by Tomas Black
Drum poured coffee as Alice escorted Stevie into his office. Stevie was a little taken aback to see Fern.
“Stevie, this is Commander Fern of the NCA. She’ll be working with me on the bank job,” said Drum.
The two women eyed each other with suspicion. “Never told me your girlfriend was the fuzz,” said Stevie.
Alice let rip with a flurry of Russian that instantly subdued the petulant Stevie. Fern rolled her eyes. Drum asked Alice to stay. He then proceeded to outline the game plan.
“Rhodes and his team will be expecting us. They’ll throw all sorts of bullshit and obstacles in our way to hinder the investigation, but our first priorities is to get access to their trading and inventory systems and to check out that vault.”
Drum looked over at Stevie who was only half listening.
“Stevie, your job will be data analytics. There’ll be a ton of data to sort through – thousands of transactions. Are you familiar with that type of work?”
Stevie looked up. “Sure, but it’s a waste of my talents. I’m a much better hacker.”
“We call it penetration testing in this business,” said Drum.
Stevie gave a little smirk. “Is that what you were showing me the other night?”
“Oh, good grief,” exclaimed Fern. “Do I have to listen to this –“
Drum smiled. “Let’s just call it hacking. You can use Raj’s office and his computer suite.”
Stevie shrugged. “Fine.”
He turned to Alice. “Any news on Raj?”
“I’m afraid not. My friends at Immigration can’t find him. He may well be in an MI5 safe house, somewhere.”
Drum wondered if Weekes could do some digging. Failing that, he would have to have a word with McKay. A real close and personal word.
“Don’t worry, Ben. We’ll find him and bring him home.”
They spent the rest of the morning going over their strategy for the investigation. Drum needed to put an actual plan on paper to fire off to Rhodes and the bank’s Audit team. They would want to be involved. Drum knew from experience that Internal Audit teams would be ineffective when it came to an investigation, but they’d have a great deal of local knowledge if they were prepared to share. Rhodes would be the problem.
As they were finishing, Alice mentioned another meeting which he had entirely forgotten.
“I’ve scheduled a meeting at the Bank of England for tomorrow morning,” said Alice, as she was about to leave.
“I don’t think we have time for this meeting, Alice. Fern and I need to be at the bank at eleven for our opening meeting.”
“Trust me on this one, Ben. There is something odd about the chairman suggesting this meeting. I know these Treasury types. Arrogant bastards. Wouldn’t give you the time of day, so it’s odd that he’s agreed to see you. It’s only a morning. His secretary has arranged it for 9:30 am. Plenty of time to get back for your meeting with Rhodes.”
They finished up, leaving Drum in the solitude of his office making notes. He had dozens of memos and information requests to type up. Specifically, he wanted access to the RBI computer systems. He knew that the bank would resist this or only give him limited access.
Alice popped her head around the door. “I’m taking Stevie to William’s flat. Won’t be long.”
A thought occurred to Drum. “This meeting tomorrow at the Treasury. Why was it odd that they would want to talk to us?”
Alice closed the door to his office leaving Stevie waiting outside. She hesitated. “I told you I left under a cloud. The person who caused me so much trouble and the reason I left …”
Drum could tell she was fighting something inside – a secret she wasn’t supposed to disclose. “Oh, fuck it,” she said, finally, and let out her breath with a huff. “The person you’re meeting tomorrow … it was Sir Rupert Mayhew.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Bank of England
Drum and Fern arrived at the entrance to the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street in time for their meeting with Sir Rupert Mayhew. They walked through the heavy doors and were met by a security guard in a pink livery coat and top hat. He escorted them across the ornate lobby with its mosaic floor and high ceiling supported by pairs of black marble colonnades. The thick granite stone of the masonry and high arched porticos exuded the power of money and the people who controlled it.
They were shown into a room with a large dining table. The table was covered in thick green felt and was surrounded by a set of ornate Edwardian chairs. The ceiling was high and finished with lavish plaster cornices.
“Sir Rupert will be with you shortly,” said the Top Hat.
They sat silently beside each other, like two naughty schoolchildren waiting for the Headmaster. They didn’t have to wait long. A side door opened and a tallish, thin man bustled in, his steel-grey hair in sharp contrast to his dark, pinstripe suit.
“Rupert Mayhew, sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, walking briskly over to Drum with his hand extended.
Drum stood and shook his hand. “Ben Drummond, thank you for seeing us, Sir Rupert.”
Sir Rupert shifted his attention to Fern and extended his hand. Fern started to rise and kept rising until she was a good head taller than Sir Rupert. Fern gripped his hand firmly and smiled. “Alex Fern. Pleased to meet you.”
Sir Rupert looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Pleasure, I’m sure.”
They sat down, Sir Rupert leaning back in his chair.
“Sir Henry thinks you can help us with our investigation at RBI,” said Drum.
“Strictly speaking I can’t interfere with any investigation of a bank,” replied Sir Rupert, “but RBI is an important player in the market, and as someone who has a role to play in the governance of banks, Sir Henry thought we should meet.”
“What is your role, exactly?” asked Fern.
Sir Rupert looked over the rim of his glasses and regarded her with a frown. It was clear to Drum that he wasn’t used to people asking him for his job description.
“Well … I have a number of roles in the Treasury and advise the Cabinet on banking regulation, among other things.” He turned his attention back to Drum. “I’m largely responsible for the buying and selling of gold bullion for the Treasury, which is why Minton thought I could advise you. You’re there to audit the bank's inventory I understand?”
Drum noticed that Sir Rupert had dropped Sir Henry’s title.
“Yes,” said Drum. “The Custody Officer at the bank raised an issue with their Audit and Risk Committee who raised it with the board.”
Sir Rupert frowned. “And what issue was that?”
“Someone has made off with all the gold,” replied Fern, with all the finesse of a police officer during an interrogation.
Sir Rupert turned to her and smiled. “I don’t think that would be possible, my dear girl. There was obviously a computer error. No one makes off with a bank vault of gold bullion.”
Fern’s brow creased into a deep frown and she sat up a little straighter. “And why not may I ask?”
Drum thought that calling Fern a ‘dear girl’ may have been an unintended slight by Sir Rupert, but something made him think otherwise. The man had an arrogance about him. Alice was right to despise him.
“Well for one thing,” explained Sir Rupert, “you would need a train to transport it – providing, of course, you could bypass all of the security.” He paused as if considering something. “This is probably the reason why Minton wanted us to talk. Let me show you.” He rose and walked over to a telephone. He punched in a number. “Jarvis? Mayhew. Can you bring up the sample I requested? Yes, all reasonable precautions. Yes, yes, I’ll take full responsibility.”
Sir Rupert returned to the table with a satisfied smugness. “Won’t be long.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Drum as they waited. “Sir Henry’s been told it’s an error with the inventory system not being updated. We’ll probably find it’s been logged to a different vault.”
> “Precisely,” said Sir Rupert, smiling warmly. “So what will your investigation entail, exactly?”
Drum kept a mask of conviviality in place and smiled. “Oh, you know, the usual things. Check vault security. Audit the inventory. Standard stuff really.”
“Right, right,” agreed Sir Rupert. “Standard Audit Program I would imagine?”
Before Drum could answer, there was a knock on the door.
“Come,” bellowed Sir Rupert.
The door opened and in walked two security guards. One was carrying a small, rough wooden crate, held by rope handles at each end. He placed the crate on one end of the table. The second security guard then removed a pair of white gloves from his pocket and opened the lid of the crate. He reached inside with both hands, withdrew a large bar of gold bullion and placed it in the centre of the table. The guard then took off his gloves and set them beside the bar.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Please wait outside,” ordered Sir Rupert.
Drum and Fern both stared at the bar of gold on the table. Drum was in awe of it’s lustre. He’d seen small pieces of gold before, but never so large an amount. It seemed to radiate a warm glow. It was hypnotic. Fern also seemed captivated by its presence.
Sir Rupert chuckled, “It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it. I’m always amused by people’s reaction to the stuff. I see these bars every day and still …”
“It’s incredible,” said Fern. She went to touch the bar.
“Put the gloves on, please. We mustn’t damage it.”
Fern put both gloves on and waited for Sir Rupert’s instruction.
“What you’re both ogling at is what we in the trade call a ‘good delivery bar’. “You can’t buy this over the counter. It’s what banks trade between themselves. It’s what is stored at RBI – or should be.”
Drum examined the bar. It didn’t look that big, about the size of a house brick but longer. “What are those markings on the top?” asked Drum pointing to an elaborate crest stamped into the gold.
“The big mark is the assayer's stamp,” explained Sir Rupert. “This bar was smelted in Zurich. There are only a few assayers that can smelt good delivery bars. The long string of numbers is the serial number. Every bar should have a unique number. Finally, there’s a series of digits denoting the fineness, usually 99.999. This tells you the purity of the metal to three significant digits.”
“There’s no weight?” asked Drum.
“No, that’s right. Every bar varies slightly to within a few troy ounces. When the Vault Manager accepts a bar, he or she must weigh it and confirm the weight against the delivery note which records the serial number of the bar and the weight when it left the smelters.”
“I see,” said Drum, half to himself. He was thinking of the task ahead with the audit of the RBI vault. This could be quite a job.
“Now, you look like a strong girl, Ms Fern,” said Sir Rupert. “Try and pick it up – but with only one hand.”
Fern looked at Drum. He shrugged. Looked easy. She reached across the table and gripped the bar firmly – and heaved. The bar hardly budged.
“Go on, put your back into it,” roared Sir Rupert, egging her on.
Fern gritted her teeth and heaved again. This time she managed to lift the bar a few centimetres off the table.
“It’s incredibly heavy,” admitted Fern. “It doesn’t look it, but I could barely move it.”
“Gold is one of the heaviest materials on the planet - well, barring uranium,” explained Sir Rupert. “But you wouldn’t want to pick that up.” He chuckled. “The only metal that comes close to its density is tungsten.”
“The stuff they make the lightbulbs from?” asked Drum.
“Yes, that’s the stuff, but it’s a dull grey colour and not as pretty. The bar you see here is close to four hundred troy ounces or thirteen kilos. Dealers tend to work in ounces, but our European friends prefer kilos. The same size bar of tungsten would be slightly lighter and far less expensive.”
“What is this bar worth,” asked Fern.
Sir Rupert considered the question. “Let me see. The spot price of gold per troy ounce on the market today is around $1,200.” He laughed. “Even though we are the Bank of England, we still price gold in US dollars. So you do the maths.”
“So this four hundred ounce bar would be worth …” Drum paused for just a second. “Four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Fern.
“Quite so,” agreed Sir Rupert. “And I would imagine there would be hundreds of such bars in the vault of RBI.”
Drum remembered Sir Henry Minton’s words back in New York. Every ounce ...
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A Meeting with Rhodes
The meeting with Sir Rupert finished amicably. It wasn’t a long meeting, just enough time for Sir Rupert to persuade them that nothing untoward was happening at RBI. Drum was surprised by how much he had learnt about the gold bullion business. He and Fern both agreed that the meeting had been useful. It was clear that to audit the vault they would need the original delivery notes of all gold shipments to and from RBI. Drum made a mental note to add that to his list of materials he’d requested.
They now had just enough time to get to their meeting with Rhodes. Outside the bank, Drum flagged down a taxi.
“What did you make of our friend, Sir Rupert?” asked Fern, as she clambered into the back of the cab.
Drum gave the driver the address of The Undershaft. He thought about the question. There was something odd about the meeting. Alice was surprised Sir Rupert had agreed to it.
“He clearly has an interest in the investigation,” said Drum. “But then he does advise the Cabinet on banking. He doesn’t like Sir Henry very much, that is clear.”
“Yeah, I kinda picked up on that as well,” agreed Fern. She turned to face him. “Are we really going to have to weigh hundreds of bars of gold?”
“Looks like it,” said Drum. “But if Victor is right, the vault should be empty.”
The cab made good time through the busy City traffic and turned into a small road beside the building most Londoners referred to as The Gherkin. Drum and Fern walked the short distance to the Victorian, red-brick building that now housed RBI’s secondary dealing centre. Drum realised they were at the back of the Leadenhall building.
Drum paused just before the entrance. “Before we meet with Rhodes, just a word of advice.”
“What word would that be?” said Fern raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve dealt with these types before. They think they are the real power-brokers behind the business. Rhodes is likely to throw all sorts of obstacles at us and try to deny us access to sensitive areas of the bank. All we have to remember is that this is an investigation, not an audit. We’re here at the request of the RBI board.”
“Right,” said Fern. “Got it.”
They entered the reception area and were greeted by Rhode’s PA. She introduced herself as Samantha Jenkins. But they could call her Sam.
“Mr Rhodes is expecting you,” she said, with a smile. “He’s with the Audit Director, Mr Simmonds.”
She led them through a large room where rows of dealers were standing and shouting out there trades over the tops of computer screens, mobile phones pressed to their ears. They came to a set of large oak doors. Sam knocked and then heaved open one of the doors and walked in.
“Mr Drummond and Ms Fern, Mr Rhodes.” She turned to them. “Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks, Sam. We’re good.”
Fern rolled her eyes and shook her head. “At least she’s not Russian.”
Rhodes was seated behind a large ornate desk in front of a tall arched window. The place reminded Drum of an Edwardian drawing room with dark oak bookcases lining one wall and two dark brown couches. The floor was covered with a large Persian rug. Rhodes appeared to be engrossed in a document. A short, balding man in a poorly fitting suit was standing next to the desk, looking anxiously in thei
r direction. Drum assumed he was the Audit Director.
If Rhodes was aware that they had entered the room, he did not acknowledge the fact. He carried on scribbling on the sheets of paper in front of him. Drum realised the sheets were his Request for Material – all the documents and data that he would need to complete the investigation.
It was Fern who first broke the silence. She was not accustomed to being kept waiting.
“Good morning,” she said, in a tone that was more suited to felons being read their rights.
Rhodes looked up but made no attempt to introduce himself or to offer them a seat. It was typical of the reception that he was subjected to during the opening meeting of an investigation.
Rhodes eventually put down his pen with a sigh. “I understand you’re here to audit the operation, Mr … Drummond. Make sure you submit your audit plan to Simmons here for his approval before you start.” He nodded in the general direction of his Audit Director. “That way it will give us time to provide you with the information you need and allow us to get our ducks in tow.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Drum, calmly.
Rhodes pushed the papers away and sat back. “And why not?”
Fern jumped in before Drum could continue. “Because Mr Rhodes, this is not an audit. It’s an investigation.” She smiled with satisfaction.
Drum waited for the inevitable riposte. Rhodes would want to protect his client’s confidentiality.
“Nevertheless,” pressed Rhodes, “we must protect our client’s confidentiality so it’s important we are clear that you have the authority to see our client list and any transactions.”
Drum smiled grimly. Rhodes was not used to having his authority questioned. He was the gatekeeper to this part of the RBI enterprise.
“You misunderstand the nature of this … investigation,” countered Drum. We have the full authority of the board to see all and any information we deem necessary. I’d also like to remind you that we’re here at the behest of the FCA and the DOJ and they’ll be expecting that we leave no stone unturned – to paraphrase Sir Henry.”
