Cold Courage (9 page)

Berg also had a background in theatre. He spoke about his father, Bertil Berg, who had worked as a master set designer in Sweden.

‘He was in the Dramaten, the Royal Opera and all the big city theatres. He was so good that in Sweden
Bergesque magic
was a
common phrase. The sets alone were reason enough for people to come to the theatre. When I was little I thought I would grow up to be a set designer too.’

Berg had received his father’s first name, so he was always Bertil Berg the Second. Perhaps that was why he only used his surname now, Lia thought.

For a long time he had done everything but build sets. He studied mechanical engineering and architecture, designed aeroplanes, built houses. After turning fifty, he started again from the beginning and studied theatrical set design, offering his services for free to amateur theatres in order to gain experience.

‘I was happy when Mari offered me this position,’ Berg said. ‘I don’t want to be in the theatre, but I still want to stage things. Here I feel like I get to take my work even further. Here just having things look good isn’t enough. Now I stage reality.’

Maggie and Berg didn’t seem to know about Mari’s gift. They respected her, not because she knew how to read people, but because to them she was a smart boss who delivered interesting work.

‘Haven’t you told them?’ Lia asked Mari.

‘Why would I?’

‘You said yourself how close they were to you.’

‘Lia, they do know – at some level.’

Such observant people could not help but notice how Mari thought and did things. But she had never talked to them about it directly.

‘It’s very personal. And it isn’t always easy being able to do what I do,’ Mari said.

At the Studio, Lia felt simultaneously inside and excluded. She knew she was close to Mari in a different way from the others.

The others had given Mari nicknames. Berg referred to her as ‘Boss Lady’. Maggie gave her name a French flavour, Marie. Apparently Rico amused himself by using alternating versions like Maria, Marilyn and Marjorie.

But Lia pronounced her name as it should be pronounced: Mari. Short vowels, the R short, crisp tap. She was the only person who
pronounced Mari’s name the way she had heard it for the first twenty years of her life.

This was why she didn’t take umbrage at being kept in the dark. She knew that Mari wanted both to keep her close and yet safely at a distance.

The idea came to Lia in September, in the middle of a working day. She called Mari to make sure she would be at the Studio that night.

After arriving in Bankside she was impatient to sit down.

‘I have a proposal,’ Lia said.

Mari’s eyes focused.

‘Well? Let’s hear it.’

‘You could investigate the Holborn Circus murder. Figure out why that Latvian woman had to die.’

Mari looked at Lia silently.

‘I thought we would come back to this,’ she said finally, looking serious.

‘I know that solving a mystery like that has to be terribly
difficult
. But you could probably get somewhere with it,’ Lia continued.

‘How do you know the police haven’t made any progress in their investigation?’

Lia stopped. That was true – she didn’t know.

‘But if they had found anything important, they would have announced it.’

Mari shook her head. The police didn’t continually update the media about ongoing investigations; sometimes making progress meant calming the situation down. Getting mixed up in a serious crime could also be dangerous. Not to mention that they might hinder the police in their work.

That was all true, Lia admitted.

‘But you see so much even in little things. And if we find
something
, we tell the police. I’m not asking you to chase criminals, just to see what you can see.’

Mari was not enthusiastic. One of her most important principles was never to get involved in several undertakings at once. At the moment she already had a project in progress.

The work usually divided into two phases, a long, slow process of background research and preparation, and then a short, intense execution. They had to give the execution phase space.

‘You never know what will happen. Everyone here, especially me, has to be able to concentrate one hundred per cent. Criminal cases like that aren’t something you can control. Something can pop up at any moment, and then you have to be able to react quickly.’

The second principle was that although Mari led each project, she stayed in the background when it came to hands-on
implementation
. She didn’t want attention or to be connected to the results of her work.

Above all Mari wanted to keep away from the police.

‘Why?’ Lia asked.

‘You name it! We’re not criminals here, but plenty of things we do are illegal or at least borderline. Just think about Orpheus.’

With the police there was always the risk they would start asking questions. Some detectives really did get ‘hunches’ from noticing little details. That was close enough to Mari’s gift that she didn’t want anyone like that getting too close.

‘I’ve also been involved with professional criminals before a few times. Unpleasant is too mild a word. I’d rather not do it again if I have a choice.’

‘OK,’ Lia said. ‘And what if we arrange things so you don’t have to go anywhere near the police? Or criminals. You could
investigate
from a distance, and I’ll help where I can. If we don’t come up with anything, we drop it.’

Why did Lia want this so much, Mari asked inquisitively.

‘I don’t know. Let’s call it a hunch, or whatever you want. That woman deserves someone to investigate her case properly. You could do that.’

Mari thought silently, but Lia could see that her words had set something in motion.

‘Well, let’s do this,’ Mari said finally. ‘But you really are going to have to help. If we ever have to contact the police, you’re going to do it.’

‘Agreed!’

‘Give me two weeks. After that we’ll decide whether we proceed. And you have to accept my decision, whatever it is,’ Mari added.

‘Got it. Great,’ Lia said, so excited she stood up.

‘Hold on now,’ Mari said. ‘That was only part of the deal. I want a favour in return.’

‘Fine, what kind of favour?’ Lia asked, sitting back down.

‘I want you to help us stop Arthur Fried.’

Lia glanced at the clock on the wall of the offices of
Level
. Only 7.55. Still a little time until the others would begin showing up at work.

She had come in early in order to have time to read everything she could find in the magazine archives about Arthur Fried. Sipping from her mug of vending machine coffee, the bitterness of which no amount of milk could take away, she clicked on another story: ‘Fried promises record number of candidates for party lists.’

In addition to its own stories,
Level
’s electronic database contained a sizeable collection of reports from other British
publications
.
Level
had purchased the rights to browse them so the reporters could find background material for their stories. Material about Arthur Fried was in plentiful supply.

A noted, perhaps notorious, politician and the leader of the small far-right Fair Rule Party, of course Lia had already known Fried’s name.

He was famous for his ability to whip up his supporters into political frenzy with his words.

Lia had never bothered to research the party’s policy platform, since her own political stance was mostly that she didn’t have one. She found ideas she could support in what the Conservative, Liberal Democrat, Labour and Green parties said, and had only been relieved when, as a foreigner, she could not vote. But she disagreed with Fair Rule instinctively.

Maybe that’s where the major dividing line in society runs today. It hasn’t been between left and right in ages.

Reading the news stories confirmed her prejudices. Fair Rule stood for law and order, racial cleansing and Christian principles. It opposed a huge number of things, beginning with most of what happened in cities and encompassing everything related to youth counterculture, gay rights and social support for single parents. The party even disapproved of such an innocent activity as
football
clubs for schoolchildren: they claimed to support sport as a hobby, but opposed immigrants having their own teams and uniforms.

However, the position that had aroused the most discussion was the party’s strict stance on abortion laws. They wanted to ban
abortions
outright. Even those most people would allow, for victims of rape or incest. For the representatives of Fair Rule, life was sacred – which was a fascinating contradiction of the party’s other main goal, the reinstatement of the death penalty. About this the papers had written significantly less than about the party’s position on abortion, apparently because no one believed they could ever succeed in returning judicial hangings.

Ever the smiling party leader, Arthur Fried had a penchant for colourful turns of phrase. Like many politicians, he tended to repeat a few favourite lines in his interviews.

The catchiest of these – and the one that annoyed Lia most – was ‘Get Britain Back’. Even though reporters tried to remove obvious slogans from their stories, Fried nearly always succeeded in slipping this one into his press interviews.

Let’s get Britain back. What the hell did that actually mean?

Fried used this catchphrase to add emphasis almost regardless of the topic. Once,
The Times
had asked Fried to explain the motto, and the result had been a long explanation about the ‘dire consequences of the modern culture of multicultural thought and irresponsible loose behaviour’.

They either want Muslims to live in slums or get out of the country so the white British population can rule
.

This train of thought seemed to be increasingly popular. Support for Fair Rule in the previous parliamentary and local elections had been in the range of one to one and a half per cent. However, in the most recent polls, that had risen to three per cent.

Lia looked at the picture of Arthur Fried. Quite tall, blond hair, pleasant face. Not handsome per se, but certainly engaging when he performed. His rather serious demeanour was softened by the broad smile he wore in the photograph. His teeth had been straightened and whitened.

What was it about this that worried Mari so much? Fried is like an American import, a right-wing evangelical. No politician like that has ever become very significant in Britain.

‘Why do we have to stop Fried?’ Lia had asked Mari.

Because Arthur Fried was a much bigger phenomenon than people guessed, Mari explained. The next general election was predicted within six months, and Fried was very likely to win a seat in Parliament himself, probably dragging a few party cronies along on his coat-tails.

How did Mari see that? And why did they have to stop it? If the people wanted to vote for them, was that not just one of the usual irritations of democracy?

‘I’ve seen Arthur Fried up close many times. He is the devil incarnate.’

Mari spoke of Fried in a tone that indicated long-held concern. She had seen Fried once, years before, at an exhibition of classical paintings at an art museum. He was giving the opening address. It was part of a project meant to create dialogue between art and politics. In his speech, Fried had praised the important ‘examples of true beauty’ that the paintings offered contemporary society. Mari found that the realistic depictions of landscapes, Victorian upper-class hunting scenes and posing maidens mostly just made her want to take a nap.

Mari had watched from close range as Fried shook hands with the attendees, smiling all the while.

‘His eyes were so cold.’

In his mind, Fried classified the people he was greeting into two categories: a small group of useful people and a large group of useless people, for whom Fried held nothing but contempt.

‘Watching that was horrible.’

‘Sounds like a reptile. But a calculating politician isn’t exactly out of the ordinary – what’s so dangerous about him in particular?’

There were things about Fried you couldn’t see on the surface, Mari said. Lia would just have to trust her.

‘Read everything you can get your hands on about Fried. We have to know him completely.’

That was why Lia had started sifting through all of the reports about the Fair Rule party. First she wanted to research the
objective
sources before she started wading into the more colourful offerings of the internet.

The picture forming was of a man who had tried many different things in the course of his life, finally channelling his energy into politics.

Arthur Fried hailed from Wales. His family was originally from the United States but had moved from there to Swansea and then to Newport. There Fried attended comprehensive school and then immediately went to work doing manual labour in a large foundry. His family were deeply religious. Fried enjoyed describing these parts of his history because they gave him an opportunity to talk about his faith background and demonstrate his affinity for the common man.

Quickly Fried escaped the factory, leaving to study marketing at Gwent College in Newport. After graduating, he tried out various professions: estate agent, radio announcer, sales representative for an arms importer, hotel chain service manager, chamber of commerce chairman.

All speaking professions, Lia noted. Selling guns was probably more of the same. The quick moves between careers told of
enterprise
but also restlessness and perhaps hinted that no one had wanted to engage the young Fried with a more permanent
employment
contract.

Next, Fried founded a couple of companies, an estate agency and a business consultancy. Then he moved to the US for a few years, a time about which the newspaper articles had nothing to say other than vague references to more business activities. Clearly his religious fervour grew during his time in America. After returning to Britain he developed an interest in social issues and the Fair Rule party.

‘That was a decisive moment. As if I had stepped out of the darkness into bright sunlight. I realised that Britain lacked a true voice of the people, a party that could restore the honour of the nation. I knew that, despite all of my personal shortcomings, this was the mission God had in store for me,’ Fried had told
The Scotsman.

The pastimes of this ‘voice of the people’ were golf, shooting, volunteering and church service. His wife was an American, Anna Belle Fried, whom he had met in New York, and every article
remembered to mention that she had once won her home state’s beauty contest.

Lia frowned. Shooting, parish work, founding companies and a much younger Miss Ohio. Not exactly the path of the average Welsh lad.

Lia managed to get through all the major stories in which Fried appeared before small noises at the front door of the office began to announce the arrival of the others.

When Timothy Phelps showed up, Lia decided to see if he could add any insight.

‘Morning, Tim.’

‘Good morning, darling.’

‘What do you know about Arthur Fried?’

‘That’s a strange question to start the day,’ Timothy said, looking at Lia curiously. ‘Why are you interested in Fried?’

Lia had already cooked up an explanation.

‘An illustrator is offering us caricatures of political figures. He sent me his drawing of Fried as a sample. I was wondering whether we might have any reason to do a larger story on him.’

‘Well, with the general election coming up, that’s possible. Fried’s lot are gaining popularity. It is interesting.’

Britain had always had its conservatives, Timothy observed, but Fair Rule was trying to unite all the voices shouting at the fringes, from the young yobs in the housing estates to the older generation of right-wing Christian moralists.

‘A difficult but intriguing combination. I’m not exactly hankering to go to their party conference. But Fried is a very powerful personality.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’s a strong speaker. Never afraid to spread his opinions around. He’s a reporter’s wet dream. But I still get the feeling he has bigger plans. Once there were whispers that he would defect to the Tories, but it stayed only a rumour. And he’s doing better as the leader of his own gang than he would as rank-and-file in a big party that would try to control what he said.’

‘And his private life? Any skeletons?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. His wife is quite the bombshell. She’s a leggy bottle blonde doll who works in some parish church. They have two
little kids. So all the ingredients of a normal family, but still there’s something plastic about those two that’ll send shivers down your spine. Like they’re robots carrying out some set program. Presumably God’s vision for the future – I don’t know.’

‘It’s great to be coming up with topics for stories and series we can do,’ Timothy added. ‘That’s one of the best things about Taylor – he’s always producing new ideas that none of the rest of us think of. Given the success he’s been having, a profile of Arthur Fried would definitely be in order.’

Walking back to her desk, Lia wondered whether Timothy’s
reference
to Taylor was a coincidence. Timothy was Matt Thomas’
right-hand
man in the office. Had he heard something about the plans for a new AD?

Lia was on a roll during their morning meeting, which yielded an idea for a series of stories on books and musical albums of social significance from the Noughties. When the editorial staff started trickling off to lunch, Martyn Taylor said, ‘Well done, Miss Finland.’

When Lia arrived at the Studio that evening, Mari was tied up with work.

‘Paddy and I are having a meeting. Maybe you could go and see Rico in the meantime. If you’re going to start bringing us more work, then it would be best for you to know the whole gang.’

Mari opened the door for her into the IT kingdom, and Lia slipped into the dimly lit room.

Seeming to snap awake, Rico left his computer to come and greet Lia as though he had been waiting for her.

‘You came at a good moment. I’m just opening the Well. It takes time, so you can have my undivided attention.’

Rico led her to his machine and resumed typing for a moment, giving Lia time to observe him.

At thirty years old, with his black, curly hair cropped short, Rico was as thin as a rail. His Brazilian features would have been most prominent around his eyes were it not for the strange glasses he was wearing, which could have belonged to Elton John or some drag performer with an eyewear fetish. The frames pulsed with light,
the lenses had points that turned into tiny reflective surfaces when viewed from a certain angle, and above all this wobbled colourful bits of wire projecting from the frames towards the wearer’s temples.

‘My friend makes designer art glasses,’ Rico said when he noticed Lia’s gaze. ‘I’m his guinea pig. The name of these is Web 7.7. They work pretty well on me, don’t you think?’

This was the first time Lia had exchanged more than a few words with Rico. He was fun, lively and an impossibly fast talker.

As Lia stared at the screen filled with scrolling lines of code and bits of text that meant nothing to her, the talk turned to computers.

‘What is the Well?’ Lia asked. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘That’s no surprise.’

Some IT pros knew about the Well, Rico said, but even among that group it was more legend than reality.

‘Access is guarded carefully to keep from ruining it.’

The Well was an opening through which the top tier of computer wizards tiptoed into places where they should not be. It was an online meeting place for hackers. After breaking down a system’s defences and figuring out how it worked, they would add to the Well the information they had gleaned and then sometimes do a little mischief or strike a blow for peace and freedom. The Well was a website full of secret files describing back doors into
hardened
networks. When someone gained access to a system, a
corporate
intranet for example, he would post information about what to look for and how to cover your tracks once you were in. The files changed rapidly and access to any given target was fleeting.

Recently the Well had offered access to the data systems of several large banks and the internal network of a French army unit, the Gendarmerie Nationale. Using these holes, you could have looked at what was happening in the accounts of the richest people in the world or what secret memos were changing hands in the Directorate-General of the gendarmerie in Paris on rue Saint-Didier. The Gendarmerie Nationale was a favourite target of hackers because it had once become mixed up in the sinking of a Greenpeace ship in New Zealand in which two environmental
activists died. Although hackers were not generally interested in politics, getting one over on the French military police was a matter of honour.