Ethereum

by N C Mander

  ‘How long have you been with Penwill’s?’ Edison took the opportunity to probe Jamie.

  ‘A year and a half,’ said Jamie through a mouthful of kale and pumpkin seeds.

  ‘And you work for Billy?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of. Mostly I work with the PMs, sorting them out with programs to run their trading strategies.’

  ‘PMs?’ Edison queried.

  ‘Portfolio Managers,’ Jamie explained. ‘Mostly Emma ’cos she does the cool crypto stuff. But Christoph too. He’s a dullard when it comes to programming.’

  ‘Tom mentioned you and Emma had built a crypto hedging algorithm which was proving pretty successful.’

  ‘Ha, yes, you could say that. It’s working really well. We’re delivering in excess of twenty basis points on that strategy. Some days, it pushes thirty.’

  ‘Tom asked me to take a look at it,’ Edison lied, picking at his salad with distaste. ‘Make sure it’s watertight from a regulatory point of view. Could you take me through it?’

  ‘Happily. How’s your C++? I’m pretty busy, so it would be better if I sent it to you to get under the skin of.’

  ‘Pretty proficient.’

  ‘Good, the last guy seemed to think he could get by calling himself a developer on just Java.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Edison wondered whether the ‘last guy’s’ lack of programming knowledge might explain someone’s ability to syphon off funds from the trading algorithm unchecked. ‘Send over access to the repository, and I’ll let you know if I have any questions.’

  ‘Sorted. Will send it to you as soon as I’m back at my desk.’ Jamie washed his lunch down with a green juice that smelt vile. They returned to the office, Jamie chatting incessantly, explaining his triathlon training in a level of detail that bamboozled Edison.

  At Tom’s behest, Anna had filled Edison’s diary with introductory meetings with each of the team. Edison would bait the conversation to see if he could tease out any possible connections to the terrorist ring or the mysterious money moves. Edison speculated that it was quite possible for the perpetrator of the fraud to have no knowledge of the wider web of criminality that wove its way out from their actions. Edison’s first conversation with Maria proved benign. She briefed Edison in the bank’s investment strategies and the expectations of their clients. There was no denying her razor-sharp intelligence. They talked amiably about the relative merits of python programming for scaling algorithms versus C++.

  ‘Why would you use something so static for your API?’ she exclaimed. She was an attractive woman and tossed her blonde hair over her shoulders as she argued.

  ‘But the python system will inevitably fall over at higher trading volumes, and what about the volatility?’ Edison said.

  ‘Pah. We’re not talking high trading volumes in these currencies. There is only a small pool of counterparties for these trades. And as for the volatility, that is what we want. It is all a volatility play. Emma and Jamie have a beautiful program that works around the volatility on the Bitcoin/Ethereum exchange. Very stylish.’ Her eyes lit up, and she spoke in a tone most others would reserve for great works of art or music.

  ‘Do you ever edit that code?’

  ‘The crypto algorithm. No, but I occasionally take a look at it. Just to see what new ideas they are trying. Jamie is always tinkering with it.’ Maria looked wistful. Edison smiled. This woman was consumed in the intellectual challenge of her work. He thought it very unlikely she would be tapping off funds to bankroll jihadis.

  The mention of Jamie’s algorithm reminded him that the triathlete hadn’t sent him the access he’d promised at lunch. He wound up the meeting with Maria. She made him promise that they might resume this argument. ‘Perhaps over a glass of wine,’ she suggested, a coy gleam in her dark-rimmed, blue eyes.

  ‘Sure,’ Edison responded automatically, only to realise afterwards that the beautiful Russian had been flirting with him. Fuck, he thought to himself, as he went to find Jamie, what had he just agreed to?

  Clad in Lycra, Jamie was leaning over his desk, shutting down his computer. The screen went black just as Edison arrived. ‘You were going to sort out an access log,’ he said as Jamie pulled on a bicycle helmet.

  ‘Sorry mate. I completely forgot. Tomorrow?’ Something in the way that Jamie shifted his weight drew Edison’s attention. The young man’s gaze didn’t quite meet his. Jamie hurried away, and without looking back, he said, ‘First thing tomorrow, promise. Got to dash tonight.’

  ‘Ok, have a good evening,’ said Edison to Jamie’s retreating figure.

  ‘He’s always dashing off for some gym session or other.’ Edison turned to see the broad, smiling face of Tariq Mahmoud. ‘How’s your first day been?’

  ‘Bit of a whirlwind to be honest,’ said Edison.

  ‘Fancy a quick drink?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Let’s see if Billy fancies it.’

  Moments later, the three men were seated in a wine bar in the basement of the building, all three with pints of beer. Tariq’s faith no longer played a big part in his life, Edison determined. Tariq lifted the beer to his lips and confirmed Edison’s suspicions by saying, ‘My parents would be horrified.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ replied Billy. ‘Nothing but a disappointment to my parents.’ He went on to explain. ‘They thought I’d be home after six months, ideally with a wife in tow. Not sure what my boyfriend would have to say about that. What’s your story, Steven? Let your old man down by not taking over the family business? Not given your mum enough grandchildren yet?’ Edison felt the questions land like sucker punches. He’d not really known his father, one of the last workers in the North East’s docks before they finally closed in the eighties, plunging the area deeper into economic gloom and his family into a financial plight from which they would not recover. Scott Edison Senior had spent most of the meagre benefits the Thatcher government gave them at the bar of the working men’s club in Byker before eventually walking out on Edison and his mother when Edison was only nine years old. Edison couldn’t begin to contemplate answering either of the questions honestly and took a long draft of his pint, buying himself time to compose himself and work out if Steven Edwards might have any skeletons in his closet. He laughed and said, ‘Something like that. But tell me, what do I really need to know? You know, in the office?’

  Billy looked at him and laughed. ‘Tariq,’ adopting an exaggerated tone and nudging Tariq conspiratorially, ‘he wants the gossip.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tariq, furrowing his brow in mock seriousness, ‘Emma makes the most excellent brownies.’

  ‘Christoph is very, very serious.’ Billy picked up on the jest and adopted a mock German accent, ‘We shall not joke about ze infrastructure fund, ja?’

  ‘And I’m fairly sure that Anna is having an affair with one of the sales team, given how much time she spends on the fourteenth floor,’ Tariq finished with a flourish. He and Billy fell about laughing, and Edison joined in.

  ‘In all seriousness,’ Billy said, composing himself, ‘all you really need to know is not to take anything Jamie says too seriously. He thinks he’s God’s gift to programming—’

  ‘And women,’ Tariq interrupted.

  ‘And triathlons. But really, he’s harmless.’

  ‘Noted,’ said Edison with a grin. He checked his watch. ‘I need to get going. Can I buy you guys another before I shoot off?’

  Both Tariq and Billy declined the offer, and the three men left the bar together before setting off in different directions. Edison made his way to the DLR, deep in thought. His mind ran over the conversation with Maria. Should he be reading more into her flirtations? Is Jamie as harmless as his colleagues consider him to be? Was the delay in him sending access to the trading program through a genuine memory lapse or something more sinister? There was something about Jamie that didn’t quite add up, but Edison couldn’t put his finger on it. He was out of practice.

  Chapter Six

  1028, Thursday 29t
h June, Moniedubh Estate, nr North Ballachulish, Lochaber

  The phone rang in Sir Donald Hughes’ study a little before half-past ten. Angus, who was snoozing on the sofa after an energetic romp over the hills with his master that morning, lifted an eyelid as Hughes picked up the handset.

  ‘Colchester just dispatched a unit to Grimsby,’ a breathless voice on the other end of the line told Hughes. He felt his blood boil.

  ‘You shouldn’t be calling on this line, Waring,’ Hughes admonished the informant, although he was glad to have the information.

  ‘I thought you should know.’ The junior Met police officer sounded meek. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’

  Hughes was about to launch into a tirade about protocol and security but thought better of it. He had been worried about reopening the Grimsby import route and had been proven right. He could have guessed that the police would be watching Billingsgate even after all this time. ‘Ok, Waring, thank you for letting me know. That will be all.’ He hung up and dialled another number immediately.

  ‘Hello, my love,’ he said when a woman picked up the phone.

  ‘Donny, you shouldn’t call me at work.’

  ‘I had to speak to you. I was right to be worried. The police are crawling all over Grimsby. I don’t—’

  She interrupted him, ‘Give me a minute whilst I run downstairs. Find a little privacy. I’ll call you back in just a moment.’

  Whilst Donald waited for the phone to ring, he wondered what options were available to him now the Grimsby to Billingsgate route had been burned.

  ‘My darling,’ her tones were soothing when she finally called back. ‘What’s worrying you?’

  ‘The Met has sent the sniffer dogs to Grimsby.’

  ‘So?’ Hughes could hear the shrug in her voice. ‘We tried and it didn’t work out. It would have been nice to have a little more money in the bank, but we can still go ahead with our plans, no?’

  Donald looked longingly at the details for a flat in Knightsbridge he’d received from an estate agent the previous day and bit his tongue. He was going to struggle to afford such a love nest and had been relying on a few more successful shipments to stock up the coffers.

  ‘I’m sure we can make it work. But what if the police find something?’

  ‘They won’t, my darling. You were ever so careful. It will be impossible for them to track the drugs back to you.’ The stroking of his ego went some way to reassuring Hughes, and he sighed. ‘I must go, my love. And you must not worry so much. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Let’s speak again tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she promised and hung up.

  For some time after the call, Hughes stood in a meditative state watching the clouds race over the horizon. His thoughts turned to Edison. If it hadn’t been for him, he thought, he wouldn’t be in this god-awful position. He wondered whether there was any truth in the rumours that Tanya Willis was going to recall him to active service. He dragged his gaze away from the grey-green mountains that rolled away from the study window and fired up his computer. He dashed off an encrypted email – What is your flatmate doing for work? Has he been at Thames House?

  *

  Like many of the analysts at Thames House, Tony harboured dreams of promotion to the vaunted ranks of field operative. Prior to Hughes’ departure from the Service, his career development had looked more assured, as the head of the Service had taken a special interest in his ambitions. They had gone for the occasional coffee. Hughes seemed particularly concerned by Tony’s financial position and alluded to his potential for advancement within the Service. His departure had been a bitter blow for Tony. Hughes had explained what a huge misunderstanding it had all been, in their last conversation prior to Sir Donald’s departure.

  They’d been nursing a coffee in their usual haunt when Hughes had said, ‘Tony, things might hot up for me a bit over the next few weeks. I’m likely to have to leave the Service.’ Tony’s shock had shown on his face. He’d been counting on the promotion Hughes had promised to be able to remortgage the flat. ‘Don’t worry,’ Hughes had assured him, ‘I still have a lot of friends in the Service, and I’m sure I can continue to help you. However,’ he’d leaned in closer, ‘I will need a little bit of help in return.’ Tony’s eyes widened. ‘All good experience for you, of course, if you’re going to work in the field.’

  Hughes had continued, ‘I have a few covert operations still live, matters of national security, rather hush-hush, not many people read in.’ Tony had nodded, not really understanding. ‘Might need you to report a few things in to me, old boy.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tony had agreed without a second thought.

  *

  Tony received the message from Hughes and opened it eagerly. Dutifully he tapped out a response –

  No sign of physicist at Thames House other than to pick up key from me. He has job working on security at a bank in Canary Wharf, I think. Hasn’t told me much about it. Tony ran the message through an encryption key, watching with satisfaction as the prose transformed into a string of meaningless letters and numbers. He pressed send then turned his attention back to the dead-end task of trawling through wiretap transcripts from a call centre in Birmingham. A middle-ranking intelligence officer had taken a dislike to a young Pakistani worshipping at one of his team’s ‘hot’ mosques and tasked Tony with the job of digging through the conversations he had, all day, every day, in case he was using his position as a telesales executive to proselytise and recruit. Tony yawned and hoped Hughes would reply with further instructions for him soon. He was enjoying his foray into the world of covert surveillance.

  *

  The police are crawling all over Grimsby. It was always a risk going back to Billingsgate, but it doesn’t matter. Our purpose is no longer to profit from their weakness. We no longer need to supply the infidels with coke and crack to lubricate their immorality.

  The mujahideen are here. They are in London. They prepare themselves for their greatest and most glorious sacrifice.

  But there is work still to do. I must cover up our tracks. There are men who must be dealt with. Men who could reveal too much if the police get to them before I do. So, I am on my way to Grimsby to ensure the silence of the captain. He has served his useful purpose, and now he must take my secrets to the grave.

  Brother Metin, the day of vengeance draws nearer. We will be united once more in paradise, once I have seen justice done for you, Samar and Houda on this earth.

  Chapter Seven

  2008, Thursday 29th June, The Star & Garter, Wapping, London

  Shortly after 8.00 p.m., Edison arrived at The Star & Garter, a small pub tucked away on the edge of Wapping. Kat wasn’t there yet, so he settled himself in a corner nook with a pint of beer.

  She arrived ten minutes later, looking as close to flustered as the unflappable Kat ever did. She slid in next to Edison and picked up the drink he’d ordered for her. ‘You are a star,’ she said, taking a big gulp. Edison shifted uncomfortably as he felt Kat’s leg brush against his in the tight confines of the nook. He was conscious of their relationship away from work, the relationship that meant he knew that she only ever drank malt whisky on the rocks. ‘Everything ok?’ Kat asked, eyeing him suspiciously. Earlier in the week, before Edison had gone undercover at the bank, they had met for a brief chat about the operation’s objectives and the Billingsgate observation. Kat had kept the conversation professional, and the subject of their affair hadn’t arisen. That had been over a sandwich in Westminster. Here, in the more familiar surroundings of the pub, Edison felt the line between personal and professional begin to blur and wasn’t sure how to react. Kat placed a hand on his leg. ‘It’s ok, Edison,’ she said. ‘I can deal with this. But if you can’t—’

  Edison interrupted her, ‘You can’t take me off this because of us.’ The reluctance to be drawn back into the covert world of espionage that had dogged him for the first forty-eight hours after Tanya’s visit had evapora
ted with the thrill of the observation at the fish market that morning and the challenge of the undercover operation at the bank. He panicked that Kat might convince Tanya that he wasn’t up to the job, and the thought horrified him.

  ‘Let me finish,’ Kat said. She was calm and metered out her words carefully, ‘But if you can’t handle it, we don’t have to keep fucking.’ She said it matter-of-factly as if she were suggesting she could change her nail colour if Edison didn’t like it. ‘Tanya wouldn’t let me take you off this. She’s convinced you’re the sole reason we’ll get to the bottom of this.’ She took a sip of wine and smiled at Edison, ‘Teacher’s pet.’

  ‘Do you think she knows?’ Edison ignored the jibe.

  ‘Probably. Tanya knows everything. And she brought you onto the op anyway, so we had better get on with it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edison, sitting up straighter and looking at Kat seriously. ‘What’s the fallout from Billingsgate? I guess that’s clear evidence that our importers are back in business. What happens now? Will you go up to Grimsby?’

  ‘One question at a time,’ said Kat, lowering her voice. The pub was busy, and the pair could easily maintain their conversation at a volume that wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I’m heading up to Grimsby tomorrow with Mo. If our theories are right, in recent weeks, the white stuff wasn’t the only thing that came off the ship. Our band of terrorists are making bigger moves. We’re moving into the end game.’

  Edison felt a prickle of excitement at the words. ‘So, what’s our next move?’

  ‘Tricky. The drugs are technically Organised Crime’s purview, but thankfully, the commissioner saw fit to read in SO15 when we highlighted the possible terrorism links.’

  ‘Who’s managing the investigation for the Met?’ Edison silently prayed that Kat would tell him that Charlie was the lead officer for counter-terrorism.

  ‘Colchester.’ Edison’s heart sank at the mention of Superintendent Michael Colchester, whose loyalties lay firmly with their friends across the river at Vauxhall Cross. His disdain for the domestic Security Service was well known.