by Tomas Black
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.
“What am I thinking?”
“I shouldn’t have thrown him through the window.”
“Ballsy move.”
“Yeah, well … I was angry – after I saw what he did to the security guard. And I shouldn’t have left you alone. God knows what would have happened if it had been one of my regular tech guys …”
Drum changed the subject. It was never a good idea to play ‘what if’ after a fight; that you survived was all that mattered. “Did you notice the tattoos on his neck? Not your regular thug. And he spoke to me in Russian,” said Drum.
She was silent for a while. “Yeah, you noticed that too …”
They were both quiet as they walked out onto Leadenhall Street. There were few pedestrians at this time in the morning and traffic was light. Fern raised her arms to the sky and stretched.
“God, I’m tired.” She studied him for a while. “You don’t look too good yourself.”
He ran a hand back through his light-brown hair. He needed to get it cut. He wore it longer since leaving the Army. He was approaching forty and flecks of grey peppered his temples. Git your fucking haircut, Drummond.
He was hungry. “Hey, why don’t I buy you breakfast?”
She thought for a moment then seemed to come to a decision. “Why not. I’m starving.” She hesitated. “What’s open at this time in the morning?”
“I know a place in the market. Trust me, you’ll like it,” said Drum.
“Ok, but first I need to shed this gear.” She pointed to a large, black van parked outside the Lloyds Building with the letters NCA painted boldly in white on its side. “I have my civilian kit in the back. This won’t take a minute. Let’s go.”
Drum followed her across the road to the NCA van. She banged on the doors which were opened by a young female officer.
“Joy, I need to change,” said Fern.
The young officer jumped down. “Yes, Ma’am.” She landed nimbly beside Drum and smiled. “Hi”.
Drum returned the smile.
Fern climbed into the back of the van and carefully removed her sidearm, placing it on top of a black holdall. No one attempted to close the doors. She quickly removed her black tactical gear until she was down to a black bra and briefs. She retrieved a clean t-shirt from the bag and a carefully folded grey trouser suit, then did a quick limbo to get them on within the small confines of the van. She then donned her sidearm beneath her jacket.
“Right, let’s go,” she said, jumping down.
Joyce pointed to her head. “Lose the hat.”
“Oh, right.” She tossed her hat in the back of the van then mussed up her short blonde hair. “That will have to do.”
Drum was beginning to warm to Alex Fern. There was no pretence of coyness about the woman – no false modesty. What you saw is what you got. And there was a lot of Fern to like.
Joy smiled once more at Drum. “Be seeing you.”
“Bye, Joy,” said Fern, striding off.
Drum marched in double-time to keep up. “What marked me as Army,” said Drum, curious.
She grinned. “The first time I’m introduced to a tech, they stare first at my tits, then my sidearm. It’s probably the first time they’ve seen either outside of a computer screen. You clocked my sidearm, then my tits.”
Drum laughed. “Your sidearm is a Glock 17, 9mm – standard issue for security forces.” He paused. “And I noticed you weren’t wearing a stab vest.”
It was her turn to laugh. Her whole demeanour was transformed when she smiled. “Yeah, well, they don’t make a woman’s vest in my size, and a man’s vest just wouldn’t cut it.
They were passing the entrance to the Lloyds Building when Drum noticed a tall man in a light-grey suit with straw-coloured hair leaning nonchalantly against the side of a sporty silver Mercedes. He was smoking a long black cigarette. He could have been a chauffeur, but as they drew closer Drum could tell he was powerfully built. The guy wore a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck which partially exposed a set of distinctive tattoos. His previous encounter with the Russian had put him on edge.
“On your right … big guy – eyeballing us.”
Fern turned slightly. “Yeah, spotted him back at the van.”
She unbuttoned her jacket so her sidearm was in full view then stopped and faced their observer. The tall man threw down his cigarette and leisurely got back into his car. The engine started, and the car lurched forward and headed back down Lime Street.
Drum walked over and retrieved the cigarette. It was a Sobranie – a Russian brand.
~~~
There has been a market at Leadenhall as far back as 1445. It was one of Drum’s favourite locations with its ornate Victorian roof and red painted colonnade. There was something of the Dickensian about the place, except it was now frequented by well-heeled Lloyds Underwriters and City traders. The Ives restaurant was situated just inside the market, off Lime Street, and above a fishmongers that was famous for its smoked salmon and oysters. The restaurant was the fruition of the long-held ambition of Sergeant Ian (Brock) Ives, NCO of her Majesty’s SAS, retired.
The seed of the idea to open a restaurant in the heart of the City of London had been sown one evening on his last tour of Afghanistan in some desert between Helmand and Kandahar. There had been Ives, Dick Davis, Joe Cairns, Tommy McPherson and Ben Drummond. They had been surviving on rations until Dick (Poacher) Davis did some negotiating with one of the local tribes for a goat and some spices.
The Poacher, as the troop called him, had been a gamekeeper in civilian life. He was a tall, lanky man with a soft West Country accent that could charm a bird from a tree. The Poacher could also look up at the sky and give you a fairly accurate assessment of the weather. On that particular tour, he would look up at the beginning of each day and without fail declare that it would be ‘bloody hot’.
Ives then preceded to cook them the best goat curry they had ever tasted. Drum said he should open a restaurant. He and Ives had been friends ever since.
The restaurant had been open for a little over a year but had already acquired a reputation among the City elite for serving a great breakfast. Their doors opened at 6:30 am to take advantage of early morning traders, and those power brokers that liked to do deals before the lunchtime rush.
They arrived at the restaurant a little past opening time. Drum led the way up a flight of stairs to a large dining area. City traders were already seated at several tables, and waiters were taking their orders. The place had a rustic feel, with its rough wooden floor and cast iron columns that supported the Victorian roof. Long down-lights with glowing orange filaments gave it a cosy atmosphere.
A short, stocky man in a white apron came barreling out of the kitchen at the back of the restaurant carrying two steaming plates. He had a hard, craggy face and bushy eyebrows that hid soft brown eyes. A silvery-white stripe cut through the centre of his salt and pepper hair. He stopped when he saw Drum.
“Benjamin! Good to see you. Let me get rid of these.”
He served the diners with the plates and made some small talk for a minute or two. Ives had become quite the bon vivant. He signalled to Drum and led them to a table marked ‘private’, tucked away discreetly in a corner at the back of the room.
“My special table for those patrons carrying concealed weapons.”
Drum smiled. “Brock, meet Commander Alex Fern. NCA.”
Brock took Fern’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you, Commander.”
“Call me Fern. Another military man, I’m guessing?”
“Why yes. How did you know?”
Drum and Fern both laughed.
“Sorry, Brock,” said Drum, “long story. We’ve been up all night on a job, and we’re starving.”
Brock beamed. “Of course. How about the morning special? Poached Haddock with Poached Egg and Rustic Loaf.”
“Sounds amazing,” said Fern.
“You
sit tight. I’ll be right back with some coffee. You both look knackered.”
They wearily eased themselves into their chairs. Within minutes, Brock kicked open the kitchen doors carrying a large coffee pot. “Food’s on its way.” He then disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Brock?” said Fern.
Drum poured them two coffees. He added cream to his cup from a jug on the table. Fern declined.
“He’s always had that stripe of white hair. Born that way. So he got the nickname ‘Brock’ after the badger.”
Brock came backwards out of the kitchen doors carrying two steaming plates of food.
“And what did they call you?” asked Fern.
“He was called ‘The Package’”, said Brock, placing the plates on the table.
Drum rolled his eyes.
Brock winked. “Well, I’d better be getting back to the kitchen. Give me a shout if you need anything.”
“You two obviously served together,” said Fern, grabbing the Rustic Loaf.
“Afghanistan.”
She looked at him and raised her eyebrows, wanting more of the story.
Drum’s mind drifted back to a cold night in the desert and a hot goat curry.
“I was the assigned mission specialist to Brock’s troop. The SAS call non-troop members ‘Packages’. It’s their job to get them to a location and to get them out.” He rarely spoke of those times, and darker memories came flooding back. “Anyway … enough of my war stories. Tuck in.”
They ate in silence, Fern cutting the Rustic Loaf into great slabs and thickly spreading the butter, Drum demolishing his fish and eggs.
“God that was good,” said Fern, pushing her clean plate away and leaning back in her chair.
Drum poured them some more coffee. “So tell me, what does the Russian Mafia want with these two laptops?”
She looked at him over the rim of her cup and slowly sipped her coffee. She was obviously debating something with herself.
“Well, it’s no secret that the NCA has been keeping tabs on organised crime involving the Russian Mafia. We’ve seen their operations expand this past year – drugs, people trafficking, money laundering – the usual. There’s a growing concern they’re targeting City institutions. But why they’d be interested in these particular laptops … I really have no idea.”
Drum finished his coffee and regarded her across the table. She wasn’t telling him everything.
“Your turn,” she said. “Why did NCA Operations call you and not my regular guy?”
That was a good question. Drum didn’t know either. Then a thought occurred to him.
“You’ve heard of Phyllis Delaney?”
“Everyone knows Phyllis Delaney in our business. Why do you ask?”
Of course, he thought. Anyone involved in rooting out financial crime knows Delaney. She has her fingers in every major government body involved in the financial sector. When bad shit hits the corporate fan, the Fed and other financial regulators call in the firm of Roderick, Olivier and Delaney. Those in the financial community simply called it the ROD.
“You mentioned the raid was initiated by the Department of Justice. I think ROD are somehow involved – at least on the DOJ side.”
Fern frowned. “Possibly. But why call you?”
“I used to work for ROD – until recently, that is.”
“What happened?”
“Delaney and I had a falling out.”
Fern pursed her lips. “Not a good person to fall out with, I would have thought.”
Drum had to agree. Still, this was just like Delaney. She never liked anyone to quit the firm – unless it was on her terms.
“Anyway,” he said, “looks like you’re stuck with me.”
She smiled. It was a smile he could get used to.
“I’d better be going,” she said, looking at her watch. She pushed back her chair and stood up, straightening her jacket, making sure her weapon was concealed. Bad form to frighten the diners. “You’ll let me know asap when you’ve finished with your forensic examination of the laptop data.”
Drum stood and said, “I’ll get to work on it today.”
She nodded. “Thank Brock for a lovely breakfast.” She handed him a card. “In case you need me.”
Something was still bothering him. “Quick question. Do you know the big guy – the one outside Lloyds?”
She hesitated for a second. “Yes. He’s an enforcer for a guy called Vladimir Abramov – the head of the Russian Mafia.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Interview
Drum was late leaving the restaurant. Brock had plied him with more coffee and insisted on knowing every detail of his encounter with the Russian and his thoughts on Commander Alex Fern. Spetsnaz for sure was Brock’s expert opinion. The move with the knife – classic Russian military. Lucky to be alive. “And she threw him through a plate-glass window. Bloody hell. Good job she was there to protect you.”
It was after 8:30 am when he finally made it back to his office on Butler’s Wharf. Drum’s father had bought the lease on the property when London’s docks were being re-developed. William had always been a canny trader – even when he was selling fruit and veg. He now owned the leases on several prime properties on the south side of the river. When asked about the money he had made, William would always say he was comfortable.
Drum’s office was a corner property, tucked just below Tower Bridge with a view onto the river. The ground floor comprised mostly of office space; it was not big by commercial standards but sufficient for his needs as a specialist contractor to the City. The level above was given over to a small apartment which was accessed by a wrought-iron spiral staircase from the office below. William said it lacked a woman’s touch. Drum called it home.
The sign on the large plate-glass window of the office read Security Risk Dynamics. Raj Patel was waiting outside for him, taking a break.
“Ben! Glad you could make it.” He nodded to the small reception area just inside the entrance where two women sat. “I was about to send them home.”
Raj Patel was Drum’s only employee, a young security analyst from Delhi hired over a year ago as a favour to a friend in one of the banks. Drum had sponsored his visa – a long, drawn-out process that he thought would never end. But Raj had proved himself invaluable and one of the best cybersecurity analysts he’d ever met.
“Oh, Christ, I’d forgotten all about the interviews. How long have they been waiting?”
“Since eight this morning,” said Raj. “They’re overflowing with my tea.”
“Sorry, Raj. Long night. I’ll fill you in later.” He handed Raj his rucksack. “There are two laptops in there – all bagged and tagged – register them in the evidence log and remove the hard drives. We’ll need a forensic examination as soon as possible. The NCA is in a hurry. You know the drill.”
“No problem, Ben,” said Raj. He hurried into the office, glad to have something to do.
Drum followed him. Of the two people waiting one was a young woman in her early twenties, thumbing her mobile, oblivious to her surroundings; the other woman was much older, waiting patiently with her hands resting in her lap. Drum guessed the older woman to be in her mid-sixties. Seeing her reminded him of something William had said, but he couldn’t think what.
“Hi, I’m Ben Drummond. Sorry to keep you waiting.” The young woman looked at him, mouth agape. The older woman smiled warmly and with mild amusement. He suddenly realised he must look a mess. There was blood on his trainers, and he hadn’t shaved since yesterday. He was hot and sweaty from the run back from the market.
The older woman stood up and held out her hand, unfazed by his appearance. “I’m Alice. Pleased to meet you.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “Looks like you’ve had a busy night?”
He knew what was nagging at him.
“I’ve met someone,” his father had said on one of the rare occasions they shared a pint together. “Nice lady. At the bowl’s club. We’r
e … you know, seeing each other. Dating, if that’s the right word for people of our age. I told her you were looking for someone to help with the office work. I think she can type. Even does shorthand. Her name is Alice.”
~~~
Alice was still waiting for him when he returned to the office after a shower and shave. He’d donned a charcoal-grey suit and a clean white shirt, open at the neck. He’d not worn a tie since leaving the army.
“Where’s our young friend?” said Drum, pointing to the empty chair.
“I think she had a social media crisis,” replied Alice, straight-faced. “Said she couldn’t wait any longer and left.” She cast an eye over his new appearance. “That’s better.”
Drum escorted her to his office which looked out over the Thames. A tourist boat sounded its horn as it passed under the bridge. Drum wasn’t the tidiest person on the planet, but he had to admit his office was a mess.
A pathetic looking Lily on the window sill had succumbed to neglect and given up the ghost. Various papers and folders were scattered over his desk, and more files stood sentry on the floor by the door. He had to clear a chair before Alice could sit down.
“Sorry about the mess. Things have been a little hectic of late,” he confided, sheepishly.
Alice didn’t seem a bit put out. She dusted the chair with her hand and sat down. She looked around the office. “I think your plant has expired.”
Drum regarded the shrivelled specimen. “It’s just resting.”
She reached down and retrieved her bag, a fine leather satchel, taking out a slim bound document which she handed to him. Drum realised it was her resume.
Drum skimmed the neatly typed pages: Public school, moving up to Cambridge to study Modern Languages as an undergraduate; then to Oxford University for a Masters in Russian; a year off travelling after graduation and then recruited to the Civil Service. A long but undistinguished period in the Foreign Office and, towards the end of her career, a few years in the Treasury. Her life, on paper at least, was a correctly ordered timeline from Public School to retiree - no gaps, no blemishes, no deviations. A career Civil Servant was Alice - or so it seemed.
