He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out the packet of chewing gum, quietly unwrapped four pieces and put them into his mouth. Sod it, his mouth was parched. Fear had turned off his saliva glands. ‘Think lemons, think lemons,’ he said to himself.
Rafi turned right and followed the garden wall around a corner for a short distance. In summer, the deep verge between the wall and the path was overgrown with nettles and brambles. In winter long grass, dead brambles and weeds remained. There, against the wall, was a small, dark object, barely visible in the gloom. He had first spotted it a couple of summers earlier, when he had gone to retrieve a ball for a child; it had intrigued him and he had carefully inspected it. He now approached it tentatively, stopped and turned around to check that there was no one behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief; everything was still. He stepped forward, took off his glove and placed his hand on top of the frost-covered metal, slid his fingers over the curved front and felt for the protruding letters. Yes, this was the marker post. The raised lettering on its front clearly stated: London County Council Boundary. There was a small gap between the post and the wall. Unlike the other boundary posts next to the wall, the flat metal back of this one had been broken, leaving a small but hidden hole near its top.
Rafi put his hand back into his pocket and pulled out the USB stick; he raised his hand to his mouth, spat out the blob of chewing gum and pressed it to the side of the USB stick. He put his hand around the back of the cold iron post and with his fingertips felt for the irregular hole. He reached inside and pushed the USB stick firmly up into the top section of the post. He smiled as the chewing gum stuck.
The main part of his job done, Rafi retraced his tracks to Heath Road. He’d been gone probably no more than twenty minutes. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and he could clearly pick out the outline of the houses fronting on to the road. He looked up into the sky. The cloud cover, thankfully, remained impenetrable. He glanced across at a small bedroom light in the distance. Early birds, he thought. If it had been a normal working day, he would only have another couple of hours in bed; he needed to get back home as quickly as possible. Although it was still dark, he was aware that just one light switched on near his front door would scupper his return, making him clearly visible to the person in the Mercedes.
Rafi slipped across the road and retraced his steps back to the passageway. At the corner he stopped; in front of him was the last straight leading to his front door.
Gingerly, he peeped down the passageway. Was the Mercedes car still there? Oh hell! It was. On the way out he’d initially been oblivious to it. Now the black silhouette was straight in front of him. It looked menacing. He studied the car carefully. There was no sign of a lit cigarette. Either the person had stopped smoking, or he had got out to follow him. Oh damn, he thought, what if he was in the shadows waiting for him? Rafi hesitated and then forced himself to move, lest the light of an early-rising neighbour gave him away.
He moved carefully down the path, hugging the wall on his left, and reached his front door. Everything around him was dark. He slipped his key into the lock and turned it. At that precise moment the light from a nearby flat came on. It was as if he had been caught in the arc of a spotlight. He pushed open the door, slipped inside and closed the door. Had he been spotted? Only time would tell. He was relieved to be back on home territory. Quickly, with a bounce in his step, he climbed the stairs in the dark. As he reached the landing, he froze. Could he smell cigarette smoke? Was the person from the car waiting for him? He peered up the last flight of stairs into the darkness, but could make nothing out. He stood still, listening for anything.
Not eight feet away his neighbour’s front door opened, lighting up the landing.
‘Oh bejesus!’ exclaimed the neighbour. ‘What the bleeding hell are you doing here? You scared the holy shit out of me.’
If he knew what he’d done to Rafi’s nerves, he would have apologised.
Rafi stuttered, ‘Sorry mate, just got back from a night with the girlfriend. I was creeping in trying not to make any noise.’
‘You lucky so and so,’ he commented, smiling at Rafi, and turned on the stairwell light. He closed his front door and muttered, ‘Must get going, I’ve got the early shift at work today. See you around,’ and went on his way in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Rafi climbed the last flight of stairs, went into his flat and stood there, shaking. He felt as if he’d aged years.
Was the Mercedes still on guard duty out front? He needed to check, so he climbed the narrow staircase to the top floor bedroom. It was in darkness. He stopped before the window, dropped to his knees and shuffled forward, resting his elbows on the windowsill in order to peer down towards the road. It was still there, its dark shape hauntingly visible, but he couldn’t make out if the person was still inside the car. He stayed on his knees, who could it be? Did he really want to find out? His mind was full of questions and precious few answers. He dozed off.
The distant buzz of his alarm clock woke him. Rafi raised his weary head from the windowsill and looked outside; it was still dark. He came back to reality with a bump. The Mercedes was still there. He shuffled backwards, stood up and hurried downstairs.
He was being watched, but by whom? Rafi decided that he had no option but to continue as normal. He slipped into his early-morning routine. Twenty minutes later, he was sitting at the small kitchen table, staring at a bowl of cereal and milk. Normally he ate breakfast quickly. This morning, his appetite had vanished and the coffee tasted bitter. He gathered up his things and left for work.
Rafi carefully opened the front door. Would the Mercedes still be there? If so, would he have the courage to walk by it on his way to the underground station? He stepped out into the shadows of the narrow alleyway and looked left towards the road. The Mercedes was nowhere to be seen.
On the tube, Rafi hid behind Friday’s Financial Times, staring at the pages but taking in little of its news. His head was in turmoil. Act normally, he kept telling himself. His mind was trying to stay rational, but his body was under a different set of controls. He felt his hands shaking and steadied them.
At last, Moorgate tube station arrived. He got out and made his way to his office round the corner in South Place. At the front desk, Rafi greeted the security guard with a wave and headed upstairs for the coffee machine. He felt like death warmed up. The office was like a morgue. ‘You idiot,’ he had thought to himself, as he recalled the celebratory lunch and the previous evening’s festivities. His spirits rose a little as he realised that at least he would look much better than most of his colleagues.
The office started to fill up. The open plan floor on which he worked was the quietest he could remember; the telephones were being answered in hushed tones and no one was really in the mood to work. By all accounts, the previous night had been an unreserved success; the bar bills would have been huge and the accounts team would no doubt have to do some creative juggling with the expenses claims.
By 9 a.m. the office had started to regain some of its momentum and the noise level had moved up a notch from deadly quiet to hush. The coffee machines were in demand, but unlike normal days there was little gossiping going on around them. At one of them Rafi bumped into Jameel’s secretary.
‘Did he make his flight last night?’ he enquired.
‘’Fraid not! He missed it by a mile,’ she smiled. ‘It was a good session yesterday, though, wasn’t it?’
Rafi recalled seeing her perched on the edge of a table, enjoying the adulation of a group of dealers.
To his surprise, she said, ‘Didn’t you see Jameel first thing this morning? He told me he had a couple of things to sort out before he had to rush off to London City airport to catch his flight to Paris. Luckily, I managed to rearrange all his meetings.’
‘Is he still due back next Tuesday?’ Rafi asked.
‘As far as I know.’
Why had Jameel missed his evening flight? He’d left the party early and had
plenty of time. Rafi wondered what he had been up to.
His thoughts were interrupted. Seb Warren, a colleague of Callum’s, phoned. ‘Judy Ballantyne of HR asked me to give you a call.’
Rafi could vaguely put a face to the young individual. He was of a similar age to Callum, but not in Callum’s class.
‘Is there any further news?’ asked Rafi.
‘Not really. All we can glean is that he’d finished his work and was on his way to Amsterdam. The Luxembourg police aren’t saying much. Callum’s body should be flown home early next week. I understand that his family are arranging the funeral for next Thursday somewhere near Bristol, I think.’
‘He was seeing some people for me,’ Rafi said, hoping Seb wouldn’t pick up his white lie. ‘Could you run through who he saw?’
Seb hesitated briefly, but then went on. ‘Yes, OK. He had a meeting with a REIT, followed by a couple of meetings with tax lawyers. He had lunch with a local investment fund manager and then went to see a contact in the same building for an afternoon meeting… Rafi, I spoke to Callum as he was leaving the afternoon meeting. He was very upbeat, saying, I’ve done some useful research… Rafi will be very interested. I don’t know what he meant. Do you?’
‘Not really,’ said Rafi disingenuously.
Seb paused and carried on. ‘He was in a hurry, said he was late for his rendezvous with the REIT director.’
‘I tried ringing him at around 6.30 p.m. but got put through to his voicemail,’ said Rafi.
‘So did I,’ replied the youngster.
‘Before you ring off, could you tell me who he had lunch with?’
‘I’m not certain if I should, but I know Callum was a good friend of yours so I’ll tell you off the record. He met Hubert Vynckt of CPR Investment Funds.’
‘Thank you Seb, you’ve been a great help - I’ll miss Callum.’
Rafi made a mental note of the name and was just about to go to the firm’s library when the whole building was rocked by a dull thump.
‘What the hell was that?’ yelled Gavin, a director who sat near to Rafi.
‘Oscar has self-imploded,’ quipped Dominic, to Gavin’s left.
A voice from across the room said, ‘That was a bomb blast.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Gavin.
All eyes in the open plan office focused on the office junior. He was seen but usually never heard. ‘Not close, but definitely in the Square Mile. I reckon it went off somewhere to the east of us.’ He paused before adding, and going rather pink, ‘I’m in the TA so I am used to explosions.’
‘So now what?’ asked Gavin.
‘There could be a follow-up bomb. People should move away from the windows.’
‘Gavin nodded. ‘OK, do as the man says and get away from the windows. We’ll wait for some news; it’ll be all over the screens very soon and then decide what to do.’
Rafi looked at the newsflash on his trading screen. Bombed – garage at Bishopsgate police station, near Liverpool Street Station. The newsflash continued. City of London police are unable to confirm whether there will be any further attacks. The London Stock Exchange and Euronext.liffe have closed. This was followed by, London underground and all mainline stations are shut.
Gavin stood up. ‘The office is closed for business. You are free to leave for home whenever you like, or to stay put if you wish.’
Rafi knew that news of the bomb blast would be plastered across the media. He phoned his sister at her university where a colleague answered. ‘Is Saara there? It’s her brother speaking.’
‘Not at the moment, she’s nipped out. I’ll tell her you rang.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘Could you put a note on her desk to say that I’m fine.’
‘Will do,’ she reassured him and the line went dead.
Rafi decided it was time to leave. ‘See you Monday. Have a good weekend,’ he called across to Gavin.
Outside, it was bright February sunshine. In the distance there was the sound of sirens. The streets had an unreal feel. It was the expressions on people’s faces that were different. They had a sense of anxious determination. The buses and taxis were still working but the queues at the bus stops and cab ranks were very long.
Rafi had considered his options. He wanted to get home. There was nothing for it but to walk and hope he came across an empty taxi on the way. With a stop for a cup of coffee en route, the six mile walk was not too bad. It gave him the opportunity to think things over. He would take a holiday. If he went abroad and Prima Terra was investigated by the authorities, they might think he was escaping from them, so he decided to find a comfortable hotel in Cornwall. He would leave first thing the following morning and being a Saturday it would be a good time to travel.
Just under three hours later he had opened his front door. It had been a relief to be home. He stripped, showered and with a bath towel around his waist, headed for the dining room table, where he opened up his laptop and went surfing for hotels in Cornwall. Into the search engine he entered: Cornwall +hotel +sea and scanned through the very long list of possibilities. He changed sea to “good food” and looked at the new list. Near the top, the Headland Hotel, Newquay caught his eye. He clicked on the link. Its location looked great and its restaurant had two rosettes. Then he spotted they were doing special deals on stays of over five days – perfect. He opened up another window, pulled up the search engine again and found London to Newquay was a five-hour journey from Paddington and there was a 10.05 a.m. Saturday train.
He picked up the phone and dialled the Headland Hotel. In the space of a couple of minutes he’d booked himself a small suite with an ocean view for ten days, starting the following night.
He would travel light and packed some clothes into his computer rucksack and briefcase. He would look businesslike in the hope of concealing his escape plans. Tired, he turned in for an early night.
A few hours later his living nightmare started, when he was dragged from his bed and taken to the godforsaken police station.
Rafi lurched back to the present. From the memories he had managed to piece together, he concluded that Jameel, his boss, with some persons unknown in Luxembourg were involved in something highly illegal and could even be linked to the terrorist attack. Callum must have found proof of what was going on.
But why did they want him out of circulation? If Jameel was involved and something sinister was going on with the two companies, what were they up to? But why was he a danger to them, and why hadn’t they killed him, as they’d done with Callum? Perhaps two deaths close to home would raise too many questions, and setting him up as the bad guy achieved the desired effect?
Rafi’s head ached from the lack of sleep. The absence of edible food and the limited intake of fluids were also taking their toll. The physical side was unpleasant but didn’t overly concern him. It was the mental fatigue that worried him. Without a brain he wouldn’t get out of there, he told himself.
His thoughts changed tack. How long would it have taken for the evidence to be fabricated against him and the bombing to be planned and carried out…? His conclusion was that the bombing had already been scheduled and it had simply been a convenience to link him to it.
So, how was Jameel, a finance heavyweight, involved? He was a big picture man: fine print and micro-management were not his strengths. Therefore, he had to be working with, or for someone.
Next question, mused Rafi. How were Jameel and Prima Terra linked with the terrorist plot? It had to be something to do with the City of London - one of the three great financial capitals of the world. His thoughts drifted back to the research that Callum and he had been working on… The clandestine nominee names and the two companies in which Prima Terra and others were large investors. Might they have thought he was on to them and close to unravelling what they were planning?
But in practical terms, he had two obstacles to overcome. First, he had to convince his interrogators that the evidence against him was contrived. Then second, he had to get
them to believe that he was on their side and could potentially unlock the larger terrorist plot…
‘I’ve got it!’ It came to him, out of the blue. What he needed was someone they trusted who could do the persuading for him. Someone who would want to look carefully at the two companies and who would be willing to investigate what Jameel and Prima Terra were really doing. However, in the eyes of his interrogators he was guilty and he knew they wouldn’t be prepared to listen to a word he said as long as he insisted on protesting his innocence. Corporate finance was a blank in their book. Who might they listen to? His mind ached…
It needed to be one of them! Yes, of course that might work. He needed a police officer who could put his case to them. Furthermore, he needed someone who was familiar with the workings of the City and understood corporate finance. His mind raced. Ideally it would need to be someone from the Corporate or Economic Fraud Squad at the City of London police force. Would they be prepared to help him? Bloody hell, it was going to be a tall order. The bomber he was accused of being linked to had killed three – or was it four? – City policemen. He would be seriously unpopular, but it was on their turf and they might be interested in his story if they thought it would hasten the arrest of those who had masterminded the bombing.
Rafi thought through the practicalities… He needed to get someone from City of London police to visit him. He could give them the location of the memory stick, but it would be unwise to tell MI5 as they might then block the police’s involvement.
There was a problem, though. He probably only had twelve hours left before it all became too much for him to handle coherently. In particular, the lack of sleep and water were taking their toll. As he wondered how best to get things moving, the cell door swung open.
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 4
