by Mark McKay
Chapter 17
Ian Stone was nursing a large glass of what looked like whisky when they met him in the director’s office at Laval Systems. He favoured a more formal look than Laval. He wore a lightweight Italian style suit with an open-necked shirt. He was at least ten years older too, Nick thought. The hair was greying at the temples, the forehead was heavily lined, and there were noticeable bags beneath the eyes. Maybe he just hadn’t slept well.
Stone sat behind his desk fiddling nervously with the whisky glass, while they waited for Halloran to arrive. Nick and Yvonne sat facing him. There had been brief introductions, but until Halloran appeared there was no point in saying much else. It was hardly an occasion for small talk.
The uncomfortable silence ended a few minutes later. Halloran walked briskly into the office and commandeered Laval’s redundant director’s chair. Stone took one look at Halloran’s florid face, with its more than usually irascible expression and said: ‘Perhaps I should call my lawyer.’
There was a sigh from Halloran, a mixture of exasperation and annoyance. ‘You can, of course, do that. But before you do, let me remind you that this a national security matter we’re investigating. If you decide not to answer my questions now and we find out later that any information you’ve withheld could have prevented a subsequent atrocity, you’ll be in deep shit.’
Stone thought about that. He finished the whisky. ‘What happened to Dominic?’
‘After we left here yesterday, it appears he decided to take an impromptu holiday. He was all packed up and ready to go when DCI Severance found him. With his wife, both of them shot dead in bed. Needless to say, they missed their flight.’
Stone covered his face with his hands. ‘No, not Theresa too,’ he muttered. ‘The bastard…’ He fought to regain some self-control for a moment. When he lowered his hands, his face was a blend of anger, grief and fear, all vying for supremacy. He took a breath. ‘We were used,’ he said, with a fixed stare in Halloran’s direction.
‘Explain.’
‘We landed a big contract to update the servers and infrastructure of the trading systems at two Investment banks, at Canary Wharf.’
‘The ones that were bombed, you mean?’
Stone nodded. ‘It was a six month project. We put our upgrades in place and ran system tests. Once everyone was satisfied, it was just a matter of flicking the switch and the new system would come on line. All kosher and above board.’
‘Go on,’ prompted Halloran.
‘So, we’re about three months in, I suppose. One evening Dominic gets a call on his mobile from this guy in France. Would Dominic and I be his guests at a five star hotel in Paris over the weekend? All he wanted in exchange was the chance to discuss a potentially lucrative business deal. It sounded intriguing and we said yes.’
‘And the deal was?’
‘He wanted us to add a high speed cable, which he would supply, into the network. He was upfront about it, said that once it was ready he would use it as a route in to the trading network. It meant he could place trades just as fast as any high speed trading outfit and do it from an office close by. He said he wanted to send the market downwards on a day of his choice and make a killing doing it.’
‘And you agreed to this?’ asked Nick, sounding slightly incredulous. ‘What did he offer you?’
Stone’s eyes narrowed, but he held his audience’s gaze. ‘Two million euros in four instalments, plus a 20% share of the profit he made on the day. Conservative estimate of around £10 million.’
‘And that’s all he wanted from you?’
‘Yes, of course that’s all. I still don’t know if it was a co-incidence that the two banks were bombed on the day he chose to crash the market. Was it?’
‘Describe this man.’
‘Late forties. Smooth dresser. Looked like he’d be more at home in the Middle East than France. His name was Le Roux.’
‘How did you contact him?’
‘Phone, mostly. Once we’d done our bit he said not to use the phone in future, gave us an emergency email address. We had no reason to use it though, the first payment came through on schedule, yesterday. Dominic had invented invoices to explain the money in advance, so until you showed up there was nothing to worry about.’
‘Unfortunately, your co-director knew otherwise,’ said Halloran. ‘He knew we’d find out that his invoice was fiction, so he decided to run. Why didn’t you do the same?’
‘Wife and three children. Otherwise, I’d be right behind him.’
Halloran snorted. ‘I think Mr Laval used your emergency email address, probably not long after we called on him. That’s what got him killed. And because you also know this Le Roux man, you’re probably in line for the same treatment.’
‘It had occurred to me,’ said Stone.
‘You’ve seen the disregard this man has for the lives of family members. I suggest that your best course of action is to co-operate with us, starting right away. We can put you and your family under immediate protection. You will still be charged with fraud, or market manipulation, or whatever they choose to throw at you. But you’ll live to tell the tale.’
Stone looked somewhat forlorn, but he was nothing if not a deal maker. ‘Immediate protection?’
‘I can, and will, arrange it with one phone call.’
‘Yes, I’ll co-operate. Tell me what you need.’
Halloran was as good as his word and made the promised phone call. Ian Stone and his family would be under virtual house arrest for the time being. Nick made a note of the emergency email address and then left Halloran and Stone to finalise the details of their ‘deal’, while he returned with Yvonne to Bishopsgate. He found Simms and Jamie and then gathered everyone together in a vacant meeting room.
‘This is what we know,’ he began. ‘Le Roux was behind the flash crash. How he got explosives into the bank is something we don’t know, but he has people at his disposal here in England. Someone was dispatched to kill Laval at short notice, probably the same person who murdered the man in Cambridge, the man who sent the manuscript to Alexander Marsh. In fact, he must have several people in England. Someone had to place the trades on the day from an office close by, according to Ian Stone. Someone had to plant the bombs. I think we have to assume that there’s a terrorist cell, operating on his instructions. Could be right here in London.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Yvonne.
‘We check out casual office space rentals within a mile radius of the banks. Who was using them on the day of the bombings?’
‘No, that’s not it,’ said Jamie. ‘To use the high speed connection effectively, you’d need a direct link into the cable. Whoever did it must have been inside one of the banks.’
‘Even better,’ said Simms. ‘Let’s check out all the staff.’
‘Good. That’s your next job. Yvonne, help him. Can you trace this email address, Jamie?’
‘Not without an actual email sent from that address. Then, I should be able to narrow it down, to a region within a country. That’s probably as good as it gets.’
‘I don’t think Stone or Laval ever received one. I’ll find out.’
‘We didn’t find Laval’s mobile phone, or a computer,’ said Yvonne. ‘We have his mobile phone number, though. Can you pull his phone records, Jamie?’
‘Yes, but you may not get them till Monday, now.’
‘I want them today, and that staff list,’ said Nick.
‘We’d better get started, then.’
‘Do it. Let’s go to work.’
The Human Resources departments of both banks were initially reluctant, but once Halloran pulled out the stops and spoke to both Chief Executives, the staff records were made available. Nick, Yvonne and Simms spent Saturday drafting a list of people to begin interviewing on Monday, starting with anyone who had access to a trading terminal on the day of the bombings. In the meantime, Jamie started identifying names to match against the numbers on Laval’s phone record, with
the intention of running them past Ian Stone on the Sunday. If there were any irregularities, Stone should be able to point them out. He’d had no messages from the emergency email address and was quite sure Laval hadn’t either, so that line of enquiry was currently a dead end.
By 6pm, they’d done as much as they could and retired for a quick drink in the pub behind the station. Unless Jamie made a breakthrough with his visit to Ian Stone tomorrow, there was nothing else do be done until Monday morning.
Nick was enjoying a lazy Sunday at home and intended to do nothing more strenuous than cooking a roast chicken. He had it just about ready for the oven, nicely seasoned with basil and lemon, when he heard his mobile ringing in the living room.
Lauren answered, then brought the phone through to him. ‘An Inspector Shah,’ she announced.
‘Shouldn’t you be talking to Special Branch?’ asked Nick, after they’d exchanged greetings.
‘I knew you were still involved. And it’s better to talk to someone you know. You were here in Kolkata, they weren’t.’
Nick was inclined to agree with that assessment. He felt guilty for neglecting to share his information on the whereabouts of two golden lions, but it was a necessary omission, for now.
‘Abdul Hassan was foolish enough to return to Kolkata,’ said Shah. ‘We picked him up this morning.’
That had his attention. ‘Have you questioned him, yet?’
‘We have begun an interrogation. So far he claims not to know anything, other than the ship leaving Chennai was going to Crete.’
‘He must know more than that.’
‘I agree. We will learn more soon. I called to find out if there is anything you specifically want to know from him.’
Nick considered for a moment or two. He didn’t know just what form the interrogation was taking, but thought it likely that the methods involved might be less subtle than those used by the City of London Police.
‘Yes, there is something you can help with,’ he said. ‘Ask him how he remains in contact with Le Roux, and if he’s familiar with this email address.’ He quoted the address. ‘If he is, then perhaps there is something you can do for me…’
Shah said he would do as requested and call back as soon as he knew something. Nick returned to the kitchen and eyed the chicken thoughtfully. Maybe they’d just got a break.
It came sooner than expected. Nick had spent a morning interviewing a succession of traders at one of the banks’ temporary offices. The interviews consisted mostly of him asking them what they did. Had they been doing it at the time of the flash crash? Did they have any thoughts on how that might have been done? He hardly expected anyone to put up their hand and say ‘It was me, officer.’ They would all need background checks run on them regardless, this was merely an opportunity to gauge the kind of people who were working on the day and how the business worked. Such mundane knowledge might lead to something more insightful further down the line. It was tedious and only relieved by the prospect of meeting Lauren for lunch.
Jamie’s meeting with Ian Stone hadn’t produced anything, either. Yes, there were business contacts that would need to be eliminated from the enquiry, even if Stone swore blind that there was nothing dodgy about them. But nothing stood out. Jamie had reported all this first thing this morning, so Nick was surprised to see his number pop up when a call came through just prior to his lunch break.
‘This better be good, I’m just about to meet Lauren for lunch.’
‘Just had a forwarded email from your mate in Kolkata,’ said Jamie. ‘He persuaded Abdul Hassan to send an email to the address you provided, and he’s just had a reply.’
‘Can you trace it?’
‘It went through a server in Denmark. Copenhagen, to be precise. Somewhere near the Vesterbro area.’
Nick felt a surge of excitement. ‘Get Halloran to liaise with Copenhagen. Start checking surveillance video in that area and better warn them to approach Le Roux or Dajani with caution.’
‘Got it. Enjoy your lunch.’
There was no update on Le Roux over the next two days. The Danish police were co-operating and a few of their people were trawling through recent video footage of the area. All ports of exit from Denmark had been alerted. If Le Roux moved, this time they’d spot him.
When Nick attended Wednesday night class, Oyama informed him that Yoshi Mashida had sent instructions that Nick should begin formal training in swordsmanship, using both the wooden sword and the genuine model. Why Mashida should take this long distance interest in his development as a martial artist, mystified Nick. Oyama was unable, or unwilling, to shed much light on it, either.
‘You helped him in Japan, this is his way of repaying you,’ said Oyama. ‘If you are willing, then we do an extra hour after class and you come down to my place on Sundays, as often as you can.’
Nick was willing. He texted Lauren to say he’d be home later than expected. They spent the extra hour doing basic drill with the wooden sword. He noticed that his reaction time had improved by just a fraction since starting the ki exercises. As though he could read Oyama’s intentions in advance, almost. If Oyama noticed this he gave no sign of it and just pronounced himself satisfied with progress so far. It was close to 10pm when they wound up for the evening.
‘Take this with you,’ said Oyama. He handed Nick a long, slim canvas shoulder bag.
Nick took it curiously, feeling the weight. ‘I have a wooden sword at home, already.’
‘Not wood. It’s one of mine. They arrived from Japan, yesterday.’
He was astonished. ‘But this is valuable, sensei. I can’t just…’
Oyama stopped him with a look. ‘It’s important to understand the spirit of a real sword. Do some work with it at home, bring it with you when we train on Sundays. And use it with intention. When a samurai sword is drawn, it should not be sheathed again until it has tasted blood. Remember that.’
It was Sylvie Dajani they first spotted in Copenhagen, leaving a supermarket. No burka, just jeans and jacket. She was tracked to a ground floor apartment in Vesterbro and the place was put under 24 hour surveillance.
‘There’s someone in there with her, but the Danes are keeping their distance at the moment. I don’t know who else it could be, other than Le Roux,’ said Halloran, when he shared this latest news.
‘I don’t want them just getting in a car and driving off,’ said Nick. ‘Are the Danish police going in, or what?’
‘When we give them the nod. We’re waiting for Michel Bonnaire first, he wants to take them straight back to France.’
Yes, that made sense in the short term, but no doubt Special Branch and British Intelligence would also want a piece of them, and quickly.
‘I think you can safely assume we’ll have them both under lock and key tonight,’ said Halloran. ‘In fact, you should come over here when we have a definite time confirmed. The men they’re sending in will be wearing cameras. We’ll have it all on live feed.’
It was like going to the cinema. A 50 inch flat screen television had been set up in a meeting room at Special Branch. There were three rows of chairs and a table spread with bags of crisps, beer and wine. All they needed was some popcorn. When Nick and DCI Simms arrived at 11pm there were plenty of people ready to occupy those chairs, undeterred by the late hour. Nick noticed Flynn standing by the table, filling his glass and laughing at some remark the man next to him had just uttered. Halloran was jovial, too. He waved them in.
‘Midnight in Copenhagen,’ he said. ‘Grab a drink and find a space. Floor show starts in fifteen minutes.’
Nick passed on the drink. He thought about Sylvie and the two police officers she’d shot dead in Kolkata. He hoped the Danish police were going to be a little less cavalier about this arrest than their Indian counterparts had been.
The lights were dimmed at the appointed time and the TV was turned on. Halloran was seated away from everyone else, talking quietly into a mobile phone. Then they got the image, a ve
rtical split screen. It looked like they were going to see all this through two cameras, both mounted at head height on the visors of the two men wearing them. It was pitch dark, but the cameras were for night vision and the details of the apartment block in Vesterbro were clearly visible, displayed in multiple shades of green.
Both cameras were now approaching the main entrance. Then one split off and made its way round the side of the building, to the back. Halloran had told him it would be a six man team, armed with machine guns and tasers. So, presumably three at the front and three at the rear. Camera One entered the building. It moved down the hall and paused outside a door. The camera’s owner checked his watch, waiting. Ten seconds later they hit the door with a battering ram three times and then kicked it in. Shouting like banshees, the two men wielding the battering ram dropped it and ran inside, Camera One in pursuit. Camera Two’s team had the back door covered, but they were a little slow in giving it the same treatment and it was still intact.
The two men in the lead went straight into one bedroom on the left and could be heard shouting at someone. Camera One was just about to do the same with the second bedroom when the door opened and Sylvie came out, shooting. If Camera One returned fire, they didn’t hear it in London. They’d lost transmission from his feed. The back door finally yielded and the rest of the men rushed in. Someone from that team could be seen running towards the entrance door and then Camera Two focused on Camera One, whose face had been totally disfigured by a hail of bullets. The camera then swung round to pick out Le Roux, now in the living room in his underwear and supported by the two men who’d dragged him from his bed.
There were murmurs of dismay in London. People shifted in their seats. Halloran swore into the phone. There was the sound of more shots from outside, then nothing. Camera Two was out front now, tending to a team member who was down, clutching his leg. Sylvie, who had emerged wearing a tracksuit bottom and nothing else, was nowhere to be seen.
The Special Branch audience was silent.
‘She won’t get far looking like that,’ whispered Simms.
Nick wanted to believe him.
