The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  “Problems?” said Drum.

  “Just some of my tenants complaining about noise – you know the sort of thing. They live in the middle of Wapping and expect it to be like the country. One of the warehouses down there has been causing problems. Workers coming and going all hours of the day and night. I dare say I’ll sort it out.”

  Drum thought of Vlad’s pad in Wapping. “What’s this place called?”

  “Tenants Wharf. Leased it to a company. They’re not supposed to work at night.”

  Drum’s phone rang. It was Stevie.

  “Where are you? I’m starving.”

  “I’ll be back soon. Make yourself a sandwich.”

  The phone went dead.

  “Gotta go, William. Thanks for the flat.”

  He walked over and paid Lionel, complimenting him on his breakfast. Lionel beamed. “Don’t be a stranger, Benjy.”

  He waved goodbye to William and walked back towards the cathedral. The tramp he’d seen on the bench shuffled by. He looked down when Drum passed him.

  He walked through the cathedral grounds and followed the same route back along the Southbank towards Tower Bridge. The weather was mild and sunny, and it felt good to be out of the apartment and in the fresh air. He gingerly touched the back of his head. It was tender but no longer painful.

  His phone rang. If it were Stevie again, he’d give her a piece of his mind. Vlad had turned him into a babysitter.

  “Drummond,” he said into his phone, not looking at the number.

  “It’s Fern.”

  Drum stopped walking. His heart leapt a little. “Fern! I was about to call you –”

  “Yeah, course.” Her voice sounded harsh. All business.

  “Listen, Fern. About Saturday –”

  “We’re all grown-ups. You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said. “Listen. Just got a call from one of my contacts in the Thames Police. About Fabio DeLuca.”

  Drum remembered the name. “One of the dealers at the bank.”

  “Right,” replied Fern. “They just fished his body out of the river.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dead Men Walking

  Damian Rhodes got the call early Monday morning. Victor Renkov wanted an urgent meeting. He was one of RBI’s biggest customers – at least on the precious metals front. When he looked up the account he knew he had no choice but to meet the Russian. Victor Renkov was the name behind Renkov Investments Ltd. Gold had been flooding into that account from Zurich for the past year. He knew who was really funding the operation. Victor was just the front man for a much bigger enterprise. And now a good portion of that gold was missing. If Victor kicked up a stink about his account, it was game over.

  He cleared his diary for the afternoon and asked Sam to book a table at the club for lunch. They should at least get some privacy and he knew Victor was also a member. He remembered meeting him there briefly on another occasion. Vladimir Abramov had introduced him. He thought him a prissy little prick with a limp handshake. The woman hanging off his arm was a completely different story. A pretty thing with a nice arse. Another Russian called Anna … something or other. He couldn’t remember all the Russian names. The City was awash with them. More importantly, it was awash with their money.

  He arrived at the club in Mayfair shortly after 1 pm. The decrepit old man behind the desk immediately accosted him.

  “Morning, sir. Can I have your name, please.”

  “Damian, Rhodes. I’m a member.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Giles isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Are you meeting someone, sir?”

  “Yes, a Mr Victor Renkov for lunch.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll announce you.” Giles started to rise with a monumental effort.

  “Good grief,” exclaimed Rhodes. “I haven’t got all day. Stay put man. I know the way,” and with that, marched off.

  “Very good, sir …”

  Rhodes walked swiftly to the dining room which was situated next to the library on the ground floor. The elegant room was laid out for lunch with tables covered in stiff white linen and set with silver cutlery. He spotted Victor at a table, discreetly tucked away in the corner next to a large window. The general hubbub of the room quietened down as he walked over to Victor’s table – unannounced.

  “Afternoon,” said Rhodes taking a chair and pulling it back from the table.

  Victor looked surprised and stood up, extending his hand. “Damian, glad you could come.” He looked around. “No Giles?”

  “Silly old bugger,” said Rhodes. “It would have been Christmas if I’d waited for him to walk me here.” He shook Victor’s hand in a perfunctory manner and sat down.

  Victor waved the waiter over. “Get you a drink?”

  “Whisky Soda,” said Rhodes, not looking up.

  “I recommend the steak,” said Victor, unfolding his napkin and draping it across his lap. “The turbot is also very good.”

  The waiter returned with Rhodes’ Whisky and Soda. “Same again, sir?” the waiter asked Victor.

  “That would be nice.”

  Rhodes looked around the dining room. He didn’t recognise anyone from the bank, although he thought he recognised a few MPs. Was that the Foreign Secretary?

  “Anyone famous,” asked Victor, smiling.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Renkov?”

  “Please, call me Victor.”

  “Victor, how can I help you?”

  The waiter returned with Victor’s refill.

  Victor cupped his hands around the crystal tumbler and looked down into its amber contents as if divining inspiration. “Tell me, Damian – I can call you Damian?” Rhodes nodded. “Do you participate in some of the … evening activities that the club provides?”

  Rhodes had heard about some of the more outlandish parties the club hosted. Only the most celebrated members and their guests were invited – usually those members with political clout or money. He knew Abramov had hosted a few. Rumour had it they could become quite raucous.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Rhodes, fiddling with his knife and fork.

  “I’ve heard your chairman is quite the partygoer.”

  Rhodes stopped rearranging his cutlery and looked up. “Really! Sir Henry Minton?”

  “I’ve heard he likes a good spanking,” said Victor, with a salacious grin on his face.

  Rhodes stared at Victor. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Oh, just something that you might like to bank for a rainy day – to show good faith.”

  Rhodes looked at the Russian, wondering what he was driving at. He took a swig of his drink. He relaxed a little as the fine malt scotch slipped down his throat.

  “Sorry, Victor. You’ve lost me.”

  “Harvey Pinkman was also a bit of a partygoer.”

  Rhodes sat up. “What about Pinkman?”

  “I should say more of a party animal,” continued Victor. “He didn’t just burn the candle at both ends, more like from every orifice.” He laughed. “Not even I could keep up, and that’s saying something.”

  Rhodes had heard that Pinkman had issues, but he always seemed to have them under control. Sex, drugs and rock n’roll were all part of City life. People were always under pressure to perform, to deliver, especially in a dealing environment. But Harvey was back-office. He was primarily responsible for shipping gold and other precious metals between bank vaults. What was he doing partying with Victor Renkov?

  “Will you get to the point,” said Rhodes, downing his whisky. He looked for the waiter.

  “And of course, there was the gambling. Not just a flutter on the gee-gees that would have been too mundane for Harvey. No, Harvey was full on. Didn’t do things by half, did our Harvey.”

  “What are you trying to tell me,” said Rhodes.

  “Damian,” said Victor, tracing a finger down the side of his glass, “you look like a reasonable man.”

  Rhodes didn’t trust the
Russian but had no choice but to listen to his crap. “I’m all ears.”

  “There was an audit of the vault – of my gold account. You have probably been told about this?”

  Here it comes, thought Rhodes. “I think I was.”

  “Then you know,” continued Victor, “that the vault was empty.“

  “That was a computer mistake with our inventory system,” said Rhodes, hastily. “I can assure you, Victor –”

  “Not according to Ms Seymour-Jones, one of your Auditors,” interrupted Victor. “She was most insistent that something was not right with my account.”

  “Utter rubbish,” protested Rhodes. “We’ve had to let the woman go –”

  “You realise, of course, she is a ROD investigator?” said Victor, smiling.

  “What! That can’t be …”

  “Why yes,” continued Victor. Probably singing like a lark as we speak. She’ll cause problems for both of us.”

  Rhodes stared at Victor. “There’s nothing to sing about.”

  “Come, come, Damian. Don’t bullshit me. I’m an expert.” Victor took a sip of whisky. “I’ll get to the point. I have your gold – or I should say Pinkman has your gold.”

  “Pinkman has the gold?”

  “Yes, yes – incredulous, I know. ‘Victor,’ he says, ‘I can make us rich!’ I tell him he is crazy – full of shit. I think he must be drunk. He tells me no. He has barged six tons of gold to my Warehouse. We can all be rich – live happily ever after. At first I think he’s mad, out of his brain. Of course, I know now that Pinkman owed a lot of money to some very bad people. He was desperate.”

  “Are you telling me,” said Rhodes, his voice rising, “that Pinkman transported all the gold from the vault to your warehouse?”

  Victor nodded. “That is precisely what I’m telling you.” He looked over Rhodes’ shoulder. “And please keep your voice down unless you want the Foreign Secretary to hear you.”

  Rhodes thought that Victor Renkov was full of it. But, if so, why was he telling him this ridiculous story. It didn’t make sense. “Where is Pinkman now? More important where is the gold?”

  Victor once more returned to his whisky. “Ah, I’ll come to that.” He took a large gulp of the amber liquid. “I say to Pinkman, ‘Harvey, do you know who this gold belongs to?’ But he does not care. He is only thinking about how rich he will be. I tell him we are all dead men walking. Do you not know what these people will do to you when they hunt you down? Not just to you, Harvey, but anyone close to you. There can be no ‘happy ever after’, I tell Harvey.”

  Rhodes stayed silent and fixed Victor with a glare.

  “Of course, Damian, we both know who that gold belongs to. It is Abramov’s gold. If that gold is not returned to your vault, we are all dead men walking.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Anna

  Drum woke early and mentally prepared himself for a busy Monday morning. He stood beneath the shower and let the hot water hammer his body. He felt clear-headed for the first time in days. Perhaps Vlad was right: Englishmen do have thick skulls.

  He padded into the main living area of the apartment and stood in front of a full-length mirror. He examined his body, still lean and battered. He touched the scar across his chest that Stevie had found so fascinating. If she’d taken a little more time, she’d have seen plenty more. He pulled at his damp hair. Phyllis was right. It was far too long. He needed to get it cut.

  He put on a suit and and shirt. He polished his brogues and went downstairs. Stevie was snoring quietly on his couch. He left the office and made his way to Tower Bridge. He took the steps up to street level and joined the morning commuters walking into the City.

  He spotted him at the base of the steps. The tramp from the cathedral. Experience told him that running into this character twice might be a coincidence, but three times probably meant he was an observer. He looked behind him, and sure enough, he saw two marks, tailing him at a discreet distance.

  Once across the bridge, he took a shortcut past the Tower of London, along the river, until he came to a large art deco building belonging to an Insurance Brokers. From there he made his way to Leadenhall Market. It was still only 7.00 am. He pulled out his phone and hit redial and waited.

  “Alex Fern.”

  “If you’re in the neighbourhood of Leadenhall Market, I thought we could have breakfast at Ives. He’s cooking your favourite.”

  There was silence on the end of the phone. “Can you give me forty-five minutes. I’ll meet you there.” The phone went dead.

  Drum smiled and phoned Brock to let him know they were coming. Brock sounded pleased. He casually looked around and spotted one of his tails: a young woman in a salmon-pink sweater pretending to window shop. Drum placed another: a man in a dark suit reading the newspaper, leaning against one of the columns in the market. He couldn’t see the third, which bothered him.

  He walked past Ives and to a small barber shop tucked away in the corner of the market. He’d been going to the place for years. A bell jangled as he pushed open the heavy glass door and walked back in time into Henry’s Shaving Emporium. The air was thick with steam from dozens of hot white towels and redolent with the scent of sandalwood that Henry always used as an aftershave.

  “Morning, Henry. Can you squeeze me in?”

  Henry Morgan was the epitome of a well-groomed Victorian gentleman, transported into the twenty-first century. He sported an immaculate waxed moustache that Hercule Poirot would have been proud of and had shiny black hair, parted with military precision and slicked down with a liberal application of macassar oil.

  “Good Lord. Is that you Drum?”

  “The very same.” He smiled. Henry always made him laugh.

  “Clear the decks, lads. We have an emergency. Someone has kidnapped Captain Drummond and transported him back to the seventies.”

  Drum looked at himself in the mirror. “That bad, eh.”

  “Take a seat, sir. We’ll soon have you back on parade and looking dapper.”

  Drum sat in the ancient barber's chair as Henry covered him with a crisp, white sheet with the flourish of a matador. They chatted, as barbers do, about this and that as Henry clipped, trimmed and shaved his way through his thick, brown hair. Drum occasionally glanced out of the window to see if his tails were still in place. The young woman in the pink sweater was again shopping.

  Once Henry was satisfied that his hair had been cut to a decent length befitting a military man, he started on his thick, black stubble. First the hot, steamed towel wrapped around his face. This was followed by an application of luxuriant thick shaving cream. Then, with a flourish, Henry produced a cut-throat razor from his pocket which he proceeded to swipe up and down against a thick leather belt attached to the wall. This, William had told him, was a strop. It honed the razor’s edge. Drum held his breath as Henry moved the honed, bare steel closer to the base of his throat.

  “You always do that,” said Henry, pulling the razor back. “You can relax, you know. I won’t cut your throat.”

  “I had a similar conversation with an Afghan.”

  “The one whose wife you were sleeping with? Lucky he was going for your throat.”

  Drum made himself relax. He and Henry carried on with the banter as Henry skilfully played the razor up and across his face until he was whisker-free.

  “There you go. Much better.”

  Drum wiped the remaining shaving cream from his face and inspected his new self. He hardly recognised the person staring back at him. He looked about ten years younger.

  “You worked your magic this time, Henry.”

  Henry reached behind him and splashed a small amount of lotion onto his hands and gently slapped Drum’s cheeks with both palms. “The finishing touch.”

  Drum smiled and paid Henry. It was time to meet Fern.

  He left the barbers and immediately spotted his two observers. He looked around for the third but didn’t see anyone else. He walked around the corner and made
his way towards Ives. A black van pulled up with a squeal of brakes. A door in the side of the van slid open, and three men and a woman jumped out. The three men were dressed in jeans and casual jackets, but their combat boots and close-cropped hair marked them as military. They looked fit and hard and moved with a purpose. He recognised the woman from the wharf. He’d noticed her in his local coffee shop on several occasions. She was tail number three, and this looked like a snatch squad.

  He was about to turn and make his escape through the market when he heard the roar of an engine and the shrieking of tyres. A bright red Ferrari with black tinted windows slid around the corner at the bottom of Lime Street and roared towards him. He had no idea where the car could be going as the entrance to the market was barred by three silver bollards. The Ferrari accelerated towards the snatch squad who cursed and scattered. He heard a hiss and the three bollards suddenly descended below the road surface.

  He jumped back as the Ferrari skidded to a halt beside him, the four big exhausts chortling playfully as the big V12 engine slowed to an idle. He looked around. The three men were now running hard towards him. He turned in time to see the woman walking briskly across the market. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a gun.

  The passenger door of the Ferrari slid out and up revealing the diminutive figure of Anna Koblihova in the driving seat.

  “Get in!”

  He ducked around the open door and slid into the passenger seat. The woman dropped her bag and crouched into a firing position. The passenger door quickly floated down and locked itself shut as three shots rang out. Drum instinctively ducked as the bullets ricocheted off the door and windscreen. Anna didn’t flinch. She stamped on the accelerator causing the big V12 engine to roar into life. The big, fat Pirelli tyres screeched and smoked and the Ferrari lurched forward just as the snatch squad came up behind it.

  The woman in pink barely had time to dive out of the way as the car accelerated towards her and into the market. Anna sounded the horn causing tardy office workers glued to their phones to scatter before the speeding vehicle.