by Tomas Black
She sat upright and perfectly still, intently watching his every move. She did not speak, patiently waiting for him to finish reading, her small, white manicured hands folded in her lap. She wore little makeup, yet her skin was fair and glowing, softening the crows-feet of age etched around her pale-blue eyes. It seemed to Drum that she was assessing him; not him assessing her. Her silvery-white hair would have been quite long, had it not been fashioned into a neat bun and held in place by an elaborate enamelled pin, shaped in the form of a butterfly.
All in all, Alice was a handsome, yet unremarkable woman. But it was how she dressed that caught Drum’s attention.
They were the clothes you thought a Civil Servant should wear: a plain, dark-blue suit jacket, perfectly tailored to her slim frame and a matching knee-length skirt. Her plain white silk blouse was open at the neck, revealing a string of small, luminescent pearls, and her shoes were what William called, ‘sensible shoes’: low heeled and soft leather, the colour of her suit. This was all perfectly fine, except that her clothes were obviously very expensive.
“A super resume,” said Drum.
“Curriculum Vitae.”
“Sorry –“
“We call it a ‘Curriculum Vitae’ over here,” she said. “Latin: the course of one’s life.”
Drum looked up and smiled. “Guess I’ve spent too much time over there, Alice.”
She blushed. “I’m so sorry. That was very rude of me. Haven’t had an interview in years –”
“Chanel?” Drum said.
“Sorry – what?”
“Your suit. Worked with a colleague from Paris once. She wore something similar.”
Alice instinctively looked down, as if worried something was out of place. “Why – why yes it is. You're very observant.” She absentmindedly flicked at her skirt. “More than you can say about your father …”
Drum could tell she instantly regretted mentioning his father. He laughed. “You're not far wrong there, Alice. Now, on the other hand, if you were to wear a string of jellied eels around your neck, instead of those pearls, he might take more notice.”
She looked at him and inclined her head then burst into a cackle of laughter. “Oh, my. You’re so like your father.”
They both sat there laughing at William’s expense. And when she laughed, she became a completely different person - more animated, the crows-feet around her eyes softening her face.
“Oh, look …” She hesitated.
“Call me Ben.”
“Yes, thank you, Ben. Look, I told William that this was probably a bad idea –“
“Nonsense. You’re the best candidate I’ve seen all morning.”
She looked around at the empty reception area. “I appear to be your only candidate …” and they both burst out laughing once more.
“Look, Alice, the job’s yours if you want it. But frankly, with your – ” he chose his next word carefully “ credentials, I’m worried you’d find the work boring.”
She allowed herself a wry smile. “Oh, I don’t think so. Looks like you could use a little help around here.” She cast her eye once more around the office. “I can start tomorrow if you like?”
And with that Alice Pritchard became the newest recruit to the business.
CHAPTER SIX
The Undershaft
The offices of RBI were now a crime scene which meant that Rhodes and his cohort of traders had to find temporary accommodation elsewhere if they were to continue trading. Murder, it seemed, was not considered too big an obstacle to the continued creation of wealth. The bank’s alternate location was activated.
The secondary dealing room of Rhodes Metals was a squat redbrick relic of the Victorian era, located just behind the Leadenhall building. It sat incongruously between the small, medieval church of St. Helen’s and the towering phallic icon Londoners called the Gherkin. If the relic had a name, Damian Rhodes and his traders never used it: since moving into the building they merely referred to it as The Undershaft.
Rhodes arrived early. He liked to prepare for his morning briefing, scheduled for 7:30 am. Anyone turning up late to the meeting was fined one hundred pounds – no matter how senior they were. Since moving to the new location, traders referred to this process as being shafted.
Rhodes handpicked all traders himself. They had a reputation in the market for being uncompromising and tough; those that survived the dealing room were those that made a profit – no questions asked. Rhodes knew that DeLuca was not one of them. He was disappointed with the young Italian – DeLuca had delayed the execution of his dealing instructions, a delay that could have cost him millions. Then the Auditor had turned up.
Rhodes didn’t mind his new office. He didn’t miss the vertical commute each morning. There was something civilised about just walking into a building through the front door at street level. His new PA was waiting for him.
“Good morning, Mr Rhodes.” She handed him an espresso.
“Morning, Sam. No calls until after the briefing.”
“I’m sorry, but you have a visitor.“
He stopped in his tracks. “What – at this time in the morning?” He looked at his watch. It was 7.05 am.
Samantha Jenkins looked pained, a deep frown cutting across her perfect forehead. “It’s Sir Henry. He’s waiting in your office.”
His office in The Undershaft had an Edwardian feel, an old boys club smelling of brandy and old cigars. A brown leather Chesterfield couch furnished each wall together with a large central bookcase. His desk was an antique behemoth of satinwood-inlaid mahogany with a green leather top. Sir Henry was ensconced on one of the couches enjoying a cup of tea, courtesy of the ever-thoughtful Samantha.
“Sir Henry,” said Rhodes, throwing his coat over the back of his desk chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Sir Henry Minton was a thickset man in his late-sixties with steel-grey hair. He was old money, the family cash having come from shipping and banking for generations. His wealth was inherited not earned, and Rhodes despised him for it. He was also chairman of Reinhart Benson International.
“The board is worried,” said Sir Henry.
Rhodes thought this to be an understatement given recent events. He sat down on the adjoining couch and sipped his espresso.
“Sally Choong of Custody reports that bullion is missing from the vault … and now this raid?”
And not a mention of the poor bastard who had his throat cut, thought Rhodes. He placed his espresso cup on a small table beside the couch. “Let me assure you, Sir Henry, that no gold is missing from the vault. Custody doesn’t know their arse from their elbow. The gold was moved on Friday to the alternate vault in Eastcheap. Unfortunately, our Vault Manager – Harvey Pinkman – had a family emergency and didn’t have time to update the inventory system.”
Sir Henry looked sceptical. “So, you’re telling me that the six metric tons of gold that should have been in the vault is all accounted for.”
“Precisely.”
“But why move it in the first place?”
Rhodes knew Sir Henry was clueless about the workings of a bullion vault, despite his position in the company. It was one of the reasons RBI had bought Rhodes Metals. He tried to make it simple for the chairman. “The vault sprung a leak.”
Sir Henry looked incredulous. “Sprung a leak! What are you talking about?”
“The vault is located beside the Embankment – beneath the level of the Thames in fact. We noticed there was water seeping in from somewhere – the construction is relatively new. Pinkman was investigating. The vault was cleared so that work could be carried out to correct the problem. Can’t have workman helping themselves to bars of gold, now can we.”
Sir Henry might be a dinosaur, thought Rhodes, but he was no fool. He waited for the inevitable.
“Well,” replied Sir Henry, “that being the case, you’ll have no objection to a full audit of the bullion inventory. The Audit and Risk Committee are insisting on it.”
“Of course,” said Rhodes, helpfully. “I’ll give the Audit Manager a call and set one up.”
Sir Henry paused sipping his tea. “That won’t be necessary.” He eased himself out from the comfort of the couch. “We might have a bigger problem.” He walked over to the window and stared out as if searching for inspiration. “Our American friends at the Department of Justice are putting pressure on our regulators on this side of the pond to look into irregularities regarding our trading.”
Rhodes sat forward. “What irregularities?”
Sir Henry turned to face him. “They won’t say, exactly – playing their cards close to their chest, as it were. But it’s clear your bullion trading has come under scrutiny. Apparently, there’s a whistleblower.”
Of course, thought Rhodes, the Auditor with the red hair – it could even be DeLuca. “Look, Sir Henry, let me reassure you that our trading is squeaky clean –”
“Oh, well,” interjected Sir Henry, “not for me to say – up to the board.” He paused. “That’s why it’s been decided to bring in outside expertise – in fact, the DOJ is insisting on it.”
“Who do they want to bring in?” asked Rhodes.
“Roderick, Olivier and Delaney. They’ll be liaising with the NCA.”
Rhodes knew of ROD’s reputation. Their investigation would be no picnic. They hired the best and dug deep. Things had just gone from bad to worse. “How long have we got?”
“A week – maybe two. I’m flying to New York to be briefed by the DOJ.” The chairman looked at his watch. “Well, better go …” He hesitated. “Look, Rhodes. If you’re as squeaky clean as you say, you have nothing to worry about.”
Rhodes stood up and forced a smile. “Of course – thank you for stopping by.”
Sir Henry nodded and walked swiftly out of the office.
Two weeks. That’s all he had to put his house in order. The most pressing issue was the whereabouts of Harvey Pinkman and the six tons of gold bullion that should have been in the vault.
Rhodes was still pondering the problem when Samantha Jenkins poked her head around the door. “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Rhodes, but the team are waiting.”
He looked at his watch. It was 7:45 am. He had just been shafted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Visit from Victor
It was early Friday morning, and Drum was already awake. His mind had been churning with the events of the previous night and sleep had evaded him. He raised the blinds of his bedroom window and stared out across Tower Bridge. The low Autumn sun danced playfully on the waters of the Thames, showering the river with a myriad of dancing lights. He was reminded of the Russian crashing through the plate-glass window. Good improv’.
Someone had wanted him there, that was for sure. At first, he thought it had been Delaney’s machinations, but the more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. After all, she would have just called him. And why had they used his army rank? Captain Drummond? You’re needed at the Leadenhall Building.
Drum’s apartment was a spartan affair – more like an army barracks than a home, said his father. A large bed was placed against one wall of a relatively spacious lounge which adjoined a modern kitchen-diner. A large, well-equipped shower cum-wet-room made up the rest of the space.
Drum showered and dressed in a grey wool suit and plain white shirt. He would have liked to have dressed less formally, but he never knew when a client would stop by or want an impromptu meeting across the river in the City. He observed his appearance in a full-length mirror. He was approaching forty but still looked lean and fit. He swept a hand through his long damp hair and thought about getting it cut. A dark shadow of stumble completed the look.
By the time he had made it downstairs, Alice had arrived. She was smartly dressed in a matching grey-check jacket and skirt with a dark grey sweater and carried her leather satchel over her shoulder. He was reminded of someone he used to work with. Alice wanted to reorganise his filing system, she told him, and clear his office of all stray papers. So, he headed out and took a walk along the wharf and grabbed himself a coffee.
It was gone eight when he arrived back at the office. Alice was sitting behind the small reception desk sorting through a pile of papers.
“Raj is out back – in the tech room, cloning the drives,” she said matter-of-factly. “At least, that is what he said he was doing.” She nodded in the direction of his office. “And you have visitors.”
He was surprised to see Victor Renkov sitting in his office. His life was inexplicably full of Russians.
“Benjamin!” said Victor, standing and enthusiastically shaking his hand.
“It’s been a while, Victor.”
Drum hardly recognised his office: the scattered papers had all been removed, and his desk looked neat and tidy; in place of his expired plant now stood a beautiful, purple orchid – at least, that is what Drum thought it could be. On his black couch, which previously had been used as an impromptu filing system, now lounged a young woman in a dark purple dress, split modestly at the knee. A thin, black belt was fastened around her slim waist.
Drum turned to face the young woman.
Victor paused. “Oh, yes. This is Anna. My … PA.”
“Please to meet you, Anna.”
Anna smiled warmly.
Drum returned the smile and sat at his newly-cleared desk. “How long has it been, Victor?”
Before Victor could answer, Alice entered the room. “Can I get you some tea, Mr Renkov?”
“No thank you, my dear.” He turned to Anna and spoke to her in Russian. Anna fired back a sharp rebuke. It seemed to Drum that Victor was having a little PA trouble. Victor was about to reply when Alice spoke to her in Russian. The woman looked a little surprised, shrugged her shoulders and eased herself out of the couch in one smooth movement.
“Anna and I will chat outside,” said Alice. “We’ll leave you gents to catch up.” She held the door open until Anna had left the room then followed her out and closed the door.
“I didn’t know you’d hired a Russian,” said Victor, in amazement. “She speaks like a native Muscovite.”
“A Masters in Russian, apparently”, replied Drum, remembering Alice’s resume. “What did she say to your PA?”
Victor laughed. “Basically told her not to be a bore and let the men talk.”
Victor was always the charmer. A son of a minor government official, he had saved and borrowed money to study business at a little-known educational establishment in central London that specialised in acquiring visas for foreign students. The scheme turned out to be a scam, by which time most of his money was gone. Not wanting to return home to his family in disgrace, he spent his last few pounds in a charity shop on a well-worn suit and a pair of brown leather brogues. He then headed for the City of London and made a fortune in the money markets. Drum never entirely bought into the story, but Victor’s rise in the City had been remarkable.
Victor removed his overcoat and threw it over the back of the couch. He was dressed for a City boardroom in a three-piece navy suit with a narrow pinstripe. A red and blue striped regimental tie secured the neck of his off-white shirt, the collar of which was held in place by an ornate gold pin. He moved to the window, hands in his pockets, and stared out.
“Nice view you have here,” he said, half to himself.
“What’s troubling you, Victor?”
“I have a problem.” He moved back to the couch and flopped down. “At least I think I do.”
Drum knew that this was going to take a while. It was time he didn’t have. “C’mon, Victor. Cut to the chase.”
“Right. Well, since we last met, I’ve branched out – currency trading not as profitable as it used to be. China catches a cold, and the markets take a dive. So I started investing in precious metals – gold especially – as a hedge against the bad times and the volatility of the markets. It’s always been a safe haven when times get tough. So far, so good.” He paused. “Looks like your Alice is getting
on with Anna …”
Drum looked out into the reception area. That was the trouble with modern office designs, they were almost entirely constructed of glass. Like working in a goldfish bowl. Alice and Anna were having an animated conversation about something.
“Anyway,” continued Victor, “news gets around, and some of my investors want in on the action – but they want physical bullion, not interested in the paper investments around gold. No, they want to see and touch the stuff. So, I open what’s called an ‘allocated’ account with RBI. Been buying and storing gold in their vault for the past year –”
“RBI?” interrupted Drum. “That would be Reinhart Benson International?”
“Yes, do you know them?”
Certain sounds remind Drum that trouble is coming his way. The sounds of weapons being checked just before combat; the snap of a slider being pulled back on Glock; the sound of the front door slamming when his father returned home from work. There was something in Victor’s voice that had a similar effect.
“I’ve heard of them,” said Drum, casually. “Go on.”
“So I get this call - late one night,” continued Victor. “One of the Auditors from RBI – telling me there’s a problem with my account. I need to come to the vault.”
“Wait. Why would an Auditor be calling you?” said Drum, a little confused.
“That’s what I thought,” replied Victor. “So, I arrived at the vault the next day. I take Anna - thought to impress the girl. Trouble is the vault’s empty!”
Drum leaned back in his chair and frowned. “The vault was … empty? What were you expecting to see?”
Victor stood up and began to pace. “I’ll tell you what I was expecting to see: just over a metric ton of my gold – or strictly speaking, my clients gold!”
“And the Auditor …”
“Right, right. She was as surprised as I was. According to the Custody Officer who was present when the vault was opened, I should have had eighty bars of gold bullion tucked up nice and safe inside.”
