by Tomas Black
“And it was empty …”
“Nichevo,” said Victor, reverting to his native Russian. “Zilch, nada.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Drum, rubbing his temple, “you get a call from one of the bank's Auditors who tells you there’s a problem with your gold account.”
“Right.”
“You turn up with … Anna and you’re told you have eighty bars of gold bullion sitting in the vault – how much is that worth, by the way?”
“About forty-eight million US.”
Drum was used to working with large numbers in the City, but still … that was a large amount of money to misplace.
“Ok, so the vault is opened and zilch. The vault is empty.”
“Precisely.”
It made no sense to Drum. “There must be a mistake in the inventory – the gold is at another location, perhaps. And this was Monday, you say?”
“Yes.”
“So, today’s Friday. Have you gone back to the bank and queried the problem – spoken to the Auditor?”
“Look, Benjamin. Do you think I’d be here if everything were fine? I’ve tried calling the bank – asked for the Auditor. They tell me she no longer works there. I’ve asked for the Custody Officer. Guess what? She’s moved back to Hong Kong!” Victor paced over to the window. “Ben – you have got to help me sort this out. I thought with your contacts you might have heard something?”
“Heard what exactly?”
Victor glanced at Drum. “Well, I thought that since you work with the NCA, you might know what’s going on at RBI – they’re all over the news. Something about a murder?”
Drum had yet to look at a newspaper, let alone turn on the TV. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the murder had made the front pages. But there was someone in this whole saga that Victor hadn’t mentioned, or had left out for some reason.
“Victor, I don’t know too much about dealing in gold, but I understand enough about vaults to know you need a representative from three departments to be present before it can be opened: Audit, Custody and Vault Services. Where was the Vault Manager?”
Victor thrust his hands back in his pockets and stared out of the window, chewing things over. A pleasure boat sounded its horn as it approached Tower Bridge. Drum had heard the sound many times before, but on this occasion, it resonated with the warning ringing in his head.
Victor watched the boat disappear under the bridge, and this seemed to break his reverie. He turned to face Drum. “Ah, yes. The Vault Manager. The person I normally deal with didn’t turn up. They sent a snot-nosed assistant in his place.”
“Who were you expecting?” said Drum, although, by now, he thought he knew.
“Pinkman,” replied Victor, “I always deal with Harvey Pinkman.”
~~~
Victor was disappointed when Drum declined further work at the bank. It’s not that he didn’t want to help, it was just he was fully committed to his current assignment. Victor looked crestfallen and left shortly after.
Drum was still digesting the information gleaned from Victor when Alice walked in with a tray.
“Thought you might like some tea after your Russian experience,” she said, placing the tray on his desk. She sat herself down on the couch, fussing with her jacket. “Raj is coming.”
Drum was beginning to like having Alice around. She’d handled Victor’s arm-candy with consummate ease. And his office looked great.
“Thanks, Alice. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble –”
“Oh, tsk, tsk,” she said, picking at her skirt, “it’s nothing – and we could all do with a break. Why don’t you be mother?”
Drum poured them both some tea. He didn’t know they had a teapot. They both sat in silence for a minute or two, sipping their tea as English people do. Drum broke first.
“Thanks for dealing with Victor’s PA. You were very professional.”
Alice gave him a wry smile and chuckled to herself. “Oh, my. What did you make of her?”
Drum thought it an odd question. She was looking at him, assessing him. “Well, an attractive woman –”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Apart from the obvious – her demeanour. What did you think?”
Drum thought back to his first impression of the young woman lounging on his couch, her tone with Victor. You didn’t have to understand Russian to know she had told Victor to take a hike. “Well, thinking about it … she certainly wasn’t Victor’s PA, neither was she a piece of arm-candy. You seemed to have a long chat with her. What did you think?”
“Hm, I think she was looking after someone else’s interests. Certainly not Victors.” She sipped her tea and looked at Drum over the rim of her cup. “And her accent … Ukrainian, I think.”
“Victor complimented you on your Russian. Thought you were a Muscovite.”
“Oh, the sweet boy. Bit of a charmer is our Victor. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
Drum smiled. Alice was very perceptive. “Really, Alice. What makes you say that?”
“Oh, past experience, I guess. Russians – can be devious bastards. Dealt with too many of them.”
“This would be at the … Foreign Office?”
Alice slowly returned her cup to her saucer, the clink of china signalling the end of the conversation. “Oh, tsk, tsk. Just me being silly. I’m sure he’s a very nice man. Are you going to help him out?”
Drum wondered what Alice had learned from her conversation with Anna. “I can’t. Told him it would be a conflict of interest. Already fully committed to this job with the NCA. But it didn’t stop him pumping me for information concerning RBI.”
Drum was debating whether to tell Alice about the raid on the Leadenhall Building when Raj walked in.
“Good news, bad news,” he chimed, helping himself to some tea. “I didn’t know we had a teapot?”
“Bad news first,” said Drum.
“Bad news is the Pinkman laptop is encrypted.”
Damn, thought Drum. Fern will be pissed. “What’s the good news?”
“The good news is the DeLuca laptop is wide open. I’m running the data analysis now.”
“The encryption on Pinkman’s laptop. Can we crack it?” asked Drum.
“I don’t think so,” said Raj, blowing on his tea. Looks like someone has used a strong key sequence.” He paused. “You didn’t find a post-it note on his desk, perchance?”
Drum laughed. “Sorry, Raj. I was a little busy.”
Alice sat up and gave him a hard look, the crows feet around her eyes deepening. “This job of yours … it wouldn’t have been in the Leadenhall Building, would it?”
“Why, yes,” said Drum.
“It’s all over this morning’s news,” said Raj. “Poor man was murdered – arrested some Russian.”
Great, thought Drum.
“Alright,” said Alice, “spill the beans.”
So Drum recounted the events of the raid and the discussion he’d had with Victor.
“And this Russian tried to kill you,” repeated Raj, incredulous.
“Bastard!” cried Alice. They both looked at her in surprise. “Sorry, chaps …”
“And this Fern woman shot him,” said Raj.
“Threw him into a plate-glass window. He was still breathing when I checked.”
“Pity,” muttered Alice.
Raj finished his tea. “I’d better get back to it. Shame about the Pinkman laptop. Seems he’s now a person of interest.”
Alice was looking thoughtful. She turned to Drum, “Did you tell Victor that you had this Pinkman’s laptop?”
“No, I thought it best to keep quiet about that,” said Drum.
“Good. The less Victor knows about your involvement in the raid the better.”
Drum frowned. “You really don’t trust him?”
Alice forced a smile. “Well, just me being silly …” She picked at something on her skirt. “It’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think … Victor coming
here asking about this Pinkman?”
Drum had to admit she was right. Victor was after information. About what, he didn’t know.
Alice rose from the couch and was about to leave when she hesitated. “It’s Saturday tomorrow. Why don’t you visit William? He’d love to see you.”
Drum thought about this. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s your father, and for another, you haven’t seen each other for a while.”
Drum leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Ok, Alice. I’ll give him a call – because it’s you.”
Alice beamed. “Thanks, Ben. He’ll like that.”
She was about to leave when Drum had a thought. “Alice, just one thing.”
“What’s that, Ben.”
“Let’s keep office work between us. I don’t want William hearing about Russians trying to kill me.”
Alice gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Of course, Ben. I know how to keep a secret.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Spitalfields Market
Drum threw on a pair of faded blue jeans and a t-shirt for his meeting with his father. It had been a while since they had sat down and had a proper talk. He knew it was important to Alice that they meet, so he guessed William had something to tell him. He grabbed his old leather jacket and left his apartment. It was a crisp Autumn morning, so he decided to walk, heading out over the bridge to the City beyond.
William had business near Liverpool Street, so Drum had agreed to meet in Spitalfields Market. William had complained once that the market was becoming too ‘trendy’. It’s only saving grace, according to William, was you could still get served a decent bowl of jellied eels.
As a boy, William would take him to the fish market at Old Billingsgate and buy three or four live eels. He would carry them home, wrapped in newspaper and held tightly under his arm lest they escape. They did once, and he received a sharp cuff around the ear for his trouble. Once back home, William would decapitate the eels, gut, chop and boil them in a spiced stock and allow the evil brew to cool until set in their own jelly-like fluids. They would then be eaten cold. The dish goes back to the eighteenth century and indeed only found in London’s East End.
Drum found William sitting on a bench, in the food hall of the market, a bowl of his favourite eels before him.
“Hello, William,” said Drum, sitting down opposite his father. “Don’t wait for me. Tuck in.”
William was dressed in a smart green, waxed jacket with a matching flat cap. His silvery-grey hair beneath looked recently trimmed, and he was cleanly shaved. Drum thought his father was looking well; Alice was apparently having an effect.
“Hello, son – an’ I wish for once you’d call me Dad.”
“Hello, Dad,” said Drum, humouring his father.
William eyed an unusually large piece of eel and stabbed it with his fork. He raised it slowly to his mouth, a portion of the jelly-like mass dripping from its decapitated body.
“How’s it going then, son? Met anyone interesting?”
Drum had grown up eating many different types of food in London’s East End, he’d even watched Brock eat a whole sheep’s head in the deserts of Afghanistan, but he still couldn’t bear to watch his father eat eels.
“Met a Russian the other night – on a job,” said Drum.
William looked past his piece of eel. “A Russian, eh.”
“Yeah, I lent him my screwdriver.”
“That was nice of you,” replied William.
“Never gave it back,” said Drum.
“Bastard.”
“That’s what I said. Told a lady friend I was with –”
William was about to bite into his lump of eel when he paused. “A lady friend, eh. Bout time you met someone …”
“Tall girl –”
“You like em tall,” said William.
“He only goes and swears at her – in Russian.”
“No. The swine!” exclaimed William.
“That’s what I said.”
“What she do then – this girl of yours?” asked William.
“Grabs hold of him and throws him through a plate-glass window.”
“No … ‘ang on, you’re pulling my leg …”
“That’s what he said!”
They both burst out laughing.
It’s good to see you, son. Are you sure I can’t get you some eels?”
“No thanks.”
They sat in silence together, father and son, just enjoying each others company. As relationships go, theirs had been a difficult one. William had married young, his Spanish flower, he called her. A romance that blossomed while visiting a flower market in Barcelona. Benjamin had been their only child. But a tragic road accident robbed him of his only true love when Benjamin was just five years old, leaving William to struggle as a single parent.
William raised his son as best he knew how – as his father had raised him. Don’t mollycoddle the boy, his fellow traders warned; spare the rod, spoil the child was their sage advice. But William loved his son; he just kept it a secret from him.
With William off working and coming home late, Benjamin was left to fend for himself. He did well in school but was often in fights; at one point the Social threatened to take him away. Then a friend in the market suggested the Army. Put my lad straight, it did, his friend confided. So Benjamin was conscripted to the cadets and never looked back.
Ben Drum was smiling.
“What’s so funny, then?” asked William, sucking on an eel bone.
“I was thinking about the time that eel escaped.”
“Oh, yeah.” William laughed. “We chased it all around the market. Shouldn’t ‘ave clipped you around the ear, though …”
“Yeah, well – don’t go all politically correct on me, now. I survived.”
William beamed. “Yes, you did, son. You did.” He paused between bites of eel. “Talking of survival. How’s Alice doing?”
It was Drum’s turn to smile. “Well, actually, she’s been a real help.”
“I thought so,” said William, eyeing another piece of eel, “she knows shorthand and stuff.”
“Where did you say you two met?”
“I told you. At the bowls club.”
“Since when did you play bowls?” asked Drum sceptically.
“Joined a few months ago. Henry suggested it. Ya know, my mate from the Nag’s Head. Got to get out more, says Henry. Join the bowls club. Meet people. And he was right. I met Alice. We’ve been … you know –”
“Seeing each other,” added Drum.
Drum thought it was nice that his father had finally met someone – but Alice? Talk about chalk and cheese.
“Did she tell you what she did – before retiring, that is?” enquired Drum.
“I dunno, really. Something to do with the government. Typing and stuff. She said they screwed up her pension or something. Just needed a little job to tide her over. Why?”
“Oh, you know. Just curious. Anyway, I hope she doesn’t find us too boring.”
“You just watch your language around ‘er – you and your Army mates. Sensitive, is Alice,” said William, spearing at another morsel of eel. He paused. “Look, Ben. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you – about Alice and me …”
Drum noticed his father staring past him. “What’s up?” said Drum, deliberately not turning around.
“Don’t look now but there’s this big guy, watching us across the hall for the past ten minutes.”
“Does he look like a fighter – blond hair?” said Drum.
“Yeah, do ya know him? Looks like a mean bastard.”
Drum thought he knew who it was. He pulled out Alex Fern’s business card. “Listen, Dad. Take this card and phone my friend –”
“The big girl? Wouldn’t you be better off calling the police?”
“She is the police. Tell her I have a Russian problem.”
“A Russian problem? I don’t understand …” Wi
lliam looked concerned. “Listen, son, I’m not leaving.” William’s face took on a grim expression. “You and me, son. We can take him.”
Drum smiled. “It’s alright, Dad. He just wants to talk. Probably waiting for you to leave. Alex will know what to do. You shoot off.”
William looked unconvinced. “You sure? I don’t like to run off and leave you.”
“Course not. You’d be helping me out. Got your phone?”
William patted his jacket pocket.
“Off you go then. I’ll call you later – promise.”
William reluctantly stood up from the table. “You’d better call me.”
Drum watched his father start to walk away, his hand reaching for his phone. He waited until he was out of sight and turned to face the Russian walking casually towards him. He was smoking a black cigarette.
CHAPTER NINE
Abramov
The Russian sat himself down in a casual manner. No rush, no fuss. For a big man, he moved with elegant ease. He said nothing, just regarded Drum and continued to smoke his cigarette. For the second time this week, Drum thought he was being assessed.
“It’s self-service here if you’re looking for some tea,” said Drum.
The big man looked around, then raised a hand the size of a ham. He took one last drag on his cigarette before extinguishing the end, with a sizzle, in the entrails of William’s eels.
“The old man,” said the Russian in heavily accented English, “he is your father, no?”
The Russian’s voice was deep and sonorous. Drum detected no implied threat in his tone. It was more a statement than a question.
“Just some old guy trying to scrounge some money,” said Drum, unconvincingly.
“He looks like you, I think, Ben Drummond.”
Someone had done their homework. “And what do I call you?”
The Russian shrugged as if the question was pointless. “People know me as Misha.”
One of the stall holders, a bearded man in a white apron that Drum had not seen before, approached their table carrying a large tray. The tray held a small silver urn, some small glasses and a plate of what looked like biscuits. The man placed the tray carefully between the two of them and spoke to Misha under his breath. Drum couldn’t make out what was said, but the Russian nodded and sent the man away with a wave of his hand.
