Iain Banks - Transition

“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.