by Tomas Black
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
Prologue
Part One - The Digital Imperative Chapter One - The Vault
Chapter Two - The Gold Fix
Chapter Three - The Raid
Chapter Four - Breakfast at Ives
Chapter Five - The Interview
Chapter Six - The Undershaft
Chapter Seven - A Visit from Victor
Chapter Eight - Spitalfields Market
Chapter Nine - Abramov
Chapter Ten - A Russian Problem
Chapter Eleven - McKay of MI5
Chapter Twelve - Phyllis Calls
Part Two - Don't Spare the ROD Chapter Thirteen - An Englishman in New York
Chapter Fourteen - The Whisky Bar
Chapter Fifteen - Roderick Olivier and Delaney
Chapter Sixteen - From Russia with Love
Chapter Seventeen - Sir Rupert's Club
Chapter Eighteen - The Warehouse
Chapter Nineteen - House Full of Russians
Chapter Twenty - A Russian Cruise
Chapter Twenty-One - The Russian Hacker
Chapter Twenty-Two - Borough Market
Chapter Twenty-Three - Dead Men Walking
Chapter Twenty-Four - Anna
Chapter Twenty-Five - Team Assemble
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Bank of England
Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Meeting with Rhodes
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Return To The Vault
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Harry's Flat
Chapter Thirty - The Mayfair Club
Chapter Thirty-One - Breaking Bad News
Chapter Thirty-Two - Rhodes is Summoned
Chapter Thirty-Three - Under the Vault
Chapter Thirty-Four - A Meeting of Minds
Chapter Thirty-Five - Sir Rupert and the Russians
Chapter Thirty-Six - Just William
Part Three - Rage Against the Machine Chapter Thirty-Seven - Casing the Joint
Chapter Thirty-Eight - A Rising Tide
Chapter Thirty-Nine - The Big Dump
Chapter Forty - Poacher
Chapter Forty-One - Reunion
Chapter Forty-Two - Vlad's Play
Chapter Forty-Three - Insertion
Chapter Forty-Four - Extraction
Chapter Forty-Five - Loose Ends
Chapter Forty-Six - Escape
Chapter Forty-Seven - Aftermath
Chapter Forty-Eight - Rhodes
Chapter Forty-Nine - A Kiss Goodbye
Chapter Fifty - Parlimentary Privileges
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About Tomas Black
THE OMEGA SANCTION
Tomas L Black
Copyright © 2021 Teardrop Media Ltd
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations are entirely coincidental.
To friends and family who supported my efforts.
FOREWORD
The financial heart of Great Britain is a square mile in the centre of London simply called the City. It’s one of the biggest financial centres in the world and responsible for transacting trillions of dollars of financial products. It is also where most of the world’s gold is bought and sold.
With so much money pumping around its financial heart, the City is under constant threat from organised crime, unscrupulous institutions, cyber attacks and foreign governments to name but a few. A number of agencies work to combat these threats. The most prominent is the National Crime Agency (similar to the FBI) or NCA. There are also private companies that assist the NCA. These companies are not so well known. They provide financial expertise, computer forensics, information security and even special investigators who secrete themselves into companies that are suspected of bad deeds. In The Omega Sanction, I’ve created one such company called Roderick, Olivier and Delaney and this is their story.
PROLOGUE
Harry was unaccustomed to waiting patiently, but the young Hans Mueller had left her no choice. She looked down from her small apartment’s window onto the darkened street below, just off from the main Bahnhofstrasse. All was still and quiet. It was gone midnight, and the good people in this part of Zurich had retired to their beds long ago.
The apartment was a one-room affair, situated above a small shoe shop not far from the central railway station. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was all Harry could afford. Zurich wasn’t a cheap city to live in unless you worked for one of the many financial institutions that were based there. Then they trapped you in the town with rent-free accommodation and an expense account.
God, she hated Zurich.
Hans Mueller had stopped typing, the only sound coming from the three computers, whirring away under her small table in the centre of the room.
Harry tore herself from the window and peered anxiously over Hans’ shoulder, willing him to hurry up and complete the hack.
“What's taking so long?”
“Please, don't rush me. This system is littered with TripWires. If I attempt to move the wrong file it will trigger the IDS.”
“IDS?”
“Intrusion Detection System. Then we're fucked.” Hans’ fingers gracefully stroked the keyboard and a list of files scrolled up the screen. “Wait a minute…”
Harry leaned closer. “What … what is it?”
“Sohn vonere huere!”
“English, Hans. What just happened?”
“This is not the production machine.” He rapidly tapped out a short command, and a long list of numbers appeared on the screen. “No, no …”
“What, Hans, tell me!”
“I must have activated a TripWire program, which in turn alerted the IDS. I’ve never seen a security system like this. It didn't just shut me out, but shunted me off the production server to a another machine.”
Harry was still in the dark. “Ok, so we just shut down and try again –”
“No Harry, you don’t understand. This server is a Honey Trap – a machine with just enough valid information on it to keep me interested, all the while it’s logging every keystroke I make and relaying my IP address to the IDS. I’ve been hacking the wrong machine.”
“For how long?”
“Possibly hours. Fuck, they must have traced my IP address by now.”
Harry knew they couldn’t go back and resume their attack on the server – at least not tonight. “Did you get the information we were looking for?”
“Some – before I was shunted off. But Harry, there are some major players involved in this – foreign agencies. It’s bigger than we thought …”
“Later. Did you trace the last shipment of gold?”
Hans nodded. “A bank in London. Reinhart Benson International.”
There was a squeal of tyres from the street below.
“C’mon,” said Harry. “Time to go…”
Part One
The Digital Imperative
CHAPTER ONE
The Vault
Victor Renkov glanced down at the diminutive figure of Anna Koblihova, strapped tightly in the seat harness of his brand new Ferrari Enzo. The scant black number she called a dress rode high on her thighs, exposing her strong pale legs. She was playing a dangerous game.
He brushed the accelerator, and they roared down Lower Thames Street in the City of London, the big V12 engine echoing down the canyons of glass and steel. The low sun of a bright Autumn morning glinted off the sloping windscreen. He reached for his sunglasses and smiled. No, it wasn�
��t a good idea to distract a man driving a machine capable of two hundred and six miles per hour. Dress for business he had told her, although he hadn’t been very specific. Perhaps the way she dressed was the business?
He flicked a paddle on the rim of the steering wheel and moved up a gear. The car screamed past Old Billingsgate Market. “What do you think, Anna? Fantastic, yes?”
Anna gripped the plush, leather-clad dashboard with one hand and the door panel with the other, her wide hazel eyes fixated on the road ahead. “Victor! Why did you buy such a ridiculous car?”
He pulled down his sunglasses and peered at her over the rims, incredulous. “It’s a Ferrari!”
Victor followed a route that hugged the river, slowing briefly for traffic at the London Bridge underpass before accelerating, once more, onto Upper Thames Street and towards Blackfriars Bridge.
“Where are we going, Victor?”
“We’re visiting a bank,” he told her in a tone that was a little too petulant.
He had known her less than a week but was already regretting the encounter. She had caught his eye at his Mayfair club, draped over the arm of her patron, Vladimir Abramov. She sashayed over, smiling sweetly. Her short, black hair framed an oval face, softening her strong, pale features while lending her a youthful, angelic appearance. He’d flirted with her, but only to make Vlad jealous. But Vlad’s jealousy came with a price.
He moved up a gear, accelerating as they entered the shade of the Blackfriars Underpass before re-emerging a few seconds later into the bright sunlight of the Thames embankment.
Victor grinned. “Fantastic!”
Anna pleaded in Russian, “Please God, Victor!”
“English, my dear. We must improve our English.”
She rolled her eyes at him. When introduced, they naturally spoke in Russian. He had grown up in a small town on the outskirts of Moscow, so his accent was that of a Muscovite; he couldn’t place hers. He remembered they switched to English so as not to bore the rest of their party. While she spoke the language very well, there were echoes of heavy Russian tones. It made her sound dull. When arriving in London, he had worked hard on his English and to lose his accent. That was a little over ten years ago.
“What is so special about this bank anyway?” asked Anna.
“It belongs to Reinhart Benson International. They specialise, among other things, in gold bullion. We’re heading for their vault.”
“A bank vault? And this is where you work?”
Victor laughed. “No, not quite. I have an account with them.”
He never tried to explain what he did for a living. Most people were clueless about the workings of the financial institutions of the City, and he supposed she was no exception. And what did he do? He gambled with other people’s money.
“You have money in this bank?” she asked.
“Yes – well, sort of. Clients give me their money, and I invest it in gold. This bank vault stores the gold – gold bullion to be precise, big bricks of it. Tell me, Anna, have you ever walked into a room filled to the ceiling with solid gold bricks?” He watched her face light up. “And the colour, Anna, a warm, radiant yellow like nothing you have ever seen. You never forget the colour of pure gold.” Yes, if you wanted to impress a woman you showed her a room full of gold.
“Oh, Victor, it sounds exciting.” She half turned to face him and smiled. “And is this where you keep Vladimir’s gold?”
Perhaps she wasn’t as clueless as he first thought. He glanced at the buildings on the opposite side of the road. “Shit, we’ve passed it.”
He pulled smartly into the right-hand lane and slowed to execute a sharp U-turn through a gap in the central reservation, ignoring a sign that told him ‘No U-Turn’. Drivers coming from the opposite direction sounded their horns. Victor simply waved, accelerating swiftly back along the Victoria Embankment for a short way before turning sharply left into a narrow side street and stopping beside a large Victorian building.
“We’re here,” he announced.
Anna breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God.” She peered out at the ornate building. “And this is a bank? Looks more like a French chateau.”
“Yes, well, they don’t advertise the place as a bank for security reasons,” said Victor. Now that he was here, he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
“Yes. Just thinking …”
He had received the call at around 10.00 pm the night before. A woman from the bank. Harriet Seymour-Jones, an Auditor with Reinhart Benson. A funny time to call, he thought. It was about his gold account. There appears to be a problem. Can’t say over the phone. Best we meet at the vault. The appointment was made for 10.30 am.
He checked his watch. They had time to spare. He flicked a switch and his door clicked open, pirouetting out and up. He ducked and climbed out onto the pavement. Anna was right, even from here the building looked very out of place, wedged between its more modern counterparts of glass and steel. Definitely Victorian or possibly Edwardian, he could never remember which.
He walked around to the passenger side door and flipped a recessed catch. There was a knack to opening a door on a Ferrari. Anna freed herself from her seat harness and nimbly stepped out. She smoothed down her dress then remembered she had a bag and bent down to retrieve it from the seat well. Several passing motorists tooted their horns in appreciation of the manoeuvre.
They walked a short way to the front of the building which faced the Thames. Tourist boats motored by, along with the occasional police launch. Several commercial lighter barges were moored to a temporary pier close by, not a stone's throw from the building’s entrance, providing, of course, you could throw a stone across a four-lane highway. They entered through a set of large oak doors and into a spacious reception area, Anna’s bright red heels clicking on the polished marble floor. They were met by a thick-set man in a grey suit that stretched across a large barrel chest. Victor assumed he was security.
“Can I help you, Sir?” His gaze fell on the petite but beautiful form of Anna who gave him an impish smile. “And Madame,” he added as an afterthought.
“Victor Renkov to see Harriet Seymour-Jones. She’s expecting us.”
“This way, sir. You’ll both need to sign-in,” he said and led them through a set of glass doors where a young woman in a dark-grey suit sat behind a large, ornate writing desk. More Regency furniture lined the walls of the room. “I’ll make Ms Seymour-Jones aware of your arrival,” he said and left the room.
The young woman beckoned them to take a seat. “Rosalind Baxter”, she said, offering Victor a limp handshake. She was a thin woman with short mousy hair. She presented Victor with a leather-bound ledger. “Please sign-in Mr …”
“Renkov, my dear. Victor Renkov.” Victor pulled the ledger towards him and drew his favourite Mont Blanc pen from his jacket.
“And this is …” hesitated Rosalind Baxter, her hand waving vaguely in the direction of Anna.
Victor gave Anna a sideways glance, as he scribbled their names in the book. “Who are you, my dear?”
Anna gave him a caustic smile. “Your personal assistant, I think, Victor.”
Baxter showed no sign of surprise at Anna’s title or her choice of business dress, but merely took back the ledger from Victor and examined the entries. “Victor Renkov and Anna Koblihova, PA. She entered their details into a computer on her desk.
“PA, I like that,” said Victor.
“Are we really going to enter the vault?” said Anna, gazing around at the room.
“Bloody well hope so,” said Victor, “otherwise this has been a complete waste of time.”
“But why do you need to see the vault?”
Another good question, thought Victor. It was about his gold account. There appears to be a problem.
Baxter stared at her screen. “Ah, yes, here we are. Victor Renkov. You have an allocated gold account, number 02540123, and you have executed your right to Audit
.” She smiled with satisfaction at having reconciled their appearance at the bank with her computer records.
“My right to Audit …” said Victor, trying not to sound surprised by this latest revelation.
“That’s right,” said Baxter. “As stated in your contract, you can request a total of two audits of your account a year. Ms Seymour-Jones will conduct the audit, along with Ms Sally Choong from our Custody department and Mr Walter Baker, the assistant Vault Manager.” She gave them her best customer service practised smile. “I’ll walk you down.”
Victor hesitated. “Wait. You said assistant Vault Manager. Where’s Harvey Pinkman?”
“Who is this Pinkman?” asked Anna.
“Mr Pinkman hasn’t come in today,” said Baxter, smiling sweetly and ignoring Anna.
“But I always deal with Pinkman,” said Victor. He felt his stomach knotting. “Where is Harvey Pinkman?”
Baxter’s smile quickly faded. “I can’t really say, Mr Renkov,” her voice rising slightly. “He didn’t turn up for work today. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Probably just a tummy bug or suchlike. There’s a lot going around.”
“Come, Anna,” said Victor, standing. He turned to Baxter. “Take me to the vault.”
“Right. Jolly good. This way,” said Baxter and headed for the door. Victor followed close on her heels.
The reception area receded into the building with two more offices located to the left and the right. Two large stone urns stood guard at the entrance to each room. At the rear of the area, a large oak stairway led up to another floor. Baxter led them around the side of the staircase to a set of ornate steel doors on the opposite wall. It took Victor a moment to realise that they were the doors of an elevator.
“How do we call the elevator? There are no buttons,” said Anna.
“No, that’s right,” said Baxter. “You need a special card key.” She indicated a plastic card, fixed to a lanyard around her neck with her photo-id displayed on one side. She leaned forward and placed the card against a small black square beside the doors, which immediately parted, revealing a spacious, wood-panelled interior. “After you, please,” she said.
