Текст книги "The Zima Confession"

Автор книги: Iain Rodgers

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17. Trade Only

Every year, Richard put a large advert in the local newspaper back in Glasgow. The advert was designed so that as few people as possible would be interested: fire-damaged goods; water-damaged furniture; second-hand (and obsolete) electronic goods. For sale to trade only. He put his own phone number as the contact. If anyone did happen to be interested in the advert and rang him, he would apologise and explain that someone had already agreed to buy the whole lot. He never had to apologise to very many disappointed customers.

The adverts were placed on one of these days – January 25th, April 25th, July 25th, October 25th – so they would be easy to track. The method of passing messages was very simple. Richard could write anything he wanted to make the advert look genuine. The messages hidden there were decoded using serial numbers that were part of the advert itself. Therefore, so long as he had all the letters of the alphabet somewhere in the wording, he could send any message just by “pointing” at the letters using his serial numbers. It was that simple in principle. The serial numbers printed on the advert had to be transformed using a mapping algorithm, but it was still a simple technique. It would be easy for an expert to decode. But why would anyone ever suspect these adverts were not genuine? They would surely never come to the attention of any decoding expert.

Starting on July the previous year, he had put adverts in on every possible day. The more often he placed the adverts, the more paranoid he was that he would expose himself. Nevertheless, he was really convinced he was in the right place at the right time by now, and he was surprised no one had reacted yet. His messages had become ever more urgent. His last message read: “Still at VirtuBank. Opportunities with access to main servers at several major financial customers.” His full contact details were there as usual.

He had checked his coding and decoding again and again, wondering if he had made a mistake, so convinced was he that he should have been contacted this time. There was no mistake. He had posted that last message to the paper three months ago but had still been ignored. He had expected an immediate response.

Every time this had happened, he had gone through the same feelings. Elation in placing his advert. Anticipation while waiting for a reply. Disappointment that, yet again, nothing had happened. Each time the disappointment was more numbing, the possibility of ever doing anything more remote.

This time he had been so disappointed that he had not bothered to repeat his message on 25th October, 2013. Yet that was the time when they finally reacted.

18. Risk Analysis

Richard remembered, sometime in the mid-eighties, walking up and down the rows of gravestones looking for his father’s headstone one sunny day in the hills near Milngavie. His dad had died suddenly, of a heart attack. Richard was on holiday in France when it happened. No one had managed to contact him, and the funeral had to go ahead without him. He flew up from London as soon as he could and found the stone where he laid flowers a few years previously. Now both his parents’ names were inscribed.

There was something funny about how death always seemed to take you by surprise. Death was inevitable, but every time it happened it was shocking.

His father had been the last living link to Uncle Bobby, the first real socialist he’d ever heard of.

They were all socialists, of a sort, of course, everyone on that side of the family. Family, friends, neighbours. Almost everyone in and around Glasgow was. The industrialised Central Belt of Scotland, blackened and scarred by heavy industry, had fought back to produce people who wanted to create a cleaner, brighter future – Keir Hardie, Manny Shinwell, Uncle Bobby.

They had all hoped that socialism would be the answer, apart from his dad that is, but their efforts had been absorbed by democracy or deflected by the establishment or blocked by the law. Actually, Richard never knew if his father was a socialist or not. Richard assumed he wasn’t, somehow. He seemed very sceptical of socialism. He was also ambitious. He had got a better job and taken the family down south for a few years until they returned to Glasgow after Richard’s maternal grandmother died.

Stories of Uncle Bobby – in fact his Great Uncle Bobby – were legendary in the family. But Uncle Bobby, for all his good intentions, had ended up dying in prison. An unknown failure.

Richard didn’t want to fail. He wanted to avenge the memory out of principle.

Over the next two days he went through the software instructions again and again. He had to be sure this was for real and could be done. He wondered why he had been so slow to realise Mitchell was telling him to wake up. His failure to react must have made Mitchell uncertain of his intentions, which would explain why he had not gone straight on to give him the operational instructions. Unless he had done that too, and those instructions had been waiting in his drawer ever since Helsinki. That might explain why, this time, he had not disguised the word “Zima” in any way that made the message ambiguous.

Richard felt such a fool for not reacting immediately – when Mitchell might have helped or given him more information. Now, whatever he had to do, he would have to do by himself, totally alone.

For some reason he couldn’t control his doubts. He didn’t like the idea of doing this with no help and no clear instructions. Furthermore, such a lot had changed since this whole idea started, back in the seventies. Technology, politics, everything. Would this operation still be relevant? Was deploying this piece of software his only task? What would it achieve? Would it be something destructive enough? Would it be worth the risk?

19. An Unexpected Visitor

The doorbell rang. It was a loud shrill ring that made Richard jump. Not now! Why would the bell ring now? In three years of staying at the apartment in Glentworth Street, he had never heard the doorbell ring. He had never had a visitor. Why on earth was someone ringing the doorbell right now, at the very moment Operation Zima was initiated?

He hesitated, wondering if he should answer or not. The memory stick, the instructions spread out all over his desk, his home computer, switched on and still showing the PDF of the Chennai team’s covering letter. It was all evidence and all incriminating. With trembling hands, he grappled to clear it all away.

The doorbell insisted on ringing. The fact it kept ringing was all the more suspicious and worrying. Had he been set up? Were the police already there to question him? Or, if not the police, who?

He felt his heart thumping. His mind was racing. What really happened to Mitchell? He didn’t seem to be the suicide type. Perhaps he was pushed under the train? This person ringing the bell…?

For Christ’s sake, get a grip!

It took him a minute or two, but everything was tidied away at last. The bell was still ringing every now and then, but Richard still didn’t want to answer. He wanted to get away from the flat, but there wasn’t a practical exit apart from the front door. He could sneak out the kitchen window onto the emergency exit. He considered that for a moment. What if he just didn’t answer?

The damned bell shrieked at him again. Finally he gave up. He decided it would be better to see who it was. Anyone that persistent would keep trying, and it would better to meet them at the front door rather than clambering down the fire exit. He pressed the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Zima.”

The reply startled Richard. This was not on! No one knew; no one should know!

“Mister Zima? I don’t know you. You have the wrong apartment.”

“No, Mr Slater, I am not Mr Zima. I am Mr Weber. I need to talk to you about Zima.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please, Mr Slater, I do not wish to intrude. Meet me in five minutes in the café on the corner of Melcome Street and Baker Street.”

Richard felt a wave of relief and gratitude sweep over him. At least the stranger was not trying to get into the flat.

“OK. In five minutes. I think there is some mistake though. I don’t know you.”

“You will remember me again when we meet one day, though we have not met.”

Those words! Those words were quite exact – exactly like the second cipher Richard was supposed to remember. But Richard already knew there was something wrong. The ciphers were supposed to be delivered in order: Identification; Instructions; then possibly Discuss or Suspend, Resume or Abort. He was relieved he did not have to invite the stranger into the apartment, but still it meant he had to go out, leaving all the stuff he had just acquired inside the apartment. What if the person ringing the bell was trying to lure him outside so someone else could search the flat?

The memory stick was still lying on the desk! He snatched it up and dashed around in an almost comical hurry, trying to think of a good hiding place. What about inside the coffee jar? That would have to do. He poked it down into the middle of a half-full jar of instant coffee. The paperwork went into the middle of a pile of other paperwork and then he headed out to the café.

20. Weber

“Klaus Weber.”

“Richard Slater. Pleased to meet you.”

Weber took a sip of his coffee before replying, as though he needed the time to consider his response.

“Well, I’m glad that you say you’re pleased. Though I don’t believe you. In fact, neither of us believes anything about the other. So, how are we going to do this when neither of us are to be trusted?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not. But we have some mutual friends. Do you remember Stuart Douglas?”

Richard wished he had learnt how to play poker, or at least how to keep a poker face when required. He had no idea if his face had given away any clues, but he did indeed remember Stuart Douglas.

Back in the day, they had spent many hours arguing about dialectical materialism and stuff like that.

“I know him pretty well. I imagine he’ll be retiring soon,” Weber stated, not bothering to wait for confirmation of whether Richard knew him before continuing. “I expect that, after all this time, you might be wondering if it’s worth the effort? You probably even changed your mind about your belief system…”

“A man may not know his own mind,” Richard replied dryly, but when Weber showed him an annoyed face, he felt obliged to explain. “It’s a quote from The Egyptian by Mika Waltari.”

“I want to keep this meeting brief. Very brief. We have no time for quoting literature. So let us assume that you want to go through with the original plan. What we need to do is establish credentials so that we can trust one another and take it from there. Would you agree?”

“I suppose so. Though I have no idea…” He was cut short by another Weber frown.

“I have a photograph to show you.” Weber reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a photograph. He showed it to Richard, taking care not to wave it around indiscriminately, so that only Richard could see it, though there seemed to be no reason for such care.

Richard saw a much younger version of himself looking out of the photograph. He must’ve been nineteen, maybe as much as twenty-one in the photo. Standing next to him was Stuart Douglas and, beside Stuart, Eddie. They all looked scruffy, young and defiant. There was a poster with a clenched fist in the background. The poster used to hang on the wall of Stuart’s student flat. Richard remembered the place fondly. It was a sprawling old Victorian house in Glasgow’s Kelvinside. The epitome of radical chic, it was more or less a squat with all sorts of people coming and going without bothering to contribute to the rent. People would simply hand over their keys on a whim to acquaintances. Hardly any of the assortment of hippies, free-loaders and naïve young people realised that Stuart paid a substantial rent to the owner, or that that money came from a wealthy actress who believed she was making a contribution to the socialist cause. How utterly decadent and pretentious it had all been. But so much better than the dull, organised squalor students went through for no apparent reason these days.

“So you have an old photograph of me. What do you want now? An autograph?”

“You probably need more time to consider what you want to do. That’s understandable.” Weber took a gulp of coffee. “We don’t need to rush into anything, but I think it’s worth our while having a proper talk sometime soon. Somewhere less public and in the open. I’d prefer the park.”

“Which park?”

“Any park. Regent’s Park is nearer for you though.”

“OK.” “Shall we meet at the Clarence Gate entrance on Sunday?”

“What time?”

“Ten a.m. One more thing. Take this card. It will get you into the Turkish baths in Porchester Gardens without paying. Go there tonight and stay for half an hour. It is a club for homosexuals. Don’t worry, no one will bother you and I will not meet you there. All you have to do is drink for free in the reception area for half an hour and then leave. Of course, if you want to make friends or use the facilities there, you are free to do so. It is a very exclusive club with good standards of behaviour.”

“What? Wait, why do I have to go there?”

“If you don’t do this before we meet again it will be very dangerous for you. In fact, our present conversation may already have put you in danger. You must do it.” Weber pushed the plastic card towards Richard.

Richard took the card obediently.

Standing up, Weber tossed a ten-pound note onto the table and left.

Once Weber had left, Richard almost felt sorry he had been so uncooperative. This had been a chance to piece together a few bits of the jigsaw. What if something were to happen between now and Sunday? What if Weber were to decide to top himself too?

◆◆◆

That evening, Richard made a visit to the club as Weber had told him to. It was only much later that he found out why he had to do it – Weber liked to ensure that anyone he met frequented, or at least visited, the Turkish baths in Porchester Gardens. It was good cover. It explained why he met so many random men. The fact the club was not exclusively gay explained why he could meet straight men randomly too.

Standards of behaviour were indeed good, as Weber had mentioned, but (and again, Richard only discovered this later) Weber detested homosexuals. Fortunately, he had found a way of disguising these feelings, or rather, of using them to his advantage. He was known as a sadist. Indeed, on the occasions when he had to, he took great delight in meeting some young boy or other and taking him to the private rooms to administer a good beating. No one questioned this. Weber had noticed, with disgust, that it was within the acceptable parameters of homosexual behaviour, along with pretending to be a dog or other animal.

21. Allocation Of Resources

That Friday, Richard went to see Anita, the Resource Allocation Planner. His luck was in: Anita offered him a project at a tier-one bank in London – Royal Commercial Bank. The project had been running for a few months, so it was still early days for a bank of that size. It was even better than Oldhams; ideal for his purposes.

“It’s a big project, Richard. There are a number of different roles that you might be suitable for.”

“Such as…?”

“There’s a role for Technical Support to the Financial Reporting Business Analyst. You’d be making sure that the BA documents get converted into proper functional specs, etc. There’s also a Release Management role – software deployment, and so on.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. He didn’t want to seem over-eager. Normally he would much prefer the BA role, but if he was personally responsible for Release Management then deploying the Zima software would be so much easier. “Can I think about it?”

A look of annoyance hardened Anita’s face. “I have to ask you to decide fairly soon. There’s a whole list of people trying to get themselves assigned to this project. It’s a biggie, as I’m sure you realise.”

“I quite fancy the Release Management role for myself actually,” he blurted out.

“Discuss it with Germain,” Anita said, relaxing back into her seat. “He’s Project Director for this one. He wants you to meet him on the bank’s premises at one p.m.”

◆◆◆

Clouds slid down from the sky, disappearing into the ground in front of Richard as he approached the RCB HQ by traversing a small plaza in which fountains played. When he was really close he was able to observe himself approaching. He looked busy and businesslike, the clouds surrounding him and still slipping downwards behind his reflection. And then it was all gone; the sky, clouds, and Richard himself all simply vanished as sliding doors opened briefly, revealing the interior of the building.

Without changing pace, he entered and was swallowed up into its vast atrium. He turned slightly to look upwards through the plate glass, taking a last glance at the clouds and sky. They had resumed their normal aspect; instead of slipping down the mirrored exterior of the building, they were back where they belonged, high above the ground making an imaginary heaven for imaginary angels.

Richard joined a quarter-hour-long queue of externals trying to get temporary permission to enter the building for similar reasons to himself. That is, they were all consultants or contractors who had some business at the bank. Richard wondered how many disparate systems the bank must be running that regularly required this number of external people. Eventually, he had his temporary pass and someone was on his way down to accompany him to the meeting room. It was a young bank employee who made his excuses and left Richard to open the meeting room door himself. Seemingly, the young man had urgent business of his own.

“Richard! I asked Anita to assign you. Take a seat.”

Richard shook hands with Germain Stoltz and did what he suggested – sat down. Round the table he recognised Dmitri Vassilov, whom he had met on the Moscovsky Zakrit Bank project in Moscow, and Maria Woo. The guy with the short hair and missing dog tooth was new to him, as was the lady with the very dark make-up and hair tied up in a tight bun. They turned out to be Michael Turner and Kinga Harmati.

There was silence, during which the people round the table nodded at Richard and then resumed their task of doing nothing in particular.

“We’re just waiting for Frank,” Germain explained.

At that moment the door opened and Frank stepped into the room. “Speak of the devil! Sit down Frank, we’re just about to begin.”

Frank sat down, acknowledging the glances of the others. Germain continued: “I just thought this was an opportune moment to gather a few of you guys together and give you a brief overview. I know some of you are already on the project” – he looked towards Frank and Dmitri – “but I just want to give you an idea of the big picture here. Things are going OK so far. We produced a scoping document and the bank have agreed to sign that off. That should happen…” he prompted Maria to finish his sentence.

“This Tootheday,” said Maria, having difficulty pronouncing the word “Tuesday”. She had been in London for at least ten years, but her accent was still quite strong.

“Yes, Tuesday. So that’s pretty good going. Thanks to everyone involved there.” Everyone round the table looked pleased. Even those, like Richard, who had had nothing to do with it. “The bank have been very reasonable too, which helps.” He paused and decided to draw inspiration from the ceiling, leaning his head back and clasping his hands together on top of the desk.

“The thing is the bank is still in quite a bad muddle. They haven’t fully recovered since the crash. You probably know from the news that they had to split off their Indian operation and they had to sell off 300 branches here in the UK. They’re desperate to get their IT systems consolidated around our software so they can get back into India and the rest of Asia. Everyone is very aware that that’s where the growth will be…”

Richard found himself drifting off into his own thoughts. RCB was almost the perfect target. It was too good to be true. He couldn’t shake off the idea he was being set up. How had Klaus Weber come by that old photo? Why had he turned up at the very moment when he had been awakened by Mitchell? It was suspicious. It was frightening.

“Richard, you’ll be answering to Alexei Petrov.”

Richard was startled out of his reverie. Answering for what? What had he done wrong!

“A-Alexei?” he stuttered.

“Alexei Petrov. Do you know him?” The Project Director had broken off his conversation with the ceiling and was looking directly and expectantly at Richard.

Richard racked his brains for an answer. No, he didn’t know him. The answer was “No.” All he had to do was say “No”.

“No.” Just to be sure he was telling the truth he added, “I don’t remember working with him, at any rate.”

“OK, well Dmitri can take you to meet him straight after this meeting. Dmitri will be working closely with you and you will both be under the guidance of Alexei as Chief Technical Architect for the project.”

Many of the technical people working for VirtuBank in Europe were from the ex-Soviet Union. During Soviet times, quite a few of them had been top mathematicians or physicists working on the space program, missile defence or something similar.

The Project Director resumed his explanation of the situation at RCB, warning some of the bank staff were now in a tricky position, having lost former colleagues they might have relied on for help, as well as IT systems that had still not been properly replaced. He advised them to play this to their advantage and to push things through as quickly as possible, rather than allow it to become a hindrance.

Of course! thought Richard. If everyone’s in such a rush, that gives me an even better opportunity to push my false software through. As soon as the software is installed it will be easy to persuade the bank staff to do only the most rudimentary user acceptance testing. Thanks to the Project Director, everyone round the table basked in a warm glow, feeling confident they would achieve their objectives on time. Especially Richard, whose personal objective would trump everyone else’s.