The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  I remembered how agitated Blatchford had been when the Evening Standard had broken the news about his using insider trading to buy and sell shares, making himself a nice little pile in the process. This story was very likely to stir up more interest than that one.

  “The article’s gonna piss Blatchford off in another way as well.” He smiled and buzzed through a request for two coffees. “It’s also gonna claim he had a sweetheart deal with the MP who died the other night.”

  “Charles Garlinge,” I said.

  “Yeah, him.”

  “What do you mean, sweetheart deal?”

  “The article’s going to claim part of the deal between Krachnikhov and City Hall was a condition this Garlinge character gets a reduction on the price of the apartment he wanted to buy. He got something like ten to fifteen percent knocked off the market price, and when you’re talking about something costing a few hundred thousand, that’s a sizeable reduction.”

  Why would Blatchford be insistent upon Garlinge receiving a discount on a flat in Septimus House? Was there a connection between them I wasn’t aware of from Garlinge’s file? “Can they prove this?”

  “Jacobs says they can,” Sharone said firmly. “Says he’s seen the figures.”

  As I was thinking about this, Sharone’s secretary entered the room carrying two cups. From the aromatic aroma preceding her, this was top-quality coffee. I took a sip. It was lovely; full, dark and rich. Maybe I’ll look for a job with Lantanis after all.

  “So, there you go,” Sharone said. “Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin on Thursday.” He grinned broadly. “I’m telling you, Sally won’t be getting any Christmas cards from Blatchford after this is published. What this article’s gonna do is tip a bucket of warm horse shit all over Blatchford’s nice clean floor and invite him to step around it.”

  We sipped our coffees for a few seconds.

  “So, apart from this, what can I help y’all with?” He played up his accent.

  “While we’re on the subject, you know anything else about Krachnikhov?”

  “Yeah, quite a lot actually.” He sipped his coffee, then placed it on the coffee table. “He was involved in all kinds of businesses in mother Russia, particularly petrochemical companies involved in exploring for new oil fields. People like him and Roman Abramovich, guy who bought Chelsea, crawled out the woodwork when Communism finally collapsed in the late eighties, under the weight of its own many internal contradictions, and the whole notion of imposing a centrally planned economy finally went down the crapper because the satellite states were clamouring for independence. He was a top government official at the time, one of the committee advising the president on economic issues, and one of his briefs was to help to turn mother Russia into a capitalist economy, based on the embracing of free market principles; you know, compliance with the laws of supply and demand, sound financial control, proper bookkeeping and budgeting, stuff like that.”

  He paused. “The Russians at this time were so keen to subscribe to Western ideology about markets and finance, they were shovelling bucketloads of money at people like Krachnikhov, who was helping to distribute the finance for exploration when these enterprises wanted state funding. It’s said this is when he began diverting money away from these companies, which were being financed by the Russian exchequer, across to a bank account in Geneva, which of course the Russkies didn’t even know he had. Several years on, when the Russian government discovered a lot of money was unaccounted for, and they began to suspect Krachnikhov of embezzling, they tried to get the bank in Geneva to confirm their suspicions, but you know Swiss banks. They refused to cooperate with the Russkies, refused to confirm he had an account there or that they’d even heard of him, so nothing could be proven.” He nodded. “But a lotof Russian government money went unaccounted for, and I mean a lot, and Putin’s not exactly happy with this, which helps explain why he’s continually calling for Krachnikhov to be extradited. It’s also why Krachnikhov lives under armed guard most of the time, never goes anywhere without several bodyguards.”

  Sharone stopped and took a sip of coffee.

  “Anyway, once the Geneva account was up and running, funds were transferred from there into the account of Towerleaf Holdings, which is how he was able to buy Septimus House.” He took a longer draw on his coffee. “Actually, it’s not quite as simple as I’ve made it sound, but you’d need to be an accounts genius to completely understand how it all happened, because some of the funds from Geneva only made it into Towerleaf’s account via a circuitous route, bounced through accounts all around the world, one bank to another bank, one shell company to another. All very labyrinthine, but I’ve given you the broad strokes.”

  “He used laundered money,” I stated.

  He nodded his reply.

  Had Blatchford been aware of this? Could he and his team really not have known where Krachnikhov’s funding came from? I wondered where Charles Garlinge fitted into the picture. What could he have done to merit getting a flat at a discount from Krachnikhov? I asked how he would even have known Krachnikhov.

  “Through Bartolome Systems. Krachnikhov also has interests in the arms trade, and, yes, the article’s going to highlight this as well.”

  “Interests in what way?”

  “He’s the owner and the largest single shareholder of a Russian armaments company called Drawbridge. That’s what it translates to in English, though please don’t ask me to pronounce it in Russian.” He laughed out loud. “It’s a main supplier to the Russian army and sells weapons abroad occasionally.”

  “Does it do any business in this country?” I was curious.

  “Think it does, yeah. It definitely has a production facility here.”

  He moved across to one of his laptops and hit a few buttons on the keyboard, then peered into his screen for several seconds.

  “I was right. They’ve a few contracts with Bartolome Systems.” He grinned, sitting down again. “Bartolome and Drawbridge have been doing business for some years; they have several lucrative deals in place. That’s probably where he knows Charles Garlinge from.”

  “But how would that lead to Garlinge being offered a discount on an apartment in Septimus House?”

  “Ah, now there you’ve got me.” He spread his hands wide. “This I don’t know. But there has to be some reason why. I mean, it’s one hell of a goddamn favour, isn’t it?”

  I agreed it was. This was something to check out. “Has Drawbridge done any other business over here?”

  “Not so we know of. Bartolome’s the only one so far as I’m aware.”

  I finished my coffee thinking about what Sharone had just mentioned. Why would James Blatchford, a merchant banker in his pre-mayoral life, someone who clearly knew the financial world, choose to do business with someone as seemingly financially disreputable as Yuri Krachnikhov?

  “Anyway, you still haven’t told me what you’re here for,” Sharone observed wryly.

  Almost fifteen minutes in the office and we’d not discussed the reason for my visit.

  “Yeah, that’s true. I’m looking for info about a company in the arms trade.”

  “It probably makes and sells weapons. Anything else?” he replied instantly with a big grin. “No, seriously, what are you specifically interested in?”

  I asked if I could speak candidly and count on his secrecy regarding anything he heard. He agreed. I began by asking if he knew anything specific about an Italian arms manufacturer called Bozetti.

  He started to laugh almost before I’d finished asking the question.

  “The arms trade’s a morality-free zone; that’s the first thing you need to know. Along with pharmaceuticals, it’s one of the industries where you have to leave any principles you have outside the door when you report for work in the morning if you expect to survive.”

  He was sounding like Nick Graves.

  He looked directly at me. “I’m serious, man. Any government promising to conduct its foreign policy based on ethi
cal considerations and respect for human rights” – there was scorn in his voice – “is deluding itself, not to mention the electorate, because it depends on arms companies to supply military hardware to its armies, and these firms are motivated purely by bottom-line considerations. Very few arms deals, if any, ever go through without bribery being involved on both sides, especially in Middle Eastern countries like Saudi. God almighty, dealing with certain countries in that part of the world’s like jumping into a pool filled with piranha fish and hoping they don’t bite.” He nodded knowingly, then walked back to his desk and drew his laptop towards him. “My area of expertise isn’t arms companies, but my friend upstairs, Trish, Jacobs’ lady, monitors them, and we can each access the other’s data.”

  He typed something in and a series of pages of information appeared. He spent several seconds scanning the information on his screen.

  “Hmm, interesting,” he muttered, then logged off and sat down opposite me again. “What did I just tell you about being morality-free?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Italian security AISE’s been monitoring Bozetti for some little while now. From what I’ve just read, AISE’s speculation is its home-grown Italian terrorist outfit Red Heaven has been getting its weapons through this firm.”

  “Really?” This surprised me.

  “What it says here,” he affirmed. “The report I just looked at says a significant Red Heaven cell was broken up by Italian security a few months ago, several arrests made, and they found a sizeable weapons cache, rifles and other stuff, and all manufactured by Bozetti. From the serial numbers, it seems these were meant for somewhere else, though the report doesn’t say who or where. But, whatever, Italian security’s convinced it’s put quite a spoke in Red Heaven’s wheel by cutting off its flow of weaponry. And, if this is the case, they’ll have to take their chances with the black market.”

  A sudden thought flashed through my brain. Could this be the reason why Michael Mendoccini was back in the country: trying to arrange for another source of weaponry? If Red Heaven currently has no operations planned, one reason could be because the flow of essential resources like weaponry had dried up, so another source would be a necessity. Was Mendoccini here trying to arrange for this? He’d phoned me Friday evening, saying he’d already been in the country a week and was only here for a couple more days. Did this mean he’d already done what he came here to do? But this was definitely not a reason I’d approve of. Also, how would this involve someone we both know?

  “Sounds to me like someone inside Bozetti’s amenable to bribery.” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke.

  We talked a little longer, but I’d learnt all I was going to. It was enough.

  *

  “The thinking is the cause of death was an arterial air embolism.”

  I was back in Smitherman’s office, and he was looking at a report he’d just been given.

  “What’s one of those?” I was about to ask if this was one of those helicopters which ferried injured people to hospital from major accident scenes on motorways. Smitherman, though, didn’t look to be in the mood for levity. But then, when did he ever?

  “I told you about the medic who was concerned about the cause of death, didn’t I? She ran a microscopic examination of the body’s surface. That’s when she discovered a minute puncture mark in the skin of Garlinge’s left arm, so small she almost missed it. His medical records didn’t suggest any reason he might have had an injection, so, given the nature of the trauma his heart suffered, and the fact there were no traces of poisons in his body, her theory is enough air was injected into his veins to make his heart react adversely. The air in the veins causes a blockage and starves the heart of blood, but it’s subtle enough to make his death appear to be from natural causes, without arousing too much suspicion.”

  I took a deep breath. I was imagining the panic Garlinge must have experienced as he’d been injected, which had probably helped to accelerate his heart rate, which made him panic further. It was an awful way to die. “So it’s now a murder inquiry.”

  “It is, but an unofficial one.”

  I thought about what Smitherman had just said for a number of seconds. Garlinge had to have known the person who’d injected him because the assailant would have needed to get right up close. This meant it had to be someone he not only knew, but also trusted.

  “It’s quite a sophisticated method of taking someone out, isn’t it?” I asked. “Whoever did this was clearly skilled enough to inject Garlinge and instigate a heart attack without arousing much suspicion.”

  “Could be. The puncture mark the medic found was very tiny – the human eye couldn’t possibly detect it – so whoever did this must have used something like the kind of insulin needle diabetics use. Interestingly, there were no clothing fibres found around the puncture mark, so Garlinge must have had his jacket sleeve pushed up.”

  Did this mean whoever had met Garlinge had forced him to do this? “Any suspects?”

  “None so far. Hertfordshire police have examined all CCTV footage from around his area, checking on all cars seen last Saturday night, seeing if any are known to us, also looking at all pedestrian movements around his area. The local Neighbourhood Watch people are due to make their records available to police sometime today when whoever was on duty Saturday evening gets back from work.” He sighed.

  Garlinge’s wife had told police she’d heard people talking sometime just after midnight, so someone had to have been waiting for him when he’d returned home. The driver didn’t see anyone, but then he wouldn’t have been looking, and anyone waiting would be out of sight.

  I then gave Smitherman an account of what I’d been doing over the past twenty-four hours, who I’d talked to and what I’d heard, though, of course, I omitted the fact I’d met with Richard Clements earlier. This was a complication I could do without.

  “The visit to Bozetti’s the interesting point, I think,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “The delegation visited Bozetti once, yet, next day, Garlinge goes back on his own. Why’d he do it? This wouldn’t be part of why he was there, would it?”

  “I don’t know. See what you can find out.”

  *

  I returned to Bartolome’s London office in High Holborn and asked to speak to a senior manager. The same cheerful receptionist I’d seen two days back took me to the office of Peter Rivers, who I was told was something to do with promoting European sales.

  I identified myself as I sat. I commiserated with Rivers about Garlinge’s demise. He nodded and said he knew who he was, but didn’t really know him as a person.

  “Last year Charles Garlinge visited Bozetti in Italy,” I began. “You know the firm?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “We do business with them.”

  “We know he was there with a delegation from Parliament, but might he also have been there on Bartolome business?”

  “He wouldn’t have been, no.” He sounded definite, shaking his head firmly. “He left the firm over a year ago, once he became an MP. He’s still a shareholder as well as a non-executive director, and he attended our AGM a few months back, but he’s no longer an employee, so he’d not have visited Bozetti on Bartolome business.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Definitely sure. All European business is done through me and I can tell you straight up, if he did visit Bozetti, it wasn’t on our behalf.”

  This was interesting as, last night, Paula Jeffries had told me Garlinge had gone to Italy at Bartolome’s behest, and they’d even paid for the visit.

  I asked if Ian Harper was on the premises, but was told he’d called in sick today and would be back in the office tomorrow.

  *

  What did I know so far? What had I learnt since last Friday, when Smitherman had asked me to look into allegations of involvement in bribery made by Armswatch against a sitting MP?

  I’d been assured by Armswatch they’d received
documentation implicating Charles Garlinge, a sitting MP, in bribing and receiving bribes from overseas buyers. The minutes of board meetings, plus the verified accounts they were in possession of, appeared to suggest that corrupt business practices were integral to Bartolome Systems’ business model. I’d not seen any of their evidence, but Armswatch was clearly confident about what they had. Graves had told me they were prepared to go public with what they knew. Were they still prepared now Garlinge was dead?

  This, on its own, was serious enough. But, when I’d asked him about this, Garlinge himself hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to deny any involvement in what was alleged, and he’d emphasised that, in the real world, legality often took a back seat, if I knew what he meant.

  I’d had it confirmed, from conversations with Neville Thornwyn, a one-time associate of top management at Bartolome, and Edward Priestly, an ex-senior manager at the company, that Bartolome maintained a slush fund to pay bribes from. Priestly had even given me an example of how money to be used for surreptitious purposes could be moved, using Bartolome and Byzantium’s trading links to transfer large cash sums they wanted to hide. Slush funds aren’t exactly like the petty cash drawer, either. There’s only one reason to operate such a fund.

  I also knew weapons manufactured by Bartolome, under licence from Bozetti, had ended up in Burundi rather than Italy, and an American news team on the ground had found the weapons used by Burundian soldiers to shoot and kill over forty pro-democracy demonstrators had recently been manufactured by a Western European arms company. Armswatch was also claiming that Garlinge had received payments from Ibrahim Mohammed as a result of the contract negotiations which had produced this scenario, which hadn’t been declared on the register of MPs’ interests.