“The shrieks of sirens after bombs had struck, the predictability of the bombs. So much violence ready to erupt for little reason, it becomes part of who you are, you don’t even – well, notice it.”
A long, drawn silence elapsed before Henry continued.
“My mother and I were on the street that day, why? I don’t know, she never said. Anyhow, miraculously, we survived.”
“Are you angry?” asked Nancy.
“Wouldn’t you be?” replied Henry, without hesitation.
“Yes, I was angry too, for different reasons but yes, I understand that sort of anger well.”
“Are you still angry?”
Henry could not imagine Nancy being anything but charming and relaxed. Yet behind her eyes was a light that sometimes lit up. He had seen it when they were both at Scotland Yard.
“Not anymore, I have made my peace with what was eating me alive,” she said, serene, “and so should you. Late thirties is the right time to start letting go.”
“Maybe. I will have to think about it,” said Henry. Anger had filled him with energy for success. He was not prepared to yet let go of such a potent fuel.
“Was your father IRA?” Nancy had suddenly changed tack.
The question surprised Henry by its directness, but then again, she knew nothing yet of his complex links with the O’Connor brothers.
“I am not sure. If he was he never said. Anyway, it is irrelevant now. He died many years ago. It was not the cause that killed him but the bottle.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I was young when it happened. It belongs to another life.”
“What about you Henry, are you IRA?”
Henry opened his eyes wide and roared with laughter, shaking his head.
“Nancy, I know you are my brief but I am not sure what you expect me to say to that?” He was still grinning at the question.
“The truth, of course,” said Nancy in complete focus. Henry’s face fell a little.
“If you are referring to my friendship with the O’Connors, yes I knew them as kids and Liam and I went to uni at the same time. Bobby was older.”
“Did you know they were involved?”
“It always was a hot topic of conversation with them, although Liam has been much more, let’s say, conciliatory of late. Bobby has been a staunch follower of Gerry Adams from the time he discovered who Adams was. However, I am sure you have read the news. The IRA has been decommissioned.”
“So, you are Catholic Irish, on your father’s side,” continued Nancy.
“Yep, my lass,” replied Henry in an Irish accent. “Although a little complicated by the fact that my mother was Anglican and in charge of my education.”
“Henry, your life is so different now. What keeps you close to these guys?” Nancy asked with genuine interest.
“I have asked myself that question many a time. Maybe old bonds don’t die so easily. I don’t really know, Nancy,” carried on Henry after a while. “We did some silly things together when we were kids. You know, boys stuff. We looked after each other even more so after our fathers died. To them I was not an English brat, the invader that deserved to die. I was their friend.”
Memories of his past propelled Henry back to the Troubles. Some lads at school have started calling him names, one spits in his face and soon he is on the ground fighting. The whole class is ready to join in but Liam interferes. Bobby, always ready to throw a punch even at eight, savages the most vicious of the boys whilst Liam issues his warning: you mess with Henry, you mess with us.
Henry inhaled and the memory faded away.
“Mmmm,” Nancy said “I am not sure this explanation is going to wash with Inspector Pole.”
“Possibly not but it will have to do. In any case I hardly see Liam these days and never Bobby.”
Nancy looked at her watch, the conversation was over.
“A final cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Now, let me do that one. I do a mean cup of instant coffee,” replied Henry with enthusiasm.
Nancy looked at him in horror. He had pronounced the forbidden word instant. Henry clapped his hands and with a wink continued, “Got you there ... Just kidding, let me make a proper cup of well brewed Jamaican coffee.”
Nancy face relaxed slightly, still not entirely convinced that Henry’s standard of well brewed coffee was up to hers.
* * *
Ted looked at his watch and made his way to McCarthy’s office. As usual he would be too early. Cindy saw him step outside the lift and sigh. When would he ever learn?
She indicated to him with a short wave of the hand that he had to wait a few minutes. She was on the phone to New York. Ted made his usual gesture of apology and stepped into the visitors’ waiting room. He stood in front of a print, depicting the image of an androgynous man. The picture was a William Blake and featured as one of GL’s most impressive pieces of art. He read the text yet again, as he always did, a form of symbolist poetry which still eluded him.
“Mr McCarthy will see you now,” Cindy said formally.
Cindy always referred to McCarthy by his surname, preserving the distance a CEO should have with his people. Only a few direct reports enjoyed the privilege of having her refer to him as Douglas. Henry had been one of those people. He was a rising star who would have eventually been elevated to a position as high as that of McCarthy. Ted was a different kettle of fish. But today, as he was about to enter the CEO’s office, Ted looked like a puffed-up sparrow, lots of feathers and very little weight. Cindy walked past him, did not knock at the door in her usual way and introduced Ted. McCarthy did not move. He carried on reading an email.
“I spoke to James,” said McCarthy, now typing his reply.
Ted was standing in the middle of the room not knowing whether he should approach the great desk or simply take a seat at the meeting table.
“Oh good,” he hesitated.
“Did you have another conversation with Scotland Yard?”
“Yes,” mumbled Ted.
McCarthy was waiting.
“They want more information,” said Ted.
His stomach did a somersault, in fear of the old man’s reaction.
“Not surprising,” replied McCarthy.
He stood up and moved towards the meeting table at which point Ted sat down.
“Have you prepared the next set of information needed?” asked McCarthy as he sat down himself.
“Well, I thought we could have a conversation about this, maybe.”
McCarthy gave Ted a cruel look.
“Do I have to dictate the numbers to you or will you be able to cope on your own? Should I ask someone else to deal with this?”
“No, no. I can cope, I just need general direction,” replied Ted.
Their eyes met and Ted was doomed. The young man had crossed the threshold whence one does not return. There would be no further heart-aching questions. He would now simply think about how to execute the task with ruthless efficiency. Thoughts of Henry, his colleague, his friend, had stopped haunting him. He had tasted real power and it was good.
McCarthy and Ted spent a few minutes on what McCarthy expected and then Ted was gone.
Walking out of his office after Ted had left, McCarthy turned to Cindy.
“No calls or meetings for the next hour. Reschedule. I need to think.”
Cindy nodded. Nothing and no one would cross the threshold to his office for the next hour.
McCarthy went back to his desk, unlocked a drawer with a key permanently kept on his own key ring and pulled out an unlabelled file. McCarthy took a deep breath. The contents of this file were only known to him and the head of the CDO team. What it contained was capable, even after all these years, of taking his breath away. He had not checked the latest figures. McCarthy did not bother to consider the rows of numbers and the text that justified the findings contained in the document. He jumped straight to the aggregated figures, one indicating the current loss on the portion of C
DOs GL had kept on its books. The second was an estimation of the potential loss going forward should the subprime markets not stabilise. The second figure was accompanied by a number of scenarios. The first figure was already very alarming. McCarthy paused. In his entire career he had never considered bankruptcy of a financial institution the size of GL, a bank of such stature simply could not disappear the way Bankers Trust did. He clenched his fist, his mind racing to find a way out of this predicament. It was then that the second number hit him, $31 billion. He pushed his chair back in horror. He was speechless. He came back to his desk and muttered to himself.
“Who the fuck chose the parameters for this set of projections?”
Still standing, he read the figures again and again, as reality slowly and inexorably began to sink in. Were the markets to move down again, there would be no salvation. McCarthy went back to the text and speed read the content. The complexity of the subprime products that had been designed by his team eluded him but the equation that could cost GL bankruptcy was simple. The level of risk that GL had retained with its CDO business grossly miscalculated. Even the AAA tranches, reputed to be the most solid part of the CDOs’ tranches were collapsing. The rating agencies had cocked up, the regulator had cocked up, and his senior team in risk management had cocked up. No one had checked the content of what they were selling.
McCarthy sat down slowly, the battles of the past few days now taking their toll. He had to make the call.
Chapter Sixteen
The background checks on Brett Allner-Smith confirmed Pole’s suspicions. The suave English gentleman hid well the ruthless dealer. Pole smiled into a stretch, his arms folded behind his head. In a strange way, Henry Crowne had met his match in the antiquities world. A number of deals had been questioned – the value given to certain ‘priceless’ objects, the authentication of a variety of pieces. There was never enough evidence to conclude that there had been foul play. Allner-Smith, although sailing close to the wind, knew how to protect his rear end. Pole had called in a specialist from another squad so that he could understand the level of sophistication such a fraud would demand.
Eugene Grandel had worked some of Allner-Smith cases. He was, for his part, convinced that something was afoot.
“This guy is incapable of being completely straight.”
“Not surprised. Anyhow tell me more about this chap.”
“Smooth operator extremely knowledgeable and connected. If I were a betting man I’d say secret services of some sort. The little git gets himself out of the tightest of spots.” Eugene lifted his hands before Pole could ask for more. “Don’t ask me to substantiate – can’t. Just the view of an old copper but one thing I can definitely say – can’t keep it in his pants. He has a soft spot for the ladies, young ladies.”
“How young?”
“Young enough,” added Eugene.
Eugene gave Pole a naughty grin and raised his eyebrows.
“How far would he go for money?” continued Pole.
“Very good question.”
Eugene crossed his arms and rested his head on his chest. He looked at Pole.
“Murder? Yes, possibly but it would have to be sophisticated.”
“Really?” said Pole unconvinced.
“No direct involvement, as I said, but he could be the mastermind. He could manipulate, in fact, come to think of it he would enjoy manipulating. There is a case,” he continued, now following his own trail of thoughts, “Might be helpful. Let me come back to you on this.”
Eugene walked away, promising Pole more information and soon.
Pole was alone in his office having refused his team’s invite for a break. He needed time to reflect. Henry no longer remained the only suspect. And then some disturbing information had arrived on his desk exposing Anthony Albert’s transaction pipeline. Albert was involved in the structuring of subprime products. Pole had just started scratching the surface of what Albert was up to at work. There were rumours of enormous deals being closed and astronomical sums of money being made. A billion dollars had been mentioned as the average size for a transaction.
The AVERAGE size – these guys have really lost the plot.
Now Pole had two key targets in mind. He wanted to hear what Liam O’Connor had to say about his friend Henry Crowne. The police in Northern Ireland had been informed and were on his trail. Liam was a smart operator, it may take some time. Pole also wanted to speak to Albert’s solicitor. The will would be open and read – soon. Pole would arrange for a sneak preview. Still, Pole was not satisfied. Something else was afoot and he had not yet found out what. He was deep in thought, creating a picture of all that he knew when Nurani knocked at the door. Without waiting for a response she poked her head through the door.
“The guys in Ireland have traced Liam O’Connor,” she announced, excited at the thought of meeting her first IRA sympathiser.
“Good work!” said Pole. “That is a bit of luck. Any details on how it happened?”
“He was trying to get out of Switzerland.”
“And going to?” asked Pole whose interest had been piqued by the location.
“North Africa, Libya to be more precise.”
“Where did they pick him up?”
“Zurich Airport,” replied Nurani. “Big banking there. Any coincidence?”
“That would be a very big coincidence,” said Pole stretching his arms wide. “How quickly are they going to extradite him?”
“Pretty quickly. I think he should be home tomorrow. The Swiss are keen on banking secrecy but not so much so on terrorism. This is happening as we speak.”
“OK. Get two tickets to Belfast, we are paying our friend a visit,” said Pole.
“Yes Boss,” saluted Nurani.
Pole rolled his eyes. She grinned before disappearing. He settled down, immersing himself once more in the files piled on his desk.
* * *
Henry was back in his flat with a long list of to-dos. Nancy had focused his attention on the task. She hoped the exercise would be long and tedious enough to prevent Henry from contacting GL again.
Nancy for her part needed to follow one of her hunches. She had stored her own to-dos in the back of her mind as methodically as she used to when a barrister. Old habits die hard, she smiled inwardly, surprised at the speed at which the dormant QC had resurfaced in her. Her reputation had been built on the sagacity of her observation, her phenomenal determination. She never spoke about her other weapon – intuition. Not to be discussed in this male dominated profession, they may have called her a witch. But she had learned to listen to her inner voice. That voice had made itself louder during the day.
She grabbed her lime green coat, stuffed a pad into her matching handbag and rushed out. She looked at her watch. She had some time. The library on Russell Square would not be shutting yet. Before hailing a cab, she cast an eye towards Henry’s window. The light was on. She derived some comfort from it. He was doing his homework, maybe? She pushed that idea aside to concentrate on the task at hand.
The library was slowly emptying. It was much more functional than she remembered, PCs everywhere. Still the smell of books lingered, sweet and subtle. One of the librarians had been particularly helpful. She sat in front of the oldest PC in the room, letters almost erased by so many eager fingers. She started scrolling through old newspapers. She remembered the tedium of perusing the press for information. This was so much easier and yet she had enjoyed the feel of the pages unfolding beneath her fingers.
Nancy had reached the year 1992. She had a date in mind, 10th of April of the same year. The date the last IRA bomb had killed in the City of London was linked in her mind to a face and a name: Jonathan Pole.
The search engine threw a number of newspaper articles onto the page. Nancy skimmed them; The Times, the FT, The Daily Telegraph and finally the Evening Standard. Here it was, a large front-page article describing the bombing, accusing the Met and the Counterterrorist Squad of poor communication. The article w
as condemning the lack of efficacy of both forces for failing to anticipate, despite a serious but last-minute tip-off, the blast. The same article showed a picture of a young police officer fielding the press as best he could. A much younger Inspector Pole was looking straight at Nancy with a serious look in his eyes. Nancy smiled at the young man. He looked rather dashing, she thought. But no flirting with the enemy or at least not yet.
The printer spewed two copies of the various articles. She grabbed them and made her way to the coffee shop. The library would close in one hour and was already completely deserted. She ordered Darjeeling in a proper teacup and was pleased to discover that the old crockery had not been replaced. Nancy chose a deep chair and settled in to reread the news articles. The IRA bomb had cost three lives. The usual IRA message had been sent to the Met only thirty minutes before the blast. Slow communication between the Met and the Counterterrorist Squad had been blamed for the tragedy. Pole looked ill at ease in this bad picture of him. The article presented him as a spokesperson for the Met, the liaison officer with the CT Squad. Not an easy job in those days. She took a sip of tea, refreshed by its delicate aroma. She sat back and wondered whether this new piece of information mattered. Henry was Irish, brought up in Northern Ireland. Should this imply some connection? The explosion that killed Anthony Albert had necessitated access to explosives and an expert knowledge of bomb production.
The cup was warming Nancy’s hands. She took another sip. What would Inspector Pole make of this? He had experience of the IRA and its techniques. Pole was bound to create a link between Henry’s Irish past and the murder. She finished her tea and stood up.
“Jonathan Pole. It’s time to have a little chat,” she murmured.
* * *
Pole looked at the clock on the wall. He rolled his head around in a welcome stretch before moving his seat away from his desk. He could see the desks emptying slowly. Nurani and Andy had gone to check some key details with forensics. The phone rang. Pole frowned. What now? But his professional self tapped him on the shoulder.
“Pole.”
“Guv, Nancy Wu is downstairs. She would like a word.”
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