convulsing under the tram’s low undercarriage.
Theo winced and turned away.
“Come on,” he urged. But she stood paralyzed, skin blanched from yellow to pale, lips purple, as if she’d caught death by merely staring at it.
“Mara.”
Her body jerked like a rag doll when he shook her repeatedly. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but next moment splattered his shirt with vomit.
20.
FRAMED ALBUM COVERS ADORNED THE WALLS OF the jazz bar. The stage was empty except for a bent microphone leaning toward an unoccupied chair, and a saxophone gleaming in the low light. The speakers hummed Coltrane to a small Tuesday crowd, although the only thing Theo could hear in his ears was the bloodcurdling scream from that morning.
In his last job at Alpha Capital, he’d seen colleagues thrown under a bus. But that was just a figure of speech. What happened that morning was real.
He had witnessed someone die.
He gulped down the whisky—his first since Halloween. The flames from the single malt spread to his throat and nose. He winced.
I’m out.
He’d tell Mara when he saw her next. No doubt she’d be pleased to hear it, he concluded cynically.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a familiar voice.
“Theo, is that you?”
Walter stood before him, cutting a dapper figure in a creaseless grey suit.
“It is you. Sorry, I di
dn’t recognize you without your costume.” Theo’s former client chuckled. “So when are we going to see more videos? I’m enjoying them rather a lot.”
“No more videos. I’m done with that shit.” Theo clenched his fist.
Walter gave him a searching look. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down. The low light shone on his salt-and-pepper mane and cast deep shadows across his face.
“Were you in the riots?” he enquired.
“It was meant to be peaceful. Everything was fine … until the police showed up.” Theo grimaced at the rush of memories.
“I’m sorry. To be honest with you, I didn’t think your dalliance with the protest group was going to last. You’re too much of a conformist for that sort of thing.”
“I am, indeed,” Theo said mournfully. “Tell me, how are things with you? Who’s your new portfolio manager? I hope it’s Nick.”
“I wouldn’t know. I quit a few weeks ago.”
Theo looked at him. “Wow. That’s big news. I thought you were being groomed for the top job.”
“So did my bosses. But I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Can you tell me what it is?” Theo asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
Walter studied him with his sharp, grey eyes.
“What I’m about to tell you is top secret, you understand?” he said, lowering his voice.
“The Hague,” Walter whispered.
Theo gaped.
Holy crap. Walter, a cabinet minister. It wasn’t something Theo had seen coming, although in hindsight, it made perfect sense. You could drop a pencil on Walter’s family tree and chances were, it would land on someone noteworthy. His great-grandfather was an explorer who set up coffee plantations all over Indonesia. His grandfather was a resistance fighter who proudly wore Gestapo-inflicted scars. His mother came from a long line of industrialists and philanthropists who built railways and steel plants all over the continent. The only person to buck this trend was his father, who was driven to alcohol, perhaps from the weight of all the expectation. But that seemed like a temporary aberration, as Walter appeared set to restore the family tradition of overachievement.
Dead Money Page 27