by Tomas Black
It had been a close call and the cause of the rift between him and Delaney.
“You know Harry, Phyllis. Probably taking time off skiing somewhere.”
“Not this time, Ben. We think she’s gone dark. She called Jimmy Miller a week ago.”
Drum recalled the Mexico City debacle. Harry, her first big assignment; Jimmy Miller, the young ROD analyst; and Rachael Mansfield, dead.
“What was she working on in London?” asked Drum.
“That’s the thing. We think she was moonlighting on the Mexico City case and ended up in London. We suspect she was tracking a shipment of gold bullion from Zurich, heading for the London market – the gold she uncovered in Mexico City.”
The noise in the coffee shop had grown louder, and he had trouble hearing Phyllis. He thought she mentioned gold. He drained his espresso and headed out the door.
“Listen, Phyllis. Reception here is not that good. Let me call you from the office.”
The call was ended abruptly. Phyllis was not known for her small talk. In a few short minutes, he was back in the reception area of his office.
“Did you talk to Delaney?” inquired Alice.
“Yes, thanks.” He had a hunch about Harry. “I need to call Phyllis back. I’ll dial from my office. In the meantime, give Victor a call – his number is in our directory.”
“Why would I want to do that?” said Alice, with a look of disdain on her face.
Drum ignored her look of protest. “I need the name of the Auditor at RBI – the one that called him about his gold account.”
“Really?”
He moved to his office and closed the door and hit the speed dial for Delaney’s direct number. Few people even knew she had a private number. It took one ring for Delaney to pick up.
“Phyllis? It’s Drum.”
“Hi Ben, I have you on speaker.” This was Phyllis code for keep the conversation civil.
“Mr Drummond, it’s Tom Hammond here. I represent the DOJ special task force investigating corporate money laundering.”
“How can I help you, Tom,” replied Drum.
“Ms Delaney informs me you’re working with the NCA on the RBI case,” said Hammond.
Someone was well informed, but then Phyllis did have her fingers in all sorts of agencies. “I was,” Drum answered. “The NCA has decided to close the case.”
There were suddenly several conversations taking place simultaneously in Delaney’s office. Eventually, Phyllis managed to restore order.
“Ben, Phyllis here. Did the Agency give you a reason for closing the case?”
“Not really. Unclear from my end. A Commander Alex Fern was in charge of the investigation. They appear to have pulled her off the case.”
There was a silence on the end of the line. He thought an open conversation no longer a wise option. “Phyllis, please pick up.”
There was a click on the line which told him only Phyllis could hear him. “I don’t know what’s going on at your end, but I’ve had a visit from Thames House warning me off the case.”
“What? I don’t understand. Why would the security services be involved?”
“I don’t know – but it was a very unsubtle warning.” The image of McKay filling his office came to mind, and he felt his anger rising. “They sent me a very blunt instrument to tell me to fuck off.”
Phyllis was silent.
Alice came into his office and gave him a neatly folded note. He nodded his thanks before Alice retreated back to her desk.
“Phyllis, you there?”
“Yes, I’m alone for now.”
“What has this got to do with Harry?” asked Drum.
“We think Harry tracked the Mexico City gold to an RBI account in London before she disappeared.”
Drum pressed the phone to his ear and unfolded the note Alice had given him and read the name printed in Alice’s neat hand-written script: the Auditor’s name was Harriet Seymour-Jones.
“How can I help, Phyllis.”
There was a pause on the line. “We were thinking – that is to say, Director Hammond and I would like you to join the ROD team investigating RBI from this side of the pond. Seeing as the British authorities have closed the case at your end, that is. And I’m sure Harry was investigating RBI – off the record.”
Drum thought about McKay demanding he walk away, and Fern being pushed off the case. Something didn’t smell right that was for sure. Working for ROD at the behest of the DOJ would get him back into RBI and the possibility of helping Victor – providing he was still alive, of course.
And then there was Harry.
Harry wasn’t playing by the rules and Phyllis couldn’t have a ROD investigator running around London, conducting her own rogue investigation. He liked Harry.
“What do you say, Ben?”
Drum remembered Mexico City, how he and his team had barely made it out alive; how Rachael, a young computer analyst, had died. He understood why Harry couldn’t let it go. She had moxie, as Phyllis would often say: true grit. He’d blamed Delaney for putting the young ROD team in harm’s way. What started as a routine investigation of a small Mexican company, unearthed a major operation of a drugs cartel. Delaney, the grand chess master, moving her investigators across the globe like so many pawns. But Rachael had been a sacrifice too far. He’d said goodbye to ROD; Jimmy Miller, traumatised by the loss of his colleague, had retreated to his native Boston; and Harry? Harry had moxie.
And what did he have?
“I’m in.”
“Excellent. I’ll send your Office Manager the details.”
The line went dead. No thanks, goodbye, be seeing you. That was Phyllis Delaney all over.
Alice poked her head in. “All done?”
“I hope you weren’t ear-wigging.”
Alice gave him a wry smile. “Goodness, no. If I’d wanted to eavesdrop, you’d be the last person to know about it.”
“Right.”
“And it looks like you’re heading for New York.”
“What makes you say that?”
“This was couriered over while you were at lunch.”
Alice dropped an envelope on his desk. He looked inside: a business-class ticket to JFK, courtesy of Phyllis Delaney.
Damn, that woman was good.
Part Two
Don't Spare the ROD
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An Englishman in New York
The problem with JFK International was the long queues at immigration. Drum stood in line for what seemed an age but, in reality, it was probably no more than thirty minutes, shuffling along with other the passengers until he reached the head of the queue. Despite travelling business class, he’d dressed in a pair of old faded blue jeans, a tee shirt and his favourite tan leather jacket. His fellow business travellers seemed content to fly suited and booted, pecking at their laptops for most of the flight. He had taken full advantage of his spacious reclining seat and slept most of the way. When his turn finally came, he grabbed his battered canvas holdall and headed over to the immigration desk.
He handed over his passport. The young man behind the desk eyed him suspiciously. He had to admit he probably looked a mess with his hair longer than it should be and a shadow of a beard.
“Business or pleasure – Mr Drummond.”
“Business, I’m attending a meeting.”
The young officer swiped his passport through a reader and waited. He looked at the screen and frowned. He looked back at Drum, then back at the screen. He picked up his phone.
“Everything alright?” asked Drum.
“Just stay right there.”
Drum waited as the officer spoke animatedly into the phone. He nodded several times and put the phone down. He gathered up all of Drum’s documents and put them to one side.
“Someone will be with you shortly.” He got up from his seat and walked out of his booth.
Drum waited for a few more minutes then looked up and saw a lean man in a charcoal-grey suit saunteri
ng in his general direction. The man paused and chatted with the young officer then entered the immigration booth and stood in front of the terminal.
“Mr Drummond, I’m Tom Hammond.”
Tom Hammond spoke in a precise, slow, southern drawl. Drum put him somewhere in his mid to late forties. He ran a hand through thick black hair which he wore swept back.
“Evening, Tom. Surprised to see you’re here in person. Is there a problem?”
Hammond looked up from the terminal, unsmiling, his lean features studying him with a calculating gaze.
“Well, I have to say, we are confused.” He looked down at the terminal, a wry smile creasing his mouth. “You have been red-flagged by your security services.” He looked up at Drum, his smile fading. Don’t suppose you can explain that?”
“Popular, I guess.”
“Then we get a call from someone in your Ministry of Defence, telling us the flag is a mistake and you should be allowed to enter.” He looked down at the terminal again and pointed at the screen. “But here it is still. A red flag.”
Drum guessed that McKay had been up to his old tricks. Someone was desperate for him not to take this case.
“What did Phyllis - Ms Delaney have to say?”
This time Hammond’s face split into a wide grin. “Why, she was madder than a wet hen when we told her.”
Drum smiled. He’d been on the sharp end of her tongue on more than one occasion. “What now?”
“I reckon we let you in. Ms Delaney thinks we need you.” He picked up an immigration stamp, adjusted the date and stamped Drum’s passport. “Welcome to the United States.” He handed the passport back to Drum.
Drum picked up his bag and pocketed his passport.
“Drummond. Just so we’re clear. It doesn’t amount to a hill of beans what Delaney thinks of you. If you give us trouble, you’ll be on the next plane outta here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Hammond nodded towards the baggage claim. “When you leave the terminal, get in line for a cab. Wait a little ways back from the end of the line. Solomon will pick you up.”
Drum didn’t know who Solomon was, but he nodded and headed for the exit.
He walked out into a chilly, New York evening. It was six o’clock, and the line for the Yellow Cabs was long. He did as he was told and crossed the lane of traffic leaving the terminal and stood at the end of the line, a few metres back.
He didn’t have to wait long. An old battered cab broke out from the rank and pulled up next to him. The other drivers honked their horns in protest and expletives echoed down the rank. The driver, a West Indian with long dreadlocks and a brightly coloured hat, jumped smartly out of the cab, ignoring the abuse, and walked around to meet him.
“Mr Drummond? Solomon.”
Before Drum could answer, he snatched his bag and threw it in the trunk.
“Let’s go, man. We have company.”
Drum looked around and noticed a black sedan parked across from them. Two suits were hurriedly getting inside, while a third was starting the engine. Drum opened the back door and slid onto the battered back seat. It smelt of old leather and sweat. Delaney could have at least sent a limo.
“Who are they?”
“Ya reception committee. Ya a popular guy.”
Solomon pulled out quickly, cutting up a fellow cab driver who was forced to brake hard.
Drum looked back and saw the sedan attempting to pull out into the traffic, but a stationary cab had blocked their exit.
“Don’t worry, man. We’ll lose them at the toll.”
Drum had to admire his driver’s skill. “You work for ROD?”
Solomon let out a loud laugh. “Shit, man. I’m FBI.”
Drum smiled and sank back into his seat. Not much point getting excited about the situation, it looked like Solomon had it all under control.
Solomon drove fast out of the airport and onto the Van Wyck Expressway. Traffic at this time of night was always going to be heavy, but Solomon made up time by occasionally turning off the I-495 and doubling back onto side roads, returning a few miles later ahead of the queues. After an hour, Drum could see no sign of the black sedan. Up ahead the Manhattan skyline came into view with the Empire State, and Chrysler buildings lit up like beacons in the night. He never got tired of that view.
Drum noticed Solomon looking at him in his mirror.
“So what’s your story, Solomon?”
“Me? I’m here to keep ya safe.”
“I meant, are you part of this task force?”
“Yeah, you could say that. I’m part of a unit that keeps track of organised crime. Our friends back there are probably Russian. Why would they be tailing you?”
That was a good question. He didn’t think Abramov’s reach would stretch this far. Perhaps he had underestimated him, something he wouldn’t do again.
“I guess I have friends in low places.”
Solomon frowned. “You don’t need friends like those, man.” He glanced at his side mirror. “Shit, they caught up.”
Drum turned and looked back through the rear window. The black sedan was racing to catch up, weaving in and out of the traffic. Not very subtle.
Traffic began to slow. They had reached the toll. Solomon pulled into a cash lane and wound down his window. The black sedan manoeuvred into the same lane and was just a few cars behind.
The officer in the kiosk of the toll was a small, round man with a balding pate. He smiled when he saw Solomon.
“My man. How goes the struggle.”
“Ya know. Shit happens. Black sedan a few cars down. Three goons. If ya could do ya thing, it would be appreciated.”
“It shall be done. You have a good day, now.”
Drum noticed that Solomon didn’t pay any toll, but the barrier opened nevertheless. Solomon floored the engine, and the cab took off towards the Midtown tunnel. Drum turned to see the sedan reach the toll, the driver frantically waving cash at the officer. The officer shrugged and left his booth. They were boxed in with nowhere to go. A neat manoeuvre.
“Where ya heading, man?”
“Sixth Avenue. Drop me off at the Carlton on 45th.”
Solomon exited the tunnel onto 35th Street and made his way slowly up through the avenues until he hit Herald Square before turning right onto Sixth Avenue. The Empire State building towered brightly above them, lit in red, white and blue. Once they had passed Bryant Park, Drum knew they had arrived.
Solomon turned onto 45th Street and parked outside the hotel.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Man, it’s on the FBI.”
“Thanks, Solomon. It’s been a blast. Buy you a drink?”
“Another time. Ya keep ya head down.”
Drum grabbed his bag from the trunk and watched Solomon drive off. He looked across the street where a black monolithic tower rose up and disappeared into the dark New York sky. Somewhere up there sat Phyllis Delaney and the offices of Roderick, Olivier and Delaney.
The 45th entrance took him through the hotel lounge and bar area. The place was buzzing for a Tuesday night. Office workers were getting their last drink in before the commute home. He walked on through to the marbled lobby to check in at reception. A smartly dressed young man wearing a purple tie welcomed him to the hotel.
“Checking in,” said Drum. “Name of Drummond.”
The clerk tapped a few keys on his terminal, and they both waited a few seconds.
“Yes, Mr Drummond. You have a suite: 1705.”
A suite? Phyllis was certainly pushing the boat out. He must be in trouble.
The clerk looked down and retrieved a card key and entered it into the terminal. “Here you are – and you have a message.”
The clerk handed him an envelope addressed to ‘Drum’ in a neat, sloping script.
“Who left it,” asked Drum, turning the envelope over. It was hotel stationery.
“A lady, sir.” The clerk lent in closer. “A very tall lady.”
/> CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Whisky Bar
It was close to 8:45 pm by the time the cab dropped Drum off Downtown. The note had read: Surprise! Meet me in the whisky Bar, 8:30 pm, Fern. It was an address on the corner of Broadway and Canal Street. He’d just had time to shower and sling on a clean T-shirt; he kept to his jeans and jacket. He felt comfortable. If this place had a formal dress code, they’d have to relent. He was looking forward to seeing Fern.
The whisky Bar turned out to be a converted warehouse, a popular venue in the Tribeca area of Manhattan. A suited doorman nodded as he approached, and opened a large iron door for him to enter. Drum found himself in a small lobby with a cloakroom off to one side. A staircase spiralled up to another level. He declined to check his jacket and took the stairs up to the bar above.
What was once a large industrial space had been converted into a spacious lounge. Rough wooden boards covered the floor; the ceiling was kept exposed, displaying the air ducts and pipework above, paying homage to the building’s past. Drum was reminded of Abramov’s pad in Wapping, except in this case a large oval bar took centre stage, lit red from beneath and surrounded two large wooden pillars that supported the roof above.
The lighting was subdued and matched the slow, smooth melody of the music playing against a background of hushed conversations. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, Drum scanned the interior and saw the usual mix of suits and the occasional lost soul wishing they had chosen an alternate rendezvous.
A waitress in a skin-tight jumpsuit placed a hand on his shoulder as she slid by carrying a tray of cocktails.
She smiled. “Can I get you a drink?”
“A Hendricks and tonic would go down nicely.” He looked down the long bar where a small group of men had congregated. “I’ll be at the bar.”
“Sure thing.”
As he walked towards the bar, a tall figure rose up from the throng of men, towering above most of them. Alex Fern turned and waved. She looked stunning in a short gold cocktail dress that hugged her trim and toned body. She made her excuses to her friends and strode over to meet him.
