by Tomas Black
The London market opened just as the spot price of gold plunged nearly five per cent. Someone had just made a lot of money. There were cries of dismay from the other dealers in the room, the price of gold had fallen off a cliff.
“Fabio DeLuca? Hi, my name is Harriet Seymour-Jones, and I'm here to audit your trades.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Raid
Ben Drummond breathed in the cold night air as he ran up the steps leading to the south-side footpath of Tower Bridge from the wharf below. It was 2:00 am, and traffic heading into the City was light. He stepped up the pace and quickly made it to the first stone-clad tower. A young couple were sharing a lovers embrace, oblivious to the rushing, inky-black river of the Thames below. He ran passed them and headed over the central span and towards the lights of the City beyond.
He had received the call in the early hours of the morning: “Captain Benjamin Drummond? NCA Operations Centre. You’re needed urgently at the Leadenhall Building. Yes, tonight. Please report to Commander Alex Fern. She’ll brief you on the assignment.”
The operator had been curt and to the point. He thought it strange. The fact that the National Crime Agency had called him was not the problem. He was registered with them as a Computer Forensic Investigator and had carried out several assignments on a contract basis, but NCA operations were generally planned at a more leisurely pace, and never in the middle of the night. So he had thrown on a navy tracksuit and a pair of trainers, gathered up his gear in a small rucksack, and headed out of his apartment on Butler’s Wharf, just below Tower Bridge. He reckoned it was quicker to jog than wait for a cab.
He crossed the bridge and carried on jogging past the Tower of London, it’s limestone battlements lit-up in all their splendour. He picked up the pace again and was reminded of his old drill sergeant: “Soldiers don’t jog, Drummond. They fucking run.” He had fucking run for Queen and Country, that was for sure.
He rounded the corner of the Tower and carried on at a steady pace along Tower Hill Road, coming at last to Old Billingsgate Market. The Monument rose up from between the City buildings on his left, a brightly lit beacon against the dark London skyline. He stopped and looked at his watch. It was 2.30 am. Run you fuckers, run!
He sprinted across the four-lane highway of Lower Thames Street and along the narrow passageway of St. Mary at Hill until he reached EastCheap and the improbably constructed Walkie Talkie building. A few late night revellers cheered him on: “go on, ma’ son.”
He ran hard between darkened buildings, turning right into Lime St and past Leadenhall Market where the street narrowed before opening out beside the illuminated, steel-clad Lloyds building. He remembered his father, William, bringing him here when it had first been built. They both thought it looked like a brewery. He slowed and walked to the end of the street where he was greeted by the sight of the Leadenhall Building. William always called it The Cheese Grater.
He crossed the road and walked towards the building entrance. The street was empty and quiet. He headed for the escalators. As he drew near, two armed police officers in full, tactical gear approached him from his left and right. He stopped and kept his hands in plain sight. Experience had taught him to be cautious around men carrying automatic weapons in the middle of the night.
The officer on his right did the talking. “Sorry sir, this area is closed. Move along.”
He thought them well trained. The man kept his distance, his hands never leaving his weapon. His partner stood off at the ready, alert for potential threats. Drummond cast an experienced eye over their guns: Heckler & Koch MP5s; Glock 9mm for sidearms. Their black, tactical dress was branded with the letters NCA: National Crime Agency.
“Ben Drummond, Computer Forensics, reporting to Commander Alex Fern.”
The officer nodded to his partner. She keyed her radio and started up a conversation.
“Show me some ID,” said the officer.
He slowly reached inside his top pocket and retrieved an ID card bearing his photo. He handed it to the officer who studied it for a minute and waited for his partner who finally nodded.
“Commander Fern is waiting for you on the mezzanine level,” said the officer. He leaned in closer. “And she’s pissed off.”
Drummond took back his photo ID. There wasn’t much he could say. He had been dragged from his bed in the early hours of the morning, and she was pissed off. He walked to the bottom of the escalators, which had been switched off, and started the long climb up.
Commander Alex Fern was waiting for him at the top of the escalators. He had served with some tall women in the army, but Alex Fern was the biggest woman he had ever seen. She stood a good head taller than him with strong, broad shoulders. The Commander wore the same black, tactical gear of her officers, complete with a Glock 9mm sidearm. Her jacket was unbuttoned at the neck revealing a white t-shirt instead of the regulation stab vest. Tufts of blond hair were trying to escape from beneath her cap which she wore in place of the standard ballistic helmet of the junior ranks and which was branded with the bold white letters of the NCA.
“You the tech guy?” she enquired.
“Ben Drummond, Ma’am. Computer Forensics.”
She studied him for a while. Drummond felt as if he was back on parade – except the only thing he was packing was a laptop.
“Someone must think very highly of you, Drummond. They cancelled my regular tech and said it had to be you. We’ve been hanging around for the past hour.”
“Sorry, Ma’am.” He didn’t know why he was here either. But he kept that thought to himself.
“You run here?” she asked
“Thought it would be quicker than calling a cab. I live just across the river … a little over three kilometres,” he replied
“Ex-Army,” she said. It was more a statement than a question.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I can always tell.”
Drummond never liked being labelled ‘Army’. He’d resigned his commission over ten years ago and had worked hard to lose some of the rough edges that armed service had ground into him. Still, the Military had a way of leaving an indelible mark.
Drummond surveyed the mezzanine level which served as the central meeting point and reception area of the building. He’d been here before on other contracts. During the day it would be full of bustling office workers, chatting and waiting for meetings. The large hall was now empty, except for two armed NCA officers waiting over at the turnstiles that led back to the rear elevator banks.
“Expecting trouble?” he asked.
“Got a tip-off that someone is in the building. Probably nothing,” said Fern.
She turned quickly and started walking towards the turnstiles. Drummond marched in double-time to keep up with her broad back.
“You have your gear?” she asked.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She stopped and spun around to face him. “Look, I appreciate the chain of command and all that, but just call me Fern. Ok?”
Drummond smiled. “Sure, no problem. Most people just call me Drum.”
They carried on towards the two officers.
“I don’t have to explain Chain of Custody and all that crap, do I Drum?”
“No, not my first day on the job.”
“Good. We’ve been planning this raid for some time, and I don’t want any balls-ups with the evidence.”
The two officers at the turnstile straightened their stance as they approach. If nothing else, Commander Fern had their full attention, and he guessed their respect.
“We’re going up. No one goes in or out,” said Fern.
The two officers acknowledged their orders with slight nods. They were a tight team. No superfluous chatter; no, yes sir, three bags full, sir, no questioning their orders. He knew what it was like to be part of such a team.
Fern opened the turnstile with her ID card, and they passed on through towards the elevator banks.
“What am I looking for?” asked Drum.
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“We’ve been following the activities of a bank called Reinhart Benson International for some time now, as part of a joint money laundering effort with the Department of Justice in the States. We got a tip-off from a whistleblower – something big going down with their bullion trading. DOJ wants us to go in and find out what’s going on.”
Drum thought about this. He was familiar with the way these systems worked. “You understand that their trading system is likely to be centralised, offsite somewhere – probably not in this building?”
They had reached the rear of the building. Fern scanned her pass over a central console, activating the elevators.
“Yep, we understand that. But our insider told us to grab the computers and any related material belonging to Harvey Pinkman and Fabio DeLuca. They’re located on the fortieth floor,” replied Fern.
“What’s special about these guys?” asked Drum.
“Don’t know yet. Our insider tells us that DeLuca has been carrying out some illegal trades and the evidence is probably on this Pinkman’s laptop.”
“What’s Pinkman been up to?” asked Drum.
“All we know about Harvey Pinkman is that he’s the bank’s Vault Manager – handles all the gold transfers. Other than that …”
The elevator car appeared from out of the glass and steel of the building’s elaborate external shaft. Fern stepped inside as soon as the doors opened.
“Jesus, they’re fast,” said Fern, momentarily caught off guard as the elevator started its rapid ascent.
A thought occurred to him. “Where’s the building security guard?” asked Drum.
“Fuck!” Fern keyed her radio. “Harris. You laid eyes on building security tonight?” She waited. “No … shit! Go and look for him. Why didn’t you tell me no one was manning the desk? Yes, it is a problem. We’re on the fortieth floor. Call me when you have something.”
Drum made no further comment. They both knew someone had screwed up. The elevator performed a rapid deceleration before stopping. They stepped out into a small reception area. A large sign on the wall told them this was Reinhart Benson International.
Fern pointed towards two glass doors. “That leads to the main office space. We understand DeLuca has a desk towards the front of the building and Pinkman has an office on this floor. Find DeLuca’s desk, and I’ll search for Pinkman’s office. Shout if you need me.”
He nodded and made his way towards the doors. The lights in the office space beyond were dimmed. He pushed aside one of the doors and walked through. Overhead lights began to flicker on as the building management system detected his movement. Orderly rows of desks lined each wall, extending part way to the sloping front of the building where a large, glass meeting room was located. In the centre of the main floor was a partially enclosed room which Drum guessed to be another ad hoc meeting space.
He stood still and listened – something he had been trained to do. There was a faint hum of the air conditioning, but otherwise, the area was empty and quiet. He moved slowly along the row of desks, looking to see if any bore the name DeLuca. Fern was nowhere to be seen. She seemed quite happy to leave him to his own devices.
He came to the last desk on the left-hand side of the space, in sight of the glass-enclosed conference room. An embossed plate proudly displayed the name of Fabio DeLuca. Drum surveyed the area noting that the desk had been cleared of all paperwork. This was standard policy for financial companies operating in the City. He took off his rucksack and rummaged around inside until he found a toolkit of assorted screwdrivers. He laid them out neatly in a line on the desk.
There was nothing remarkable about the desk. It was similar to others in the room with two sets of drawers. Now, Fabio, he mused, are you a bad boy? He tugged at the top drawer which glided open. Fabio, you bad boy. You didn’t secure your desk. Sitting on top of a pile of papers were two memory sticks. Bingo! Evidence – or maybe just Italian porn. Either way, he tagged and bagged them. He opened the main drawer and was surprised by the sight of a laptop. Fabio, what have you been doing? He pulled out the laptop and placed it on the desk.
He thought he heard a noise in another office. “Fern?” He listened. He heard nothing but the hum of the air conditioning.
He started to examine the laptop. It was powered down. He would bag and tag it for later.
Drum saw him first, a large man in a dark suit with close-cropped hair coming out of a corner office near the reception area. He carried a laptop under his arm. He spotted Drum and stopped. They both stared at each other. He muttered something that Drum couldn’t make out then cursed in a language that Drum was familiar with – he had been cursed in Russian many times in Afghanistan.
“Hi,” said Drum. “Are you security?”
The Russian pulled a wicked looking knife from a sheath on his belt and manoeuvred himself between the desks.
Drum guessed he wasn’t the security guard. No heroics, Drum.
The Russian moved slowly towards him, beckoning him out from behind the desk with his knife and pointing to DeLuca’s laptop. It looked like they were after the same thing – whatever that was.
Drum stood his ground. He slowly moved the desk chair between himself and the advancing Russian. The big man slowed, recognising, perhaps, that his opponent was not about to cut and run. He started speaking softly. Drum reached down and let his hand explore the surface of the desk, his eyes never leaving the Russian. He felt for his toolkit. It was the best he could do.
The big Russian was less than a metre from him when he lurched forward with a straight-arm thrust of his knife. Drum’s left-hand and wrist snaked around his opponent's outstretched forearm and gripped it firmly, deflecting the blow, while at the same time kicking the chair hard into his legs. The Russian cursed loudly and fell forward, bringing him within range of Drum’s other hand which now gripped a long, thin screwdriver. Drum slammed it down hard into the man’s extended shoulder, its blade penetrating deep to the bone.
The Russian screamed, letting go of both his knife and the laptop, which bounced and then clattered off the desk before hitting the floor and shattering. He staggered back, clutching his shoulder and cursing loudly.
Fern strode into the office space and advanced towards the Russian. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Better late than never, thought Drum. The Russian saw her and abandoned his attack. He bent down and retrieved his knife and staggered towards the conference room, still clutching his wounded shoulder which was now bleeding profusely. Blood dripped down his hand and the tip of the blade, leaving a crimson trail across the floor.
Fern stopped beside the meeting room and waited for the Russian to come to her. Now would be a good time to draw your weapon, thought Drum. The Russian advanced slowly on Fern, mumbling to himself. He took the knife in his other hand and expertly flipped it around so that the blade was pointing down with it’s cutting edge facing out. Drum recognised the move. He meant to stab down or sweep across the throat in one cutting motion. Fern crouched into a fighting pose. Just shoot the fucker.
The Russian made a poor attempt at a feint before telegraphing a wide sweeping slash of his blade that was intended to cut across Fern’s throat. She saw it coming and nimbly stepped to one side, grabbing his wrist in a vice-like grip with her left hand and the upper arm with her right. Using the Russians forward momentum and her considerable strength, she pivoted her whole body, accelerating her opponent in a wide arc, sending him careering into the glass wall of the conference room with incredible force.
The glass shattered with a deafening crash, turning the wall into a cascade of sparkling diamonds. The Russian fell backwards through the broken glass before coming to rest, face-up, on the conference room table. He lay there, spreadeagled, not moving.
Fern stood staring at the prone figure. Drum said nothing. He moved from behind the desk and carefully made his way into the shattered conference room, the broken glass crunching beneath his feet. The guy looked dead, his screwdriver still embedded deep in his s
houlder. Drum leaned over and felt for a pulse in the Russian’s neck.
“He’s still alive.”
Fern made her way through the shattered wall, her combat boots scattering shards of glass in her wake. She pointed to the screwdriver.
“Good improv’ …”
CHAPTER FOUR
Breakfast at Ives
It was 5.30 am by the time Drum had completed bagging and tagging all the evidence. The first rays of dawn were beginning to brighten the City skyline. The office space had filled with armed NCA officers, regular City police and ambulance crews. The place was now a crime scene.
Fern had found the building security guard with his throat cut in Pinkman’s office. The guy had never stood a chance against a trained killer. It would have been better if Fern had shot the guy. They took him out, handcuffed to a stretcher with an armed NCA officer for company. Drum explained to one of the medics that he wanted his screwdriver back: it was part of a set.
Fern was slumped in one of the office chairs, legs outstretched with her hands behind her head and her eyes closed. He walked over to her carrying his rucksack. She looked beat.
“I’m all done here,” said Drum.
She opened her eyes and looked at him and wearily pushed herself out of the chair.
“I’ll walk you down.” She turned to one of her NCA officers. “Harris, I’m going down. I’ll be on my mobile if you need me.” The guy nodded.
They rode the elevator down in silence, each contemplating the events of the night. They picked their way through the yellow police tape that now cordoned off most of the mezzanine and climbed onto the escalator that led down to the atrium.
Drum was not a small man, but Alex Fern was a good head taller and broader in the shoulder than him. It took great strength to throw a man of the Russian’s size through a plate-glass window.
