by Tomas Black
“He is eighteen. Studying in St. Petersburg to become an engineer – not soldier.”
“Who is protecting him now?”
“Vlad. I make deal with him. He sees that the boy is supported –”
“Provided you work for him.”
Misha nodded.
“I don’t see how I can help.”
“I need to get back to London. Show Vlad – business as usual.”
Drum shrugged. “And?”
The Russian picked up the pencil. Drum was suddenly alert. In the hands of a normal individual it was just a pencil; in the hands of a Special Forces soldier it was a deadly weapon. Drum watched him closely as he wrote on the yellow legal pad, tore off the page, folded it and handed it to him. He placed the pencil back on the table.
“Get me back to London, Benjamin. You need me.”
There was nothing more to say. Drum stood up and started towards the door.
“Benjamin.” Drum stopped and turned to face the Russian. “Victor is not your friend.”
Drum banged on the door. A buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open.
Fern was waiting for him. She looked ‘madder than a wet hen’ as Hammond would say.
“You don’t believe that sob story about a son, do you?” she asked.
Drum looked at Hammond for support. He shrugged. “I’ve heard similar stories. These guys get sucked into working for criminal elements.”
“Oh, give me a break,” protested Fern. “This guy’s a stone-cold killer. We should ship his arse back to Moscow.”
Drum looked down at the folded note. There was something Misha wasn’t telling him – or wouldn’t say to him in the company of the authorities. We will always be soldiers.
“I need him back in London,” said Drum eventually. He looked at Hammond. “Is that a problem.”
Fern stared at him. “You’re joking, right. Why would you want this guy back in London?”
“Not for us,” said Hammond, ignoring Fern’s protest. “But I’m with the Commander. Why have him back in London?”
When put like that, it did seem like a crazy idea. But there was something about what Misha had said. Vlad is a fool. “I think he still has a part to play in all this. Ultimately, it’s your call what you do with him …”
Hammond said, “I’ll do the paperwork.” He paused. “What’d he write on the paper?”
Drum hadn’t looked. He unfolded the note. There was only one word, printed in neat block capitals: OMEGA.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sir Rupert's Club
Sir Henry Minton was not accustomed to being summoned, but summoned he was by one of the few men he couldn’t refuse. Sir Rupert Mayhew had been an old school chum back in the day but, in truth, he’d been a real shit. Regardless, he was now one of the most prominent civil servants in Her Majesty’s Treasury and a key advisor to the Cabinet Office on matters of banking regulation. As in most things in life, the biggest shits always floated to the top.
The club on Mayfair was not his first choice for a meeting, but Mayhew was always one for the dramatic. By day the club was a respectable meeting place for well-heeled bankers and those cabinet ministers who wanted to escape the Commons for a few hours or entertain in private; by night, the club transformed itself and played host to members with more carnal pursuits in mind. Becoming a member was coveted by many well-connected individuals. Money, power and influence were all keys to being accepted. Needless to say, the Minton family had been members since 1869.
It was midday when Minton arrived at the club. He was tired. The red-eye from New York had deposited him back in London at 6:15 am. Fortunately, he’d had a change of clothes at his Chelsea apartment and freshened up before his meeting. He entered the main foyer, which was decorated with ornately carved walnut panelling, polished to a warm rich brown and smelling pleasantly of beeswax. He was greeted by Giles, the concierge, an old duffer who had probably welcomed his father back in the day.
“Good day to you, Sir Henry. Nice to have you back.”
“Morning Giles. Looking for Sir Rupert.”
Minton waited patiently while Giles laboriously extricated himself from behind his desk, his aged joints cracking as he straightened himself. He moved with the purpose of one determined to do their duty. Minton knew that Mayhew was probably ensconced in the library and could have walked there in less than a minute, but that would have deprived Giles of the very purpose of his life, which was to escort members to other members within the club and announce their arrival. Custom can be a real pain in the arse sometimes.
Minton followed Giles as he shuffled across the checkerboard marble flooring of the main foyer.
“Terrible weather for this time of year,” said Giles.
Minton didn’t know what the poor fellow was on about. It was a perfectly sunny day outside.
“Brighten up later,” added Minton.
They had made it to the library entrance.
“Roll on summer is what I say.”
Minton felt his life slipping away.
“Sir Henry Minton,” announced Giles to anyone who was listening.
“Thank you, Giles. Have the kitchen send up a pot of tea, there’s a good chap.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
Sir Rupert Mayhew OBE sat alone in the exquisite library of the club in his favourite Chesterfield armchair, reading the Financial Times. The garish pink of the paper seemed somehow at odds with the somnolent browns of the leather seating and the languid greens of the window drapes. He was dressed in the regulation, three-piece navy pinstripe of a senior civil servant and exuded the smugness of a man who had shinned up the greasy career pole of Whitehall to become one of Britain’s top Treasury mandarins.
“Ah, Minton. How are you,” said Mayhew, folding his paper, but not rising from his chair.
Ignorant bastard, thought Minton.
“As well as can be expected, under the circumstances.”
Mayhew glanced past his guest at the slowly diminishing figure of Giles.
“That old bugger should have been pensioned off years ago.”
Minton ignored the comment and sank into an adjoining armchair, feeling the aged leather envelop him. He regarded the man before him with a mix of loathing and trepidation. They had never really been friends at school. Mayhew had just been another junior boy who was required to perform the ritual act of fagging: in effect, performing menial tasks for seniors back in the halcyon days of public schools. As far as he could recall, Mayhew was only ever called upon to warm his toilet seat.
Mayhew Peered at him over the rims of his tortoiseshell half-moon glasses, which were perched on the extremity of his hawk-like nose. “How was New York?”
“As we expected. They’re going to settle on a fine,” said Minton.
“That’s good then. Operation OMEGA can proceed as planned. So why do you look like you’ve swallowed a turd?”
“The whistleblower –”
“That’s been taken care of. The investigation has been closed.” Mayhew hesitated. “Why, what did they say?”
There was a clinking of china announcing that the tea had arrived. A young butler – young by the club’s standard – placed a tray of bone china cups and a pot of tea on the small reading table between them. They waited until he had left.
Minton lifted the lid of the teapot and gave the tea a quick stir. It needed to brew for a few more minutes.
“The DOJ has set up a new task force, run by a chap called Tom Hammond. Looking to become the next DA. Got the bit between his teeth. Not happy that the NCA investigation was halted on this side of the pond.”
Mayhew shrugged. “Not much he can do. Not his jurisdiction.”
Minton poured two cups of tea, adding the milk first as all public school boys were taught to do. It was the attention to such detail that had made the British Empire great.
“I agree,” continued Minton. “But we have another problem. There’s an irregularity with inventory.”
&n
bsp; “Inventory? You mean gold is missing from the vault?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Minton replied.
Mayhew stopped drinking his tea and placed his cup back on the tray with a loud clunk.
“You have a problem with your bullion inventory, and this is the first I’m hearing about it? Good Lord, man. How many fires do I have to put out for you?”
Minton sipped his tea calmly. “There was nothing I could do to contain the situation. The cat was already out of the bag. The Custody Officer went straight to the Audit and Risk Committee, who took it to the board. They want a full investigation and the DOJ are insisting on ROD.”
Mayhew stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets and began to pace. He stopped and turned to face Minton.
“You’ve been talking to that witch, Delaney!”
“Had no choice, old chap. She’s now running the show. She’s assigned their top man in London. A man called Drummond.”
“Drummond, you say. Good grief. I thought we had closed him down.”
“It would seem that your friends in the security services weren’t very successful. What’s so special about this chap, anyway.”
Mayhew placed both hands on the back of his armchair and was silent for a moment. Minton knew he was weighing up his next move. But the mention of ROD had rattled him. He drained the rest of his tea, smiling into the bottom of his cup as he did so.
“Captain Benjamin Drummond, Signal’s Intelligence, two tours of Afghanistan and a tour of Iraq. Assigned to a special unit of GCHQ – at least, that is all my man knew about him.”
“Army,” interrupted Minton. “Thought the man had mettle. But I don’t understand where the GCHQ part comes in?”
“It is a little-known fact that personnel of GCHQ were heavily involved in both wars. Signals Intelligence – or SIGINT - evolved into Cyber Warfare.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because, my dear Minton, I pay all the bloody bills. Much of this is covertly funded. Some of it comes across my desk.”
“At the Treasury.”
“A special subcommittee. The rest I can’t talk about.”
A thought occurred to Minton. “What I don’t understand is why your friends at Thames House couldn’t close him down?”
“Good question. He’s a bit of a dark horse. His file is locked down tight. Top Secret.”
“How could that stop you,” argued Minton. “Surely you have that kind of access.”
Mayhew smiled, grimly. “Officially, yes. Unofficially, I was told to fuck off. Eyes only.”
“By whom, dear chap.”
“Vauxhall Bridge – MI6.”
“So, you have a problem,” said Minton.
“No, Minton. We have a problem. If any gold is missing from that vault then OMEGA is dead in the water and so are we.”
“Rhodes assures me there’s no gold missing. It’s an administrative error.”
“It’s time I talked to Rhodes.”
“Is that wise? At the moment he knows very little about your involvement in the operation. Why take the risk?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“What about the Captain? He starts next week, and he still holds evidence from the previous raid.”
“Not any more,” said Mayhew, smiling. “I arranged for my man to pay him another visit. It should, at the very least, slow him down.”
“Very good,” said Minton standing up. “I’ll be glad when this is all over. Getting too old for all this cloak and dagger nonsense.”
Mayhew didn’t reply. He had walked over to the window and was lost in thought.
“Oh,” said Minton, pausing on his way out. “Nearly forgot. I suggested to Drummond that he pay you a visit.”
Mayhew turned from his reverie at the window.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“Ostensibly, so you could brief him about the bullion market in your capacity at the Bank of England. Get to meet the man. Know what you’re up against. Throw him a few curve balls, as our American cousins would say.”
Mayhew frowned. Then his lips twisted into a pale imitation of a smile. “That might not be a bad idea. Let me think about it.” He walked over to Minton and took him by the arm. “Come, let me walk you out. Got to take a leak.”
“Jolly good,” said Minton smiling. Don’t forget to warm the toilet seat for me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Warehouse
Fabio DeLuca felt pain. His whole body was on fire. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. He attempted to move his head but stopped when a sharp pain lanced his scalp. He had a metallic taste in his mouth and realised his lip was bleeding. If this was a dream, it was a very painful one. He managed to open his right eye, just a crack, and a room swam into view, blurred at first but gradually getting clearer. A mans face appeared before him.
“Fabio, Fabio. You are awake at last.”
Fabio didn’t recognise the face but knew that he spoke with an Eastern European accent. There were many such people working at the bank.
“I am sorry, Fabio. The idiots I sent to fetch you were clumsy oafs.”
The face turned and spoke harshly to someone behind him who Fabio could not see. He recognised a few words. The man was speaking Russian. He tried to talk but his throat was dry, and only a croak came out.
“Get this man some water, you idiots. He’s no good to me if he cannot speak.”
Someone approached with a small towel and a bottle of water. He went to reach for the water but discovered he could not move his hands. Water was poured onto the towel, and his face was roughly wiped. He managed to open his other eye and realised that he was shackled to a pulley suspended from an iron beam above his head, his arms stretched tight. He looked down. His feet just touched the floor which had been covered with thick sheets of polythene. He realised he was inside a warehouse.
The water bottle was pushed between his lips and upended. Water poured into his mouth and down his throat. He drank what he could until he choked and coughed. A searing pain stabbed at the back of his head and down his neck. He felt nauseous and wanted to sleep.
“Fabio, wake up, Fabio.”
A hand slapped him around his face, causing the pain to lance through his neck and scalp again.
“Stop, stop. Please God, stop,” cried Fabio.
The man came into view again. He had a sharp angular face with small black eyes. He gazed at Fabio, his thin hard lips curling into a mirthless smile.
“Good, good. Let us talk. My name is Vladimir Abramov. ” He paused. “Have you heard this name before? Someone in the bank, perhaps?”
“No, no. No one has mentioned that name, I swear.”
Abramov started to pace.
“Very well. Tell me about Harvey Pinkman.”
“Harvey …”
Abramov stopped pacing and slapped him around the face. Sparkles of light danced before his eyes followed by the searing pain in his head and neck.
“Harvey Pinkman, yes, yes. What about him?” asked Fabio.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I swear. He didn’t come into work on Monday. There was a big fuss with the vault –”
“What do you know about the vault?” asked Abramov.
“One of the Auditors told me about it. She was there – Jones, she called herself. Harriet Seymour-Jones,” said Fabio.
“And?”
“There was a big fuss. Something about missing gold. Everyone running around trying to find out what was going on,” continued Fabio.
“Jones, you say.”
“Yes, yes. Seymour-Jones.”
Abramov paused. He spoke to someone in Russian who scribbled down a note. “When was the last time you saw Pinkman?”
Fabio thought for a while. His head was spinning. “I think it was the Friday before.”
“You talked to him, no?” queried Abramov.
“Just a chat,” said Fabio. “He was anxious about so
mething. Had a big shipment to move. Thought it would take him the whole weekend. That’s all I know.”
Abramov started to pace again. “I’m told by people at the bank that you are whistleblower, no?”
“I … not exactly,” said Fabio.
“What does that mean? You are, or you are not. What is it to be?”
“It was Jones. She took all my trades and saw what was going on,” said Fabio.
Abramov stopped and put his face close to Fabio’s. “Choose your next words carefully. What was going on?”
Fabio tried to swallow, but he had no more spit. He mouth was dry. “Rhodes was dumping large amounts of gold on the Hong Kong market. Pushing down the price,” he croaked.
“What does this mean. Why would he sell gold to push down the price?” Abramov questioned.
“He was making large bets on the price of gold falling – on the Futures market,” explained Fabio. “It’s a type of trade. He was insider trading – for himself or someone else. I’m not sure. It’s all recorded on the system. Jones made me copy all of my trades to my local laptop. She didn’t trust Rhodes screwing with the computers.”
“And you have these records?”
“No, no. My laptop was seized during the raid by the NCA,” said Fabio.
Abramov pulled back from his face and resumed his pacing. “And so you went to the authorities. Told them about these trades. I think you did, yes?”
“She made me –” whimpered Fabio.
“Seymour-Jones, the Auditor.”
“Except she really wasn’t an Auditor. She was working for ROD,” said Fabio.
Abramov’s face contorted into a sneer. “She was a ROD agent. This is what you are telling me?”
“Yes, yes. I had no choice,” sobbed Fabio. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Abramov lent in and gripped Fabio’s chin. “Tell me. From which account did this gold come – the gold that was dumped?”
Fabio coughed. He tried to answer, but his throat was dry and tight. “Could I have some more water, please.”
“Yes, yes, but tell me the account. Was it from one particular account?”
“Yes,” croaked Fabio. “It was always from the same two accounts: Borite Metals Holdings and Renkov Investments.”
