Transition (26 page)

She waved me to a seat on the far side of the desk. She wore a sort of weird-looking suit thing, like she’d been wrapped in
black bandages. Actually looked quite tasty, especially with the veil for some reason, but still like she’d just paced off
a catwalk rather than being in a converted warehouse or whatever in the middle of one of the most poisoned places on the planet.
I wondered if this was some sort of radiation-proof suit or something, though it seemed unlikely.

“You’re Adrian?”

“Adrian Cubbish. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Mrs Mulverhill. I am glad to meet you, Adrian.”

Another confusing accent. I supposed it was from somewhere round here, Ukraine, Russia, Eastern Europe, whatever. Hints of
US English, too. We both sat down.

She opened her mouth to speak but I started first. “Well, Mrs Mulverhill, I really hope you’re going to tell me why I’m here,
cos otherwise this is just going to be a big waste of my time, and frankly my time is quite precious to me. Plus I don’t appreciate
being brought into this place – what do they call it? The Zone? No one said anything about this, know what I mean? I mean technically
I’m not here against my will cos I got on that plane of my own free will, didn’t I? But if I’d been told where we were coming
then maybe I wouldn’t have, so legally you could be on dodgy ground. If I start growing a second head any time in the next
few years there will be lawyers, I’m telling you now.”

She looked surprised at first, then smiled. The face behind the veil looked Asian, I thought. Maybe Chinese, though less flat
than Chinese faces usually are. Sort of triangular. Eyes too big to be Chinese, too. Cheekbones too high as well. Actually,
maybe not Asian at all. You’d need more light, or just that veil off, to tell for sure.

“You should be safe,” she told me. “The car’s air is filtered and the atmosphere in here is healthier than it would be in
a hospital operating theatre. Any dust on your clothes and shoes was removed before you entered here.”

I nodded. “Consider me mollified for the moment. Now, about the why bit of me being here in the first place.”

“Perhaps Mr Noyce has given you some idea of what we offer and what we might require.”

“He said you paid well and didn’t ask for much. Not normally, anyway.”

“That would be accurate, I’d say.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

“Let me set out the basics, Adrian—”

“Shouldn’t you be calling me Mr Cubbish,” I said, “seeing as I’ve got to call you Mrs Mulverhill? Or would you like to tell
me your first name?” So far this was all still too much on her terms, frankly, and I wanted to unsettle or even annoy her.
How sensible this was is another matter, of course, as, when you think about it, I was in the middle of a fenced-off nowhere
where nobody with any brains wanted to be anyway, a thousand or two thousand miles away from home, having got on a plane and
as good as disappeared as far as anybody back in the UK was concerned, with no forwarding address or destination or nothing
and with no reception on my moby.

Didn’t care. I really was annoyed at them bringing me here, even if it was eventually going to be in my own interests. Who
did these people think they were? Anyway; hence the remark about her calling me Mr Cubbish or telling me her first name.

“No,” she said, sounding not in the least insulted. “I wouldn’t like to tell you my first name. Mrs Mulverhill is what I answer
to. If you’re uncomfortable with me calling you Adrian, I’ll happily call you Mr Cubbish.”

I shrugged. “Adrian is fine. You were saying?”

“That we will pay you a retainer, monthly, plus an extra annual payment, for your services as a consultant and for other services
we may occasionally require. You would be free to terminate this arrangement at any time, without notice.”

“Consultant? Me?”

“Yes.”

“Consulting on what?”

“General cultural, economic and political matters.”

I laughed. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” she said. The veil made it hard to see what was going on with her expression.

“Mrs M,” I said, “I’m a trader. I trade stocks. I know a lot about that. Though probably not as much as Mr Noyce. Also I know
about some computer games. Oh, and snowboarding, though I’m what they call an enthusiastic amateur, not an expert, know what
I mean? I’m not the person to consult on cultural and political matters.”

“Tell me what you think about the political parties in your own country.”

“Tories are toast. Labour are going to get back in at the next election and people like me may have to leave the country.
I should point out that Mr N doesn’t think they’re going to be so bad – Labour, he means. He’s met this Blair geezer and reckons
they’ll leave us alone to make money, but I’m not convinced.”

“There you are,” the lady purred. “You’ve started work for us already.”

“Course I have, Mrs Mulverhill. What were the other services you were thinking of?”

“Liaison with individuals. Helping them out if they need help.”

“What sort of help?”

“Getting them on their feet. Obtaining funds, documents, the ear of officialdom. That sort of thing.”

Now, it so happened that I
could
help with some of that stuff, through contacts I had, some got through dealing and some through trading. But I hadn’t thought
that Mr N would know much about that, and it must have been him who recommended me to whoever this Mulverhill woman worked
for.

“These would be serious, capable people, Adrian, but they would be starting out with very little when they make themselves
known to you. Once they have a start they’ll rapidly make their own way, but they need that initial boost, do you see?”

“Are you smuggling immigrants?” I asked. “You people-trafficking – is that it?”

“Not in the manner you mean, I suspect. These people would not be foreign nationals as your government would understand it,
were they to come to its attention. Which they almost certainly never would. It is quite possible, though, that all you’d
ever be asked to do would be to provide guarantees for bank accounts, references, letters of recommendation, that sort of
thing. All expenses would be repaid to you and any loans reimbursed expeditiously.”

“Expeditiously?” I pretended to be impressed.

“Expeditiously.” She pretended she hadn’t noticed.

“So,” I said, “is this what Mr Noyce does already?”

“That’s a good question. Fortunately Mr Noyce has already pre-cleared me answering it honestly. The answer is yes.” I could
see the smile through the black veil.

“So if it’s good enough for him it should be good enough for me, is that the idea?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And of course he’ll be retiring in a few years, I should think.”

“I should think so too.” Mrs M tipped her head to one side. “More to the point, so does he.”

“And what sort of sums would we be talking about here, for this, um, consultancy and services unspecified?”

“The same as Mr Noyce receives. Eight and one half thousand United States of America dollars per calendar month, paid into
a bank account in your name in the Cayman Islands. The extra annual payment would be twice that monthly amount, payable at
the commencement of the last month of the year.”

“And I can quit any time without notice?”

“Yes.”

“And without penalty?”

“Yes. The monies will stop being paid, that’s all.”

“Call it ten K a month and I’ll think about it.”

“That is more than Mr Noyce receives.”

“Well, if you don’t tell him, neither will I,” I said. She was silent for a few moments. I spread my arms. “That’s my price,
Mrs Mulverhill.”

“Very well. The first payment will be delivered forthwith. We’ll mail you the account details.”

“Like I say, I’ll think about it.” I wanted to talk to Mr N some more. This was too weird to just jump in on, given what I
knew so far.

“Of course. Decide in your own time.”

“Is that it?” I asked. This had all been too easy. I strongly suspected I’d underpriced myself.

“That’s it,” she said. She just sat there, didn’t go to shake my hand or produce a contract or a letter of agreement to sign
or anything.

“Our agreement to be reviewed annually,” I said.

“If you like.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded for a bit. Still just sitting there. I sat forward in my seat. “So, Mrs M.”

“Adrian.”

“Tell me who you work for.”

“The Concern,” she said smoothly. “You can call us the Concern, Adrian.”

“And who are you really?”

“We’re travellers.”

“What, like gypsies?” I said, with a fake smile.

“I don’t think so. Well, maybe a little.”

“Russian?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Definitely. No.”

“CIA?”

“No.”

“Some other American… organisation?”

“No.”

I took a breath. This time she jumped in on me before I could speak. “Don’t bother, Adrian. You’ll never guess.”

“You reckon?”

“Oh, I’m pretty certain.” She flashed the veiled smile again. “We should celebrate,” she said, “that you’re thinking of joining
with us. Would you like that? Where shall we go?”

“I can’t imagine there’s much happening in this Pripyat place.”

“It
is
a little quiet,” she agreed. “Shall we go to Moscow? The plane will have been refuelled by now. Yes? I want to show you something.”

Seemingly my watch had to go forward yet another hour, though I still left the Rolex alone.

“Adrian,” Mrs M said as we settled into the jet’s plush seats, “Connie and I have much to talk about. Can you amuse yourself?”

“Certainly. No, wait a minute.”

“What?” Connie asked.

“What if you keep me up past my bedtime?” I smiled.

Connie looked at me. “I understand there are hotels in Moscow.”

“What a relief,” I said.

They started talking some language I couldn’t even begin to unscramble. I left them to it and watched the ground slide by
beneath. I’d hoped to see Chernobyl itself – from a safe height, obviously – but didn’t. It was only another hour’s flight but
by the time we arrived in Moscow it was almost dark. Outside, on the tarmac of the airport, the wind felt cold enough for
snow and smelled of jet fuel. A big black Merc was waiting. This time the driver had a cap and tie and everything. We went
straight to a tall wire gate with a small guardhouse. A uniformed Customs/Immigration guy took the briefest look at our passports,
exchanged a few words with Connie S. and waved us through to join chaotic traffic on a packed four-lane road.

My moby was happy again, reconnected to civilisation. I texted a couple of pals back in the big smoke to say where I was,
and felt happier too.

The Novy Pravda was a club housed in a new-build block within sight of what I guessed was the Red River or whatever big river
it is that runs through Moscow. Frankly I had no idea where we were. In something called the Central Administrative Okrug,
which was not a vast amount of help. If we hadn’t driven through what was obviously Red Square with the big Disney church
and stuff I’d only have had Mrs M’s word for it that we were even in Moscow.

The club was in a big black cube of a building. Lots of UV and dark purple lights on the outside, outlining it. The air shook
with muffled music. Valet parking. Front of the line, two big bouncers with armpit bulges. Straight in, greeted by some guy
in a very flash suit who took Mrs M’s long fur coat, fake-kissed Connie on both sides and gave me a small bow. I was in what
I’d been wearing since I’d got up: black Converse, black 509s, a purple Prada shirt and a peach-soft thin black leather jacket.
I felt underdressed for the first time that day.

“Kliment, how are you?” Connie said as the guy kept pace with us down a broad corridor lined with mirrors and what looked
like blobs of mercury running down bronze mazes behind plates of glass.

“I am well, madam,” Kliment said, sounding very Russian. “You are well too, I hope.”

“Very. This is Mrs Mulverhill, my employer,” she told him.

“An honour, madam.”

“And this is Adrian. He’s from London.”

“Adrian. Welcome. I love London,” he said.

“Smashing,” I said.

“This is Kliment’s club,” Connie told me.

I looked round. The sounds were getting loud and the light level dropping as we entered a big space with slowly flashing lights
on the ceiling. A flunky came up, bowed to Kliment and took Mrs M’s coat and Connie’s jacket as well as my own to a coat-check
counter staffed by two astoundingly beautiful girls, all high cheekbones, long black hair and sultry, unimpressed looks. The
thudding music and faster flashing lights were coming from a big fluted archway ahead. “Tasty,” I said, smiling at Kliment.
He nodded appreciatively, I think.

“Please,” he said. “We have your table.”

Vodka and champagne, caviar and blinis. We proceeded to get very drunk in our semicircular table facing a giant multi-level
dance floor. I danced with Connie, then with Mrs M, who had a weird all-over-the-place way of dancing. In her black-bandages
outfit and veil – yep, still with the veil – she got a lot of looks. Appreciative ones, too, and I could see why. She danced like
she could move bits that other women didn’t even have. Connie was a lively bopper too. The two of them kept turning away bottles
of bubbly from distant tables.

Connie leant over as they were opening our third bottle of Salon. “Come to the toilets. We’ll do some coke, yeah?”

By this time I’d drunk enough for this to seem like a good idea, and for the prospect of some white stuff to have taken on
a sort of sensible, even medicinal quality, i.e. if I took some it’d sober me up a bit. Not to mention the fact that both
Connie and Mrs M had only got even better-looking and more devastatingly attractive as the evening had gone on, and here was
one of them inviting me to the loos. Well, why not? I looked from the gorgeous, blondely shining Connie to the shadowy Mrs
M. Connie grinned and shook her head.

Mrs Mulverhill must have overheard, or guessed. She waved one hand. “Enjoy,” she said, watching the mass of people pulse and
surge around the dance floor.