The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  “You mean it was Sir Paul Peterson saying this to you?”

  “Yes, it was him.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about this?”

  “Absolutely sure,” he agreed, nodding.

  What would be Sir Paul’s take on this?

  *

  I was back in Sir Paul Peterson’s Holborn office. He’d moved from behind his desk to sit in a small armchair by the glass-topped coffee table. I stood by the table.

  “Why do you need to see me again, detective?” He looked quite relaxed, as though the events of the past few weeks had washed over him. “I was under the impression I’d told you what you wanted to know last week.”

  “Not quite everything. What do you know about a Gibraltar-based firm, Cartillian?”

  “Cartillian,” he echoed.

  I nodded.

  He sat quietly for several seconds, part looking at me, part looking beyond me. “You remember what I said to you last week, when we spoke in my flat, and I told you why I’d leaked those documents to Armswatch?”

  I indicated I remembered. He was quiet for several more seconds.

  “Cartillian’s a repository where firms in the arms business, like ours, deposited the money they used to secure orders in a way the shareholders wouldn’t necessarily approve of.”

  “You mean bribes,” I said.

  “Exactly right, detective,” he agreed. “Obviously, it can’t be done openly; the financial records have to show something different.” He shrugged calmly. “So we paid our money into Cartillian, and it was distributed to whoever by Ibrahim Mohammed. I mean, it’s his company, after all.”

  “His company?” I’d been told it’d been set up by Blatchford.

  “Oh yes,” he said calmly. “But, the thing is, he used it for so much more than just this. He was involved in arms smuggling, making sure groups who couldn’t get weapons legitimately could acquire them. This’s another reason why I leaked the info to Armswatch, because Charles was involved in helping him.”

  “Which is how weapons ended up in Burundi,” I stated formally.

  “Correct.”

  “Did you know this at the time?”

  “No, I didn’t. I knew the basics of what Cartillian was about; I mean, obviously I did. But I wasn’t aware it had other functions until much later on.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Charles told me – quite open about it, he was – told me what Ibrahim Mohammed was up to with Cartillian. That’s why firms like ours use Mohammed; he knows who gets what and where it gets paid. That’s also why the Government agreed to him setting it up in the first place; they thought he was helping them because we used him.”

  I was absorbing what I’d just heard. I must have looked surprised.

  “Didn’t you know the Government’s involved?” he asked.

  “No, I didn’t. I thought Cartillian was a private enterprise thing.”

  “Oh no, no, no.” He shook his head. “Dear Lord, no, our government’s involved, as is the Italian government because they have an interest in closing down Red Heaven.”

  I was surprised by what I’d been told. “So, Government here must have known about Mohammed for some time.”

  “Good Lord, yes.” He smiled like it was common knowledge. “Operations like this don’t just happen; they have to be backed so there’s a get-out-of-jail card if it all goes kaput, as it did in this case.”

  He sat quietly for several seconds, nodding to himself.

  “We found out later Bozetti was simply being used as cover. There never was any intent to supply Bozetti when the contract was offered to us. This was a deal where Bozetti’s name was used for cover; the weapons we manufactured were bound for Burundi right from the outset. More of Ibrahim Mohammed’s dealings.”

  “And Garlinge knew this,” I offered.

  “Oh, really, detective.” He smiled and shook his head. “Of course he did. He took the money to look the other way, but in doing this he also helped sabotage an operation AISE had going with MI6. They were after one of the top men in Red Heaven, someone they’ve both wanted for years, but Garlinge’s actions ensured whoever it was they were after slipped away and they didn’t get him.”

  As he spoke, I was wondering if this was the reason Garlinge had made an unaccompanied visit to Bozetti when he’d gone to Italy with the Parliamentary trade delegation earlier this year. “How’d he manage this?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Anyway, when I learnt about this, I decided to do something about it.”

  I knew what he meant. “So you—”

  “Yes.” He leapt straight in. “I leaked all the information to Armswatch, hoping they’d publish it, make Charles out to be the crook he is. I knew the Government wasn’t going to do anything, so what I was hoping was that these details in the press would lead to him being arrested, but sadly they didn’t. They tried to press him to resign his seat instead, but someone as vain as Charles Garlinge was never going to do this.” He shrugged. “So, as I said last week, after the injunction, I decided to go see Graves.”

  I knew what had happened afterwards.

  He looked around the room for a few moments, like he was trying to place something. “Anyway, all this won’t be my problem soon.” He gave me a significant look. “MI5’s been in to see me, and, as a consequence, I’ll soon be announcing my retirement from the company. I’ve been advised to. They told me, you step down, you’ll not be prosecuted for industrial espionage and breaches of the Official Secrets Act, and I get to keep my pension. They know what I did, you see; they knew it was me who’d set the events of the last week or so in motion.”

  I didn’t respond. In one way he was getting off lightly.

  “Of course, my case was helped by the article in last week’s Standard magazine. Charles didn’t exactly come out of it smelling like a rose, did he?” He smiled. “And since then, all these other revelations have surfaced, so, if my intent was to ensure Charles didn’t get away with what he did, seems I succeeded. They also told me Charles had been murdered, though I suspect you already knew this when we spoke last week.” He raised his eyebrows nonchalantly, as if asking a question.

  I stood up, not responding to what he said. He took that as a confirmation.

  “Do you know who killed him?” he asked casually.

  “I don’t, no,” I lied. “Do you?”

  “No, but I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever it was, I’d like to shake his bloody hand.”

  *

  Working at my desk early afternoon I received a text from Taylor, telling me I might want to look at what the Evening Standard was going to be publishing later today. I replied with a like what? only to receive the response it’ll ruin the surprise!

  I picked up a paper to read on the bus back to Battersea. The story Taylor had referenced was prominently displayed on the front page. The headline stated Charles Garlinge had previously covered up the unlawful actions of the son of the man who’d given him a discount on his flat. The name Krachnikhov was mentioned, though not Alecks. Whilst it was suggested there’d been no intent to kill, the article expressed the feeling the son had evaded justice. Alecks Krachnikhov was no longer in the country, and I was hoping he’d been made aware of this publication.

  A separate story on the third page referenced troubled arms manufacturer Bartolome Systems having come very close to going out of business around a year ago, when only behind-the-scenes action by the Government and the commercial banks, in the form of a major financial package, had prevented the company’s collapse. Whoever had given this story to the paper had provided copious details of the financial rescue, and some of the figures mentioned were colossal. This was very likely to lead to political ructions as the rescue had never been made public, and what Government had done violated several sections of European Union law. I wondered who’d leaked the story.

  F I F T E E N

  Saturday

  I was in the same coffee shop at the corner of Brook Street
and New Bond Street where I’d previously met the person I was now waiting for. On the way into work earlier, I’d had an idea and made a phone call. The person I’d been hoping to talk to had been in her office and had readily agreed to meet up with me again.

  I looked up just as Victoria Sacchialli walked in. It was dress-down Saturday, but she still turned a few heads in a smart sweater and well-tailored, hand-stitched jeans that fitted her perfectly. We ordered coffees and exchanged a few pleasantries; she told me that, before she’d come, she’d contacted Christine Simmons, who’d said it would be appropriate to talk to me. Eventually we reached the reason I was here.

  “Why do you need to talk to me again?” she asked pleasantly.

  “It’s like this. What does your section know about a firm based in Gibraltar, called Cartillian?” After what Sir Paul had told me yesterday I was curious to find out what she knew about the situation.

  She sipped her coffee, looking quizzically at me over her glasses for several seconds. “We know about Cartillian, and we have an interest in it. Our main interest, though, is in the man who controls it with the connivance of your government. He’s the one we keep our eyes upon.”

  “Is this person anyone we know?” I tentatively asked.

  “I think you know of him.” She smiled. “His name’s Ibrahim Mohammed. He seems to be the main person. It’s through him things do or do not happen. He’s the one I most want to see behind bars, but we can’t make a move against him at present.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he has the backing of your government.” She sounded like she didn’t approve of this arrangement. “They know what he does, but they do little to stop him. We believe it was through his interference the person we most wanted from Red Heaven was able to escape, his and Charles Garlinge’s. As I think I mentioned last time, Garlinge was doing something for your MI6, but it appeared his loyalties were divided, and you know what followed from this, don’t you?”

  I did. “How’d they escape?”

  She shook her head. I didn’t press the matter.

  “Our government has made representations to yours and asked to have Ibrahim Mohammed arrested,” she said, “but they won’t agree to this, saying he’s too important.”

  “I’ve a source says the government here’s looking into Ibrahim Mohammed.”

  “That could be, but only because he plays both sides against each other. He has survived in a cut-throat world as long as he has because he knows too much about too many people. He knows things your government would not want known.”

  I was about to ask something, but she astounded me with her next comment.

  “Like what happened in Bujumbura, for example.” She sipped her coffee and nodded knowingly.

  I knew what had happened there. What did she mean? I asked her the question.

  “We now know the weapons made by Bartolome Systems were not going to Bozetti. They never were. Bozetti had just agreed to let their name be used, so an export licence could be obtained. Mohammed had made a special arrangement with the Burundian government for the shipment to go there instead. There’s an arms embargo on them, so subterfuge is the only way they get weapons for their army. Mohammed arranged it all through Cartillian.”

  “And you’re saying the UK government knew about this?” I was perplexed.

  “This is what I’m saying. No, of course they didn’t know they were going to be used in a massacre; no Western government, not even the French, would agree to this.” She smiled. “But they knew the arms were going to Burundi.”

  “And did Charles Garlinge know this?” I had to know.

  “He knew this. He helped in the negotiations,” she stated with certainty. “Mohammed and Garlinge met with the Burundis in Gibraltar, in Cartillian’s office.”

  This would be sensational were it to be known. A Government MP helping to arm a nation on an arms embargo? Government knowing about arms being diverted to Burundi when the minister had signed off on the End User Certificate as being for an Italian company? Taylor, Jacobs and Clements would all happily sacrifice limbs to be in possession of a story like this.

  We sat quietly for several seconds, sipping our coffees, whilst I absorbed what I’d heard.

  “And you think this might have got Garlinge killed,” I offered.

  “We think he was killed because he was involved in other things as well. I no longer think he died at Red Heaven’s hand. We now believe he was killed for another reason.”

  I sat expectantly, waiting for her to continue.

  “We believe he double-crossed someone powerful and lost his life as a result of this.”

  “Do I get to know this person’s name?” I asked.

  “I think you know who already. You’ve even been to see him, have you not?” She smiled at me. “And now he’s no longer in the country, he’s beyond your jurisdiction.”

  I thought for a few seconds. “Alecks Krachnikhov.”

  She smiled, nodded and sipped her coffee.

  How did she know I’d been to see him? I asked the question, but she shook her head slowly, smiling all the while.

  “This is all I can tell you,” she said. “We have evidence we offered to your people to help in his arrest, but MI5 refused to accept it. Our belief is they have something going with his father, which is why they don’t want to move against Alecks Krachnikhov. And, of course, now he’s in Dubai . . .”

  She raised her eyebrows and didn’t finish the sentence. I knew what she meant. Even if MI5 accepted the evidence, we couldn’t extradite him from Dubai. He was away, in the clear.

  We sat silently for a few moments. I finished my coffee.

  “There’re other things about Cartillian as well,” she said. “Money gets laundered through it, arms destined for the black market get bought and sold through it. All kinds of nasty deals get done there. Yuri Krachnikhov used its facilities to clean the money he bought that building with not too long ago. Your Mayor of London knew this. He’s now under arrest, I believe.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I agreed.

  *

  “So, what’s to stop me arresting Ibrahim Mohammed next time he sets foot in Heathrow airport?”

  “And charging him with what?” Smitherman replied. “We’ve no concrete evidence of anything he’s done. We know what he’s done, of course we do, but proving it in a court of law?”

  I was in Smitherman’s office. I’d mentioned talking to a source about Cartillian and, in particular, the role played by Ibrahim Mohammed, and learning the business was actually his, so I was uncertain where the UK government fitted into this as I’d been told differently. I’d also mentioned that there’d been evidence offered against Alecks Krachnikhov for killing Charles Garlinge, but it had been refused by the security service.

  Smitherman sat and looked at me for a long few seconds. I was trying to guess what he was thinking from the expression on his face.

  “Where did you all hear this, anyway?” he asked.

  “From a source.”

  “Can I be so bold as to ask who this person is?” he enquired in a pleasant tone.

  I didn’t reply. I was within my rights under operating procedure to do this. Unless my silence meant I was obscuring a tangible threat to state security, I was on safe ground. Smitherman was a police officer of thirty years plus. He knew this. He would understand my reasoning for withholding a name.

  “I see,” he said, after a moment. He sat motionless for a few seconds, weighing up the words he was about to use. “Well, what you’re not going to do is include any of this in your report. What you’ve just told me doesn’t leave this room, and you don’t commit it to paper. If you’ve already written it down, delete it. You’ll tell nobody what you’ve just told me. We’ve signed off on the case; the matter’s closed. The security service is apprised of the situation, and it’s their case now. This matter’s far too sensitive to be discussed in public. There are things going on behind the scenes which simply mustn’t come to light. Have
I made myself clear?”

  I nodded my assent. I wasn’t happy with it, but, for the moment, this was it.

  “So, what exactly does Ibrahim Mohammed do for the Government?” I asked. “What’s his role? Is he on the Government payroll? I thought he worked in the private sector.”

  Smitherman didn’t speak for a moment. “That’s too complex a question at this time, and I’m not sure I’m authorised to answer it, so, for the moment, we’re finished here.”

  His expression changed. “And,” he said rather sternly as I stood, “you’re not going to tell your wife anything about this either. If anything relating to this appears in the Evening Standard next week . . .” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. From his tone and expression, I could see the velvet glove but knew there was an iron fist inside. “One word about any of this in the paper and Stimpson will know who leaked it.”

  “She’s a journalist; she has sources of her own,” I said.

  “No doubt, but Stimpson won’t see it that way.” He gave me the look which said you can read between lines, can’t you?

  “Why does this not surprise me?”

  *

  I finished my report, adding it to what had been written last week, stating for the record I was certain of the identity of Garlinge’s killer but was unable to bring the person to answer charges and to stand trial, and omitting what Smitherman had told me to. The case wouldn’t be closed officially but, with little chance of any other outcome, we were going nowhere.

  I’d nothing else pressing, so I decided to sign out early. I’d meet Taylor somewhere and we could go for an early evening drink.

  As I was logging off I was aware of a presence in my peripheral vision approaching my desk from behind. I looked up, expecting Smitherman, only to be confronted by the sight of Colonel Peter Stimpson. He was looking almost benign.

  “Good afternoon, detective,” he began. “You were briefed by Commander Smitherman earlier today, I gather?” He said this in an amiable fashion.

  “Yes, sir, I was,” I agreed.

  “So we’ll see no mention of this matter in the newspapers next week, will we?” He smiled.