by Tomas Black
Once inside, Baxter pressed a yellow button, and the steel doors slid shut. The elevator gave a soft whine and descended. “What is that for?” asked Anna, pointing to a red button.”
Baxter looked at Victor and then to Anna. “You know, I’m not sure. My card only allows me access to the vault. I believe there may be a storage level below that, but I could be wrong. Only Mr Pinkman has access to that level. This building was used during the war to store works of art, I believe. It’s had many uses since then. Rhodes Metals converted it into a vault when they took it over a few years ago.”
“I thought this belonged to Reinhart Benson International,” said Anna.
“That’s right,” said Baxter. “RBI is the parent company, and Rhodes Metals is one of its many subsidiaries.”
“Would that be Damian Rhodes?” asked Anna, with just a hint of excitement in her voice, “I hear he’s very handsome –”
“You ask too many questions,” said Victor.
The elevator completed its short descent, letting out a small sigh that decreased in pitch as its motor spun down. There was a soft bump and the doors opened smartly. They walked out into a short, wide corridor. Anna looked around in wide-eyed amazement.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
Blue-grey marble dressed the floor, walls and ceiling. Elegant up-lights, in an Art Deco style, lined each wall, throwing up a warm, soft glow that receded along the corridor where harsher spotlights illuminated the round, monstrous door of the vault that made up the entirety of the far wall.
“It is impressive,” said Baxter. “Mr Rhodes wanted only the best Italian Carrara marble for the vault entrance.” They walked towards the vault door. “The walls of the vault are half a metre thick and made from reinforced concrete; special steel lines the outer wall making it resistant to explosives and thermal torches. And the door –”
“And the door is is over a metre thick and weighs 45 tons,” said Victor, now plainly irritated by Baxter. “Yes, yes – I’ve been given the tour. Can we get on?”
“Yes, of course, Mr Renkov,” said Baxter, looking a little harried. “This way.”
As they approached the end of the corridor, a small side room came into view a few metres from the vault door. A security guard stepped out to meet them, signalling with his arm that they should enter.
“I’ll leave you here,” said Baxter. “Please sign out when you’re finished.” She gave them her best VIP smile, then promptly headed back to the elevator.
They entered what appeared to be a small utility room, its thick oak door wedged ajar. The walls were of smooth, unadorned concrete and a simple overhead fluorescent strip cast a harsh light on the bare, concrete floor. Obviously, not a room that VIPs generally entered, Victor noted. Around the sides of the two far walls were a set of wooden cabinets which supported sets of brass scales of various sizes.
A tall, slim woman in a black pencil skirt and plain white blouse was resting on the edge of a large oak desk which took up most of the remaining space, making notes on a tablet, her long slender legs outstretched before her. Victor noticed that she had the most beautiful head of copper coloured hair, drawn back and neatly braided into a thick copper plait that extended down to the small of her back. Sat behind the desk was a short, young Asian woman in a dark suit.
“Mr Renkov,” said the woman on the desk. She stood and extended her hand in one fluid movement. “I’m Harriet Seymour-Jones. Please call me Harry. I’ll be your Auditor for this assignment.”
Victor automatically proffered his hand which she clasped firmly and held longer than etiquette required. Harry looked him straight in the eye and gave him a slight smile. He got the impression that she was telling him to play along – don’t make a fuss. She noticed Anna staring back up at her. “Nice Shoes.”
Anna smiled her most caustic of smiles. “Valentino Garavani,” she said, then raised her bag. “Prada.”
“Nice combo,” said Harry. “And you are?”
“Anna Koblihova. I am Victor’s PA.”
“Personal Adornment?” said the Auditor, smiling broadly.
Before Anna could riposte, there was a slight cough from behind the desk. “Oh, and this is Sally Choong, from Custody. She’s here to keep us honest.”
The young Sally Choong hesitated, looking between the improbably dressed Anna and Harry. “Oh, yes - well, not really. Actually, I'm here to ensure we can account for all gold movements, to and from the vault. The Vault Manager and I will remove your gold from the vault and bring it here to the balance room where your Auditor will weigh each bar, and record the serial number.” She studied a file on her tablet. “Mr Renkov. You have an allocated account containing just over one metric ton of gold, 32,150 troy ounces to be precise.” She looked up at Victor and smiled her best VIP smile.
Victor paid no attention to the Custody Officer. The Auditor was clearly the one in charge. She had a confidence and directness that Victor admired. He also found her to be a strikingly beautiful woman - even in this light.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we,” said Victor, dragging his thoughts back to the task at hand. He had a bad feeling about the whole setup. Until yesterday, he’d never spoken to this Auditor – let alone requested an audit. What exactly does she know?
“Ok, let’s open the vault, shall we,” said Harry, striding out of the balance room and into the corridor. The remaining trio followed her out and waited in front of the cavernous vault door. Victor noticed that the security guard was standing beside a small panel on the opposite wall, whispering something to the Auditor. He then reached for a wall mounted phone and started making a call.
Harry walked over to Victor. “Slight problem. Can’t find the Vault Manager and we need him to enter his biometrics.”
“Biometrics?”, queried Anna.
“His hand,” said Victor, his agitation rising, “he needs to place his hand on the panel.” He turned to the Auditor. “Where is Pinkman?” He pulled out his phone. “I need to make a call.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Harry. “And you won’t get a signal down here. Too deep.”
Just then the elevator door opened at the far end of the corridor, and a young man stepped out. Victor thought he looked about twelve. He walked briskly towards them. “Who’s this?”, asked Victor.
“This is Walter,” said Harry, “He’s the Assistant Vault Manager.”
“Good grief,” retorted Victor.
“Sorry, Harry,” said Walter, a little breathless, “I need …” He stopped as his gaze fell on Anna. She gave him a warm smile.
“Eyes up here, Walter,” said Harry, all business. “We need you to open the vault. Smartly now.”
Walter dragged his eyes back to face Harry. “Yes, of course – slight problem. Word from the boss. Pinkman needs to be the one to open the vault.”
“But Walter,” explained Harry, patiently, “Harvey is not here. And this audit was arranged over a week ago. Mr Renkov is waiting.” She nodded to the security guard who entered a code into a keypad on the wall. The small, hand-sized panel lit up with a pale green colour. “Place your right hand on the scanner, Walter,” said Harry, more firmly. “I’ll take responsibility.”
Walter’s face took on a pained expression. “Harry, I’d love to help, but I was told that only the Vault Manager could open the vault for an audit.”
“Who told you that, Walter?” asked Harry.
“Damian Rhodes,” said Walter, with more than a hint of awe in his voice.
“Fuck Rhodes,” exploded Victor, “open this bloody door now!”
“Victor, Victor, calm yourself,” implored Anna, soothingly. She moved closer to Walter.
“Walter, you look like a smart man – important man, yes?” She took his right hand in hers and squeezed gently. His eyes drifted down to her angelic face, then to her cleavage. His mouth parted as if to say something, but no words came out. “Come Walter.”
Anna led him slowly over to the green, glowing pane
l. Walter followed as if in a daze. The security guard stepped to one side, a bemused look on his face. Something seemed to snap inside of Walter. “Sorry, Ms … I don’t think Mr Rhodes –”
“Don’t worry,” purred Anna, then quickly grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip and slammed his palm onto the panel. There was a small increase in the panel’s brilliance, then a loud ding. Walter looked on in horror.
A klaxon started. Victor felt a slight vibration through the floor. He heard the sound of electric motors spinning up, their whine growing louder. “Please stand back,” said the security suit, his arms outstretched. Anna released the hapless Walter and everyone took several steps back as the enormous vault door cracked open a few centimetres, then started to swing out slowly.
Anna clasped her hands together, playfully. “Victor this is so exciting!” she squealed.
Victor’s heart was pounding as fluorescent lights flickered on, one by one, inside the vault, first illuminating the entrance, and then the interior. He could make out racks of safety deposit boxes at the back of the vault.
The sound of the door’s electric motors dropped in pitch as they slowly spun down, the vault door silently swinging to a halt on its two gigantic hinges, revealing a spacious stainless steel room.
Victor was the first inside, followed swiftly by Harry, then Anna. The three stood in the middle of the room looking around. Sally Choong finally entered the vault, tablet in hand. She let out a short gasp. “I don’t understand,” she said. “It’s empty.”
“Sally, how much gold do your records show is stored in the vault?” asked Harry.
Sally Choong examined her tablet, scrolling through several pages. “Approximately, six metric tons, of which one metric ton belongs to Mr Renkov.”
“Vladimir’s gold,” said Anna to no one in particular.
Victor felt physically sick. Where was Harvey Pinkman?
CHAPTER TWO
The Gold Fix
To the denizens of London’s Square Mile, it is known prosaically as The Leadenhall Building, a manifestation of glass and steel erected on a small plot of land between the Lloyds building and a nondescript black monolith, the name of which no one cares to remember. To the rest of the capital, it is known as the Cheese Grater.
To Fabio DeLuca, it was a beautiful building, no matter what people called it. In his native Rome it would have been given a grand name; to his colleagues in Reinhart Benson International, it was just another place to make money.
He arrived outside the office on Leadenhall Street earlier than was his custom. For a City trader, 7.30 am was not an uncommon time to start work, but he was nursing a hangover and feeling fragile. The young Italian chided himself for being so reckless the night before. Today was not the day to screw up. He’d only had time to grab a coffee and a bagel on the way in.
He walked to the cavernous atrium that was the entrance to the building and through the public space of lawns and trees until he reached the escalators that rose thirty metres to the mezzanine level above. He walked across the reception hall until he came to a row of glass turnstiles where he was greeted by a short, stocky man in a light-grey suit.
“Good morning, Mr DeLuca.”
“Hey, morning, George. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Word to the wise: Mr Rhodes has already arrived.”
Fabio’s heart sank. He looked at his watch. He was only a few minutes late. If he caught a high-speed elevator, it would take him to his floor in no time.
“Thanks, George, I owe you one. Ciao!”
He juggled his bagel and coffee in one hand while he retrieved his pass from his jacket pocket, careful not to spill anything down his expensive Italian suit. He slid the pass over the top of the turnstile, causing the glass barrier to slide open with a satisfying hiss. He hurried to the elevator banks located at the back of the building.
To describe the building as a Cheese Grater was a bit of a misnomer. To Fabio, it was more of a wedge with its base at street level and the office space above diminishing in size, floor after floor, to accommodate the sloping frontage of the building. The RBI offices were located on the fortieth floor and thus considerably smaller than offices situated in the lower levels.
His colleagues in Rome had joked when they’d heard he was moving to the new London office: “Hey, Luca. Better pack your Parmigiano. They’re sending you to the Cheese Grater.” He’d ignored their comments but was surprised by the assignment. Firstly, because he was relatively new to the bank, and secondly, he traded in gold bullion. RBI in London dealt mainly in Foreign Exchange and Investment Banking. The head dealer in Rome had summoned him to his office. RBI had bought a small Precious Metals dealer in South Africa, he confided, and they’re putting together a new team of dealers in London. Fabio knew of the outfit – anyone who traded precious metals had heard of Rhodes Metals and the maverick owner and CEO, Damian Rhodes.
He arrived at the back of the building and punched in the floor on the panel in front of him. They say the elevators in The Leadenhall Building are the fastest in Europe; Fabio’s stomach never doubted it. He barely had time to admire the view before it sharply decelerated and opened onto his floor. He stepped out into a small reception area and was greeted by Samantha Jenkins, the latest addition to the Rhodes stable of PAs.
“Morning, Luca. He’s waiting for you in the conference room.”
While most execs he had worked for usually had one Personal Assistant, Rhodes had three and sometimes four. And they were all of a certain type: tall, blond and stunningly attractive. Sam brought this month’s total to four. Why Rhodes needed so many PAs, Fabio could only guess.
“Morning, Sam. Thanks.”
She smiled and picked up the phone. “Mr Rhodes? He’s on his way.”
The conference rooms were all-glass affairs that took full advantage of the sloping frontage of the building, providing panoramic views of the City. Damian Rhodes was standing with his back to the door when Fabio entered. He appeared to be in a contemplative mood as he stared down upon the stainless steel of the Lloyds building across the street. In the distance, the sun glinted off the gilded stone flame atop the London Monument.
“You’re late.”
Rhodes was not a tall man. In magazine photographs he appeared of average height; in person, he gained a few centimetres by making those around him feel small. His blackish hair was kept short and well-groomed, flecks of silvery-grey around his temples marked his advancing years. Fabio thought he had the look of an Italian, with a strong nose and the thin, small mouth of a Mafioso. He favoured the English style of suit from Saville Row and always in dark wool. He looked lean and fit for his age, which Fabio estimated to be the early forties.
“Sorry, sir. Metro delay.”
Rhodes turned to face the young Italian. “It’s called the Tube, Luca. No one over here calls it the Metro.” He paused. “And you look like shit.”
“Sorry, sir …”
“It’s important you don’t screw this up, Luca.” He paused to study Fabio carefully. “We have a major client who needs to offload their gold holdings, and it needs to be done today. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rhodes moved over to a green file that lay open on the conference room table and retrieved a single sheet.
“Here are your instructions.” He handed the sheet to Fabio and glanced at his watch. “One last thing. It’s important you sell before 8.00 am.”
Fabio scanned the dealing sheet. He hesitated then read the instructions more carefully. The sell order amounted to five metric tons of gold. It was a considerable amount to offload onto the market in one go.
“But sir, the London market will still be closed …”
“Hong Kong is open. You’ll be selling using our counter party.”
“Sir …“ again he hesitated. He wanted to be sure. “If I place this amount of gold in Asia before London opens …”
“Our client was very specific,” repeated Rhodes, a little testily. He
looked at his watch again. “Carry out your instructions and report back to me when it’s done.”
Fabio looked once more at the deal sheet and felt a little sick.
“Yes, sir.”
He exited the conference room and made his way back to his desk. He turned on his computer and brought up his dealing system. Other dealers were beginning to file into the office. “Hey Luca, you look like shit … “
Fabio ignored them. He was still confused. The London gold bullion market was the biggest and most liquid in the world. It could absorb a massive amount of buying and selling of the precious metal without so much of a hiccup in price; the Hong Kong market was much smaller, which meant that placing a sell order of such magnitude would cause the spot price of gold to crash – at least until the next gold fix which was 10.00 am London time.
He glanced at the world clocks displayed on the far wall of the office. It was 7.50 am. He rapidly typed in the sell order, noting that the client was Borite Metals Holding. He’d never heard of them. His finger hovered over the Enter button. He hesitated. On a hunch, he flicked on a second screen which showed the price of gold futures. The current or spot price of gold was $1,500 an ounce. The short-term futures contract for gold was slightly higher. This meant that most traders thought the price of gold would rise over the next few days. Then he saw it. A large contract shorting the price of gold. Someone had just bet on the price of gold falling.
The clock’s minute hand ticked forward. It was now 7.55 am. Fabio looked over at the conference room. Rhodes was still there, glaring at him. He moved back to his dealing screen. The order was waiting to be executed. Tick, tick, the minute hand advanced: 7.58 am.
A tall woman was walking towards him. She had beautiful, long red hair, pulled back and plaited into a rope. She was smiling at him. He turned to look at his screen: 7.59 am. He pressed the Enter button, and the trade was executed. Five tons of gold bullion had just been dumped onto the Asian market.
