The 2084 Precept (48 page)

"Yes, well, that is why I am here. Perhaps
we could take a seat in the corner over there?"

We sat down, I didn't offer him coffee, I
had just had one myself and another one was coming up soon in
Curzon Street. I looked over at the desk, Little Miss Ugly was
there, watching. I gave her a broad smile, spread some more of that
happiness.

"We had a meeting," he started off. "The aim
was to try and involve a few of our top people and to persuade them
in their turn to try and involve a minister or two, and then have
you perform one or two of those telepathic events, possibly of a
more momentous nature. I say of a more momentous nature, because if
you have something for the prime minister's ears only, that is what
it would take. At the same time, it would be necessary for Mr.
Parker to be present in person."

He paused and looked at me with his
half-wink. I didn't say anything.

"Well…I don't think you can understand how
difficult this is. There are huge bureaucratic obstacles. There are
a large number of ministries, there are secretaries of state, there
are ministers, there are under-secretaries, there is the Attorney
General's office, and there is a whole host of other high-ranking
officials. Then we have ourselves, the police, and we are
responsible to the Home Office, which is headed by the Home
Secretary and five other ministers. As you may imagine, a complex
labyrinth making it a long, long road to get anywhere near the
prime minister. But we have our contacts. We have some tentative
agreements with certain important persons for them to attend a one
hour meeting on Thursday evening—provisional agreements you
understand, and dependent upon your compliance with the conditions
I have just mentioned. And the meeting, by the way, would be either
at New Scotland Yard or in Whitehall."

"I have a couple of comments on that, Mr.
Delsey. First of all, we can provide a couple of events, as you
call them. No problem, providing you accept that they must cause no
harm to man nor beast. But we have to be clear on one point. We are
not a performing circus. There would be no more attempts to
entertain you, your colleagues, or any ministers of any ilk. Either
this meeting results in a direct meeting with the prime minister,
or it's the end of the story. Finished.
Fertig. Terminado.
Fini.
I therefore suggest that the prime minister be informed
of what is going on before the Thursday meeting takes place. He
should be prepared to take a yes or a no decision immediately
afterwards about a meeting with Mr. Parker, based on the comments
he receives from you and your colleagues and from anybody else who
deigns to turn up. And last but not least, Mr. Parker will
not
be attending this preparatory meeting. He will only meet
directly with the Prime Minister himself."

Delsey seemed distinctly uncomfortable about
this. He twisted in his chair, he plucked at his trousers—or pants
if you are American and like ambiguities—he leaned forward, he
wiped his brow, an additional sullenness formed to supplement his
customary morosity, and he said in a gruff voice, "I'm afraid we're
going to have to insist…"

"You are not going to have to insist on
anything," I said. "I need an answer fast. Otherwise this ends
right here and now in this hotel and may God help you, if you
happen to be a believer Mr. Delsey, because, mark my words, you
will be needing it."

He considered this for a while. I could read
his thoughts. On the one hand, there was a lunatic. On the other
hand, there were certain undeniable powers floating around which
could, if proven to be authentic ones, be of earth-shaking
importance to his country. And then, he had obviously been tasked
with arranging this meeting anyway.

"I will need to consult on this," he said.
"We will get back to you later today, if you would be so kind as to
keep your mobile within reach."

"We? And do you mind if I ask who might that
be?"

"It will be me," he said. "I have now been
assigned full-time to this case and am responsible for
communication. In other words, I am your contact person."

And that was that. Off he went, and off I
went, lighting up a cigarette as I headed for Half Moon Street. I
bought the IHT at the tube station and ended up at the same café in
which Jeremy had introduced himself to me nearly three weeks ago. I
sat at the same outside table in fact, warm enough and no wind to
complicate the turning of the newspaper pages.

And then I took a momentous decision.

I decided to give up croissants. They taste
nice enough and they are not particularly heavy on the stomach, but
basically they are a crescent-shaped product specifically designed
by the French to crumble apart when you pick them up, and to
collapse into a hundred pieces if you are foolish enough to try and
do anything with them, such as spread butter or marmalade on them.
They also contain an average 34% of fatty oils. I ordered a couple
of normal bread rolls and butter to go with the coffee and started
on the IHT.

Debt crises continue down the road to their
supernova, shares prices have fallen—I have recouped €15,000—and
there were 280 conflict deaths yesterday including 73 Sunnis
murdered while praying in their mosque near Bagdad. The only mild
interest in the conflicts nowadays is the number of deaths. Syria
of course has done a good job of raising the average in recent
times. The pope conveyed his condolences to the parents of a kidnap
victim beheaded by some Islam group or other. I skipped other
boring articles on politicians arguing about this and arguing about
that—this is my view, says the one of them, flap, flap…and this is
my
view says the other, flap, flap—and turned to the sports
pages. Always interesting, and today I got to read about the
ongoing increase in bribery and corruption at all levels, up to and
including the governing bodies, and the huge amounts of money,
effort and time being expended in an attempt to at least limit the
extent of drug usage in sport. Well, you wouldn't expect anything
else, would you, these sporting activities are conducted by the
human race on the planet Earth. Interesting of course, but no more
than that. I can't even find the energy to say tut, tut or
whatever.

I decided to check on the two small gifts I
had ordered for Roger and Geoff at United Fasteners. I walked up to
Berkeley Square, a small, pleasant square, home to Winston
Churchill as a child and fictitious home to P.G. Wodehouse's Bertie
Wooster and—may we never forget—his servant Jeeves. I turned east,
crossed over Bond Street, and dropped into the small engraving
establishment located just short of Regent Street.

No problems, ready for collection on
Thursday morning as agreed, they said. It had started to drizzle,
so I caught a cab for the short trip back to the hotel. Whether I
am being watched or not, I continue neither to know nor care.

Back in my room I pondered the events of the
past few days. Things were not as simple as they had been at the
outset. At the outset I had agreed to earn the ridiculous amount of
€500,000 from a mentally sick person for merely participating in a
number of interviews with him up to a maximum of twelve. Since
then, I had agreed to cooperate in trying to obtain a meeting
between this mentally sick person and the U.K. prime minister, no
less. Admittedly with the assistance of some incredibly amazing
mind-bending techniques of which this mentally sick person was
unquestionably capable. And my total potential earnings, if I could
still believe it, had risen to the nice round sum of €1 million. In
return for which I now I had the authorities on my back.

So the question was, how to earn the
remaining money while at the same time extracting myself completely
and entirely from the attentions of the authorities. I think a
small chronological analysis will assist me. First of all I would
have to attend this week's meeting, if it occurred, and hope that
the pyrotechnics would be convincing enough to achieve the
apparently impossible, namely a meeting between Jeremy and the
prime minister. The latter would be under heavy security, no
question about that, but then that would not be my problem and in
any case Jeremy can take care of himself like nobody else, using
those inimitable powers of his, no doubt about that either.

Secondly, I had to attend my meeting with
Jeremy tomorrow and, in order to comply with our agreement, such
additional meetings as he may deem to be appropriate. Thirdly,
nothing was going to make me change my plans to return to Okriftel
this weekend. Monika's birthday was on the Sunday and on the
Saturday I had to comply with my long-standing promise to the local
mayor to give a simultaneous chess exhibition at the town's
technical college. And as for any meetings next week in London, I
could just fly over.

And then I had a tentative agreement to
start my Spanish project the week following. The question was, how
do I get there without the authorities being able to trace me? With
all of today's technology and the global cooperation existing
between national police forces, that might not be possible. They
would find me if they wanted to, particularly as I had no intention
of trying to disguise myself and no idea of how to go about
obtaining false passports or driving licenses or other such
skullduggery. And even if I did know how, I wouldn’t do it, it’s
illegal and I am not the detective-story type.

On the other hand, I could probably make it
difficult for them, cause a few weeks' delay if I got lucky, by
which time Jeremy would have had his meeting. Maybe the world's
superpowers would be getting together as well, who knows? Jeremy's
demonstrations might have achieved that before they decided to lock
him up in a high security unit specialized in advanced psychiatric
care. Although I would be fascinated to see what would happen if
they were to attempt it. By which time, anyway, their interest in
me would hopefully have evaporated or at least have transformed
itself into a minor and minuscule concern.

I could drive to Barcelona for my initial
meeting with Señor Pujol at his group's head office. No controls at
the frontier. And better not to use my own car. Monika would love
to swap hers with my Audi for a few weeks or, if not, she would
allow me to pay for a rental car for myself in her name. Make it
Hertz or Avis and then I could drop the car off at its destination.
Or park it in a long-term car park in Barcelona somewhere. And then
I could continue on to the loss-making shipping company's offices
in Mallorca by taking the ferry to Palma as a foot passenger. My
name would be on a ticket and end up in a computer databank
somewhere, but as a risk, it was a calculated one. And once in
Palma, I could disappear from the hotel after a few days and into
an apartment. And no car, just taxis. And not being an employee of
the shipping company, I would not be identifiable on its
payroll.

And if it only worked for a short while, so
be it, they would start bothering me again. Not that they could do
much except annoy me in my view. And by then I would hopefully have
been paid anyway.

Which reminded me to log on and check on the
latest €100,000. Not received. No sweat. I'll check again in the
morning.

In the evening, Delsey called. The meeting
was confirmed. Thursday at 5 p.m. in Whitehall, the Ministry of
Defence. I should please present myself at the northern entrance
and Delsey would be waiting for me.

This morning was an easy morning—and a
pleasing one.

I had my breakfast, the good old Lavazza and
the Chivers, went back to my room and checked my on-line bank
account. The third payment of €100,000 had been credited. I was
beginning to really appreciate Jeremy, a moral and virtuous person.
I always hold people who are totally reliable in high regard, sane
or otherwise. I put the money into Nestlé shares. A safe investment
given the ever-increasing world population, all of whom need to eat
and drink in order not to die, and more and more of whom can also
afford quality products as the middle-class segments continue to
grow in all of the world's new economies. Certainly, the shares can
go up and down depending on the movements, violent or otherwise, of
the world's markets, but long-term, the demographic evolution will
hold sway. And of course these shares have two additional
advantages: they pay a decent dividend, regularly and continuously,
and
the shares move in line with the Swiss Franc, not the
Euro. A good investment in uncertain times in my view. But of
course you can never tell, the whole caboodle is just one big,
crazy casino.

I drove leisurely down to Slough and checked
up on the progress at Clark's. Everything was proceeding
satisfactorily, and at around midday Fred found me outside drinking
coffee and smoking a cigarette while admiring yet again—such a
minor item, but there you go—the yellow lettering on the dark red
background of the new, shiningly clean sign outside the main
entrance. Fred was also in cheerful mood. He told me the employees
had voted a short while ago to accept the cuts in return for a
review of the situation in twelve months' time and a job guarantee
until then. Not a problem, he told me, the way things were going.
The problem could actually turn out to be the other way round—how
to meet increased production requirements without having to
increase the workforce.

I told him I would be in tomorrow for the
last time before converting to our new ad hoc arrangement. And then
I drove back to London, parked the car at the hotel, took a cab to
the Strand, had a sandwich, a coffee and a cigarette, and walked
into Jeremy's offices at just before 1.30 p.m. Timely as usual.
Prompt and punctual. Jeremy and I complement each other in that
respect, if not in other ways, such as mental health.