The door swung open and Jeremy walked in, looking pleased. ‘Sorry to interrupt - MI5 have found that Jameel and Basel both did their PhDs at the London College of Finance.’
Kate glanced across to Giles and David. ‘Would there be any chance of borrowing DCI John Dowsing to visit the London College of Finance with Jeremy?’
‘Good idea. As the officer in charge of the Bishopsgate bombing, it would be sensible to have him involved with your enquiries,’ said Giles. ‘Do please keep me informed of your progress. We have to leave you now, David and I are late for another meeting.’
‘My MI5 colleagues,’ said Jeremy, as the door closed behind Giles and David, ‘Tell me they’re expecting another series of bombings. The consensus of opinion is that the target will be a transport hub. Security levels have been increased and leave has been cancelled. Rafi, they now think you’re a bit of a red herring. Talking of food,’ said Jeremy, ‘Would you like a cake?’ The food had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and been put on the top of a couple of filing cabinets next to Kate where it had been forgotten.
Jeremy tucked in. ‘Yum, I must give Luigi a ring and thank him.’
Emma looked across at Kate and smiled. She was about to add something when Jeremy caught her look. ‘If you’d spent two months living off Pot Noodles and black coffee…’
‘Sorry, I forgot. It’s just that we are not used to this,’ apologised Emma.
‘Now that I’ve topped up the food levels, where’s this London College of Finance and what’s the low down on John?’
Emma, on the ball as ever, had found the vice chancellor’s address and that of the administration department. She walked over to the printer, collected the sheet and passed it to Jeremy.
Kate picked up the phone. ‘Hi John,’ she said in a friendly tone, ‘Would you have a spare moment? I need some help, please. We’ve unearthed something that has a direct bearing on the Bishopsgate bombing. I could do with a seasoned brain to give Jeremy Welby, our MI5 friend, a hand. Yes… Yes, I know you’re very busy and dislike spooks.’
She paused and listened. ‘Yes, I appreciate everyone thinks it’s going to hit the fan. But we’ve come up with an angle which opens up a whole new dimension. I need your input and not that of a sidekick, please… Fantastic, thanks. Jeremy’s on his way down to your car. He will brief you on the way. I owe you.’
Kate looked across to Jeremy. ‘John will meet you downstairs. Don’t be put off by his manner. He can be a bit of a gruff old codger, but he’s got a great nose for information and has a good sense of humour once you get to know him.’ She smiled. ‘One other thing, Jeremy, time may well be of the essence… So be as quick as you can, please. And good luck’
Jeremy nodded and left.
‘Let’s see what we can dig up and reconvene at, say, 5 p.m.,’ said Kate.
John and Jeremy had an uneventful drive to the London College of Finance. Initially, though, John had been somewhat taciturn. Jeremy had decided that it was best to take the bull by the horns. ‘What in particular do you dislike about spooks?’ he enquired.
‘Basically too bloody secretive by half and treat the rest of us as if we couldn’t run a frigging whelk stall.’
‘Fair point,’ said Jeremy. ‘Do me a favour; if you think I’m freezing you out then tell me… No excuses, but from time to time we have to watch our backs. Cock-ups put people like me in danger, so we can get a bit obsessive.’
John’s frostiness thawed as Jeremy brought him up to speed on Rafi and the leads that Kate’s team had uncovered.
They drew up in front of a smart, white, Georgian terrace and made for the vice chancellor’s office. The reception hall could have graced any palace. No expense had been spared - the crystal chandeliers, ornate ceiling cornices, the large, period, gilt-framed mirror, the old grandfather clock and an array of oil paintings gave an air of refinement.
John walked over to the reception desk. ‘The vice chancellor, please. He is expecting us.’
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector John Dowsing, Special Branch, City of London police.’
The smartly dressed, forty-something receptionist looked uncomfortably at John and imperceptibly squirmed in her seat. ‘Sir Gerald Staniland is rather busy at the moment. If you could please sit over there, I’ll find out when he can see you. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?’
‘He is expecting us. How long do you think he might be?’John looked displeased. He didn’t like to be given the runaround.
‘I really can’t say. Unfortunately, he’s left strict instructions not to be disturbed and his meeting could go on for quite some time.’
‘Tell the vice chancellor we’re here and it’s not in his best interests to mess us around.’
The receptionist picked up the phone. ‘Margery, I’ve two policemen to see the VC. They don’t like being kept waiting. Can you help? Thank you. Gentlemen, if you could go upstairs Sir Gerald’s PA will look after you.’
Margery looked a formidable gatekeeper. Her anteroom dripped with antiques. John guessed that few students made it this far. He approached the ample, well-manicured PA.
‘Sir Gerald is expecting us,’ he announced waving his warrant card under Margery’s nose.
‘There may be a bit of a problem…’ she started.
‘Too bloody right! If he doesn’t see us here and now, he’ll spend the rest of the sodding afternoon in an interview room and he won’t be offered flaming tea and biscuits!’ exclaimed John.
Jeremy had moved in front of a pair of tall double doors. ‘This his office?’
‘You can’t go in.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy as he opened the doors and beckoned John to follow him.
The vice chancellor’s office was huge. He was sitting behind an antique desk at one end of the room; in between him and the door was a set of comfortable-looking armchairs in front of an ornate fireplace to one side and, on the other side, a boardroom table which would not have looked out of place in the dining room of a stately home.
The VC looked up from his paperwork. ‘I’m busy, go away.’
Undeterred, John and Jeremy entered, closed the doors and walked towards him.
‘If you cooperate this won’t take long, or would you perhaps like to see where we work?’ said John.
Jeremy took up the running. ‘We’re here to get information on two of your former PhD students: Jameel Furud and Basel Talal. What can you tell us about them?’
The VC stalled. ‘When did they study here?’
‘About ten to fifteen years ago.’
‘Ah! We’ve a problem there – we archive most of our old student records; data protection and all that, you know. It doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of the law.’ He looked at John over his half-moon glasses as if he were a student who had just had an appeal turned down.
‘We’ll come back to your former students in a moment. Tell us about the college’s PhD programme,’ said John.
‘We offer one of the largest PhD programmes in the field of Finance. The college takes on between fifteen and twenty-five new applicants each year. We have over 100 PhD students coming from more than fifteen countries.’
‘And how many non-EU students are there here?’ asked John.
‘Nearly 500 out of almost 850,’ came the reply.
‘So, roughly speaking, I guess your college earns, say, £10 million a year from its overseas students… And without them would it be fair to say that you wouldn’t have a business?’ enquired John.
‘Er… Yes, I suppose so, but that’s not relevant,’ snapped the VC.
Jeremy stepped forward. ‘It is, as I can arrange for the visas of all your non-EU students to be rescinded. It would take just one phone call.’
‘Who the ruddy hell do you think you are – barging in here, threatening me with something outside your powers? The City Police can’t take away visas.’
‘Correct,’ said Jeremy, ‘But MI5 can! Here’s my ide
ntification.’Jeremy flashed his warrant card under the VC’s nose.
‘Now let’s start again,’ said John.
‘What do you know about Drs. Furud and Talal?’
‘Nothing! Why do you ask me this banal question?’
‘OK your time is up,’ said John. ‘Gerald Staniland, I’m arresting you in connection with knowingly hindering police investigations into a terrorist activity. I must advise you that under the new anti-terrorism laws, you do not have the right to legal representation.’
A deep scowl came over the VC’s face. ‘It is Sir Gerald to you. And you have no right to accuse me of some trumped up charge. Get out of my office and don’t forget to close the doors behind you.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you? You’re implicated and in the proverbial shit.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that! Get out of here or I’ll call security and have you thrown out.’
‘Gerald Staniland, I have reason to believe your college is being used as a recruiting ground for terrorists and, should you be convicted, you will formally and publicly be stripped of your title by the Palace,’ said Jeremy. ‘John, pass me your handcuffs. If the bastard wants to play hardball, so be it; read him his rights and take him away.’
The VC’s confidence crumpled. His face turned ashen grey.
‘Alright, alright, I’ll help. Their files are in the registry building – next door. Margery knows where to find them.’ He picked up the phone.
Moments later Margery appeared at the door. ‘Vice chancellor?’
‘Please show these two gentlemen to the registry where the student files are kept.’
It was 7.20 p.m. on Wednesday evening, and it was all hands to the paperwork at Wood Street. Emma was busy printing out and collating all the documents coming in from MI5.
The door swung open. ‘My goodness, you’ve been busy,’ said Jeremy as he entered the room. ‘Where on earth did all this paper come from?’
He was followed by John, who looked equally surprised and impressed.
‘Had a useful time?’ asked Emma, trying to sound upbeat.
‘Too right,’ replied Jeremy beaming from ear to ear. ‘I reckon that the vice chancellor just aged a year or so, don’t you John?’
‘Well, he was being rather obstructive.’
‘OK, the suspense is killing us,’ said Emma, ‘what did you find out?’
‘We have three more names for you,’ replied John. ‘Jeremy has his colleagues at MI5 digging up as much as they can on them. Before we start briefing you, we’ve got a few things in our notes to sort out,’John shot a momentary look at Jeremy, who nodded. ‘Perhaps we could chat over a bite to eat in a few minutes?’
‘Pardon?’ said Kate.
‘Oh, we stopped off at Luigi’s and ordered a selection of things to keep us going - a sort of buffet supper. It should be here shortly,’ said Jeremy with a grin.
Minutes later the food arrived in reception. Jeremy and John deep in conversation, went off to collect it.
‘I’ve no idea what we’ve got here,’ remarked Jeremy as he came back in. ‘I hope you find something you like. Help your-selves. We’ve organised our notes. John, do you want to start or shall I?’
‘OK, I’ll go first. The vice chancellor we visited is living the life of Riley. He’s on a different planet,’ said John.
‘Lord Muck was well out of order. He tried to pretend he knew nothing. Didn’t take John seriously, refused to help. We sort of leant on him, didn’t we John?’ interjected Jeremy with a cheeky grin.
John quickly finished a mouthful of food. ‘Our two original suspects, Jameel Furud and Basel Talal were part of a clique of five students, who all frequented the same mosque. Sheikh Akram Tufayl and Miti Lakhani, an Asian-African were fellow PhD students and close friends. The fifth member was Maryam Vynckt, Basel Talal’s younger sister, who studied for a Masters in Law nearby.’
‘Bloody hell! I think she could be related to the Luxembourg financier that Callum visited just before he died,’ interrupted Rafi. ‘Sorry – do go on.’
‘We tracked down one of their contemporaries, Dr Mario Lutchins, who is now a senior lecturer at a business school in London. We dropped in to see him on our way back,’ said Jeremy, reaching over to help himself to more food, whilst John took up the running.
‘To cut a long story short, the VC is caught between a rock and a hard place. His problem is that Sheikh Tufayl makes a hefty donation of half a million pounds a year to the College, but there is a non-disclosure clause… The money stops if the sheikh’s name is made public. And without the money the VC’s lifestyle would go down the pan.’
It was now Jeremy’s turn. ‘These five individuals certainly made an impression on our Dr Lutchins, who at the time was going out with a secretary in the Faculty Office. Unfortunately for him, Jameel turned on the charm, had his way with her and then dumped her. Mario has never forgiven him and has since then taken a sinister interest in Jameel and his colleagues’ activities. He has been particularly helpful in filling in some of the gaps.’
Jeremy looked down at his notes. ‘Sheikh Tufayl was the man with the money. He had a lovely duplex flat in NW8 overlooking Regent’s Park. He led the high life.’
John continued while Jeremy took a mouthful of food. ‘The sheikh was outwardly religious, a driven man, always on the go. He was seriously wealthy, enjoyed a luxurious Western lifestyle, and thought studying for a PhD was a great way to live, particularly as it kept his father off his back. He liked to hypothesise and seemed to be more interested in the big picture side of things.’
John looked down at his notebook. ‘To quote Mario: The sheikh despised us for Iraq, disliked our meddling foreign policies. He thought the UK had become too soft and trusting and forgotten one of the key rules of economic and personal survival - when the chips are down, the oil-rich countries look after themselves. Or put another way - if a country runs out of energy, it is stuffed,’ John took another mouthful and nodded towards Jeremy.
‘The sheikh completed the last eighteen months of his PhD from his home in the Gulf, following his father’s death in a freak skiing accident,’ continued Jeremy. ‘A MI5 source tells me that he fell into a small ravine. The fall didn’t kill him, but he was injured sufficiently badly that he wasn’t able to climb out, and died from hypothermia… Sadly for him, his mobile phone’s battery was knackered. Sheikh Tufayl was on holiday with his father at the time.’
Jeremy looked at his notes. ‘Sheikh Tufayl took over the family business – or should I say, the oil wells. When the sheikh received his PhD two years later, the VC talked him into funding a high profile annual lecture… and the sheikh’s money started rolling into the College. The great and the good are invited to the lectures and to a sumptuous dinner afterwards at one of the finest City of London livery companies. The vice chancellor plans the lectures and dinners with military precision.’
‘Now let’s turn to the number two in the clique: Basel Talal,’ continued John. ‘According to Mario he was moderately wealthy by Arab standards – bloody rich by yours or mine - and lived within walking distance of the sheikh. He had an incisive but practical brain, and paid great attention to detail. He was an excellent manager and manipulator. According to Mario, Basel has been successful in the venture capital business, but keeps a surprisingly low profile. And Mario believes that Basel has a wealthy offshore backer… His guess is that the money comes from the sheikh.’
‘Oh, did we mention that Basel was the sheikh’s cousin?’ interjected Jeremy.
‘And now on to number three in the clique: your erstwhile boss Jameel Furud,’ continued John. ‘He was a close friend of the sheikh and his cousin, but lacked their money. He shared their interests in discussing economic strategies and how markets worked, and whether they could be manipulated. He loved the high life and his particular talent was his ability to charm the ladies. This talent went down especially well with the sheikh, who loved to party and to have a beautiful woman on his arm
. After his PhD, Jameel spent time setting up and running a fund management business in the Gulf and looked after the sheikh’s newfound wealth. The business grew and moved to Zurich for a short while, before moving to London where it was rebranded as Prima Terra. Mario finds it strange that since his return to the UK, Jameel rarely promotes the fact that he has a PhD…’
‘I suppose he likes his wheeler-dealer image,’ said Rafi.
‘According to Mario the fourth member of the group was Maryam Talal, now Mrs Maryam Vynckt. She’s the younger sister of Basel and of course cousin to the sheikh,’ said John. ‘She read Law at Cambridge, followed by a two-year Master‘s in Law in London. Her masters dissertation was on: Cross border investment vehicles and cross border taxation. According to Mario, she an Eastern beauty and a fantastic linguist – she speaks most of the main European languages as if they were her native tongue.’
John looked at his notes. ‘Maryam worked for the international legal firm Tollemarsh Ruddock and Leveritt in the City where she specialised in corporate acquisitions. There she renewed her acquaintance with Mr Hubert Vynckt - he’d read Business Administration at the Judge Institute and had been in the same Cambridge University college as her. Hubert’s family investment business, CPR Investment Funds, became a big client of hers.’
‘John, you’re losing out on the food,’ commented Jeremy. ‘Let me do the next bit. Maryam, visited Hubert frequently and then Hubert made Maryam an offer she couldn’t refuse: to head up his private clients division and a wedding ring. They married and she moved to Luxembourg. Then, out of the blue, her division was bought by the Gulf Trade Bank. Maryam, is CEO, of the merged private clients departments and now works from the Bank’s headquarters in the Gulf and from its offices in Luxembourg, which are in the same building as Hubert’s CPR Investment Funds.’
Rafi sat bolt upright. ‘Oh yes! I really do bet Callum met her.’
‘OK, I’ll get that checked out,’ said Jeremy.
‘According to Mario,’ said John, ‘the Gulf Trade Bank is part of the sheikh’s business empire and that the bank’s acquisition of Hubert’s private clients division was the sheikh’s way of ensuring that Maryam was close by… Ah yes, I nearly forgot. Mario says that Maryam is the most driven of the clique.’
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 8
