by Tomas Black
At the mention of Sir Henry Minton, Rhodes’ face went bright pink. Sir Henry appeared to be a popular chap, mused Drum.
“Of course,” replied Rhodes, standing up from his desk. He looked at Simmonds for support.
“It’s just that this request you’ve sent,” responded Simmonds, looking with some anxiety to his superior. “It’s just … well, you’ve asked for a lot of information.”
“It’s bloody ridiculous if you ask me,” retorted Rhodes. The information you’ve asked for … must be thousands of transactions?”
Fern stared down at Rhodes. “Don’t worry we have big computers.”
Drum smiled. He wondered if Fern had meant to be sarcastic. Apparently, Rhodes was beginning to piss her off.
“We’d like to start by inspecting the vault,” said Drum.
At the mention of the vault, Rhodes' face turned a deeper shade of pink. “I can assure you, Drummond,” he retorted,“ there is nothing to worry about regarding the security of our operation. It’s first-rate. And anyway, I think it’s out of scope.”
Drum had come across people like Rhodes all too often in his career, and he was beginning to tire of the game. “I understand that your vault manager is missing –”
“Not missing, Drummond,” replied Rhodes, an air of smugness returning to his voice. “Harvey Pinkman was let go.”
Drum and Fern looked at each other. This was a new but not unexpected development. Pinkman was key to this whole fiasco. Drum wasn’t surprised that he was no longer around to answer an awkward question like ‘where is all the gold’?
“Regardless”, said Drum, “we’ll want to start with the physical security of the vault. Standard stuff. Have your people meet us down there this afternoon. And I’ll want full access to your vault and any anterooms. It would also be helpful to have your head of security meet with me today so I can explain the access we want to your systems.” With that he did a sharp about-turn and headed for the door. Fern followed hard on his heels.
“A little prickly, wasn’t he,” said Fern, under her breath, as they were walking out the door.
“Yeah, a right little prick,” replied Drum. “C’mon let's get to the vault before evidence starts to disappear”.
There was something he’d forgotten. Something he needed for the audit of the bullion. He suddenly remembered what Sir Rupert had said in their meeting at the Bank of England. He stopped and walked back into the office.
“There’s one more information request that I’d like to make before we visit the vault,” said Drum.
“What might that be?” ventured Simmonds.
“I’d like all documentation on all shipments of bullion to and from the bank’s vault for the last month,” replied Drum.
Simmonds' frowned. He looked anxiously at his master. Rhodes simply smiled.
“You have that information already,” said Rhodes with a smirk.
Drum was confused. “I do?”
“Yes,” answered Simmonds. “All delivery notes and Bills of Ladin are digitally scanned and stored on computer by the Vault Manager. We don’t keep paper records any more.”
“Then I’ll need access to those files,” said Drum, getting a little frustrated by the runaround.
“What Simmonds is trying to tell you, Drummond,” said Rhodes, “is that Pinkman always scanned them directly onto his laptop.” He smiled once more. “And I believe you already have that.”
~~~
“You’re angry,” said Fern as they left The Undershaft. The sky was overcast and threatening rain.
Drum stopped and looked across the street to the Cheesegrater. They were at the rear of the building, a vertical wall of polished glass and steel that reflected back the threatening sky. “How can you tell?”
“You ignored the smiles of the skinny Samantha.”
“Skinny Samantha?” said Drum, raising an eyebrow.
Fern gave him a sideways glance. “Well, she could do with a bit more meat on her bones.”
Drum relaxed. “I’m just pissed that Rhodes thinks he got one over on us.”
“Yeah, you said that might happen. I could easily have beaten the crap out of the little creep.”
“Right,” said Drum. “Let’s put that on our to do list.”
“What now? We’re screwed without Pinkman’s laptop.”
“Maybe. But first things first.” Drum started to cross the street.
“Where are we going?” asked Fern as she strode across the road to catch up.
“We need to pay a visit to Human Resources. We’ll need a list of all personnel that have recently joined or left the company. We need to confirm if Pinkman and Harry have actually left RBI as everyone keeps telling us.”
They reached the back entrance to the building. Fern flashed her credentials, and they were escorted to the elevator bank.
Fern looked up at the vertical glass shaft disappearing above them. “I hate these things,” she said.
Drum looked at her. “You’ve never struck me as the nervous type?”
Fern gave him a withering look. “I just hate these exposed elevator cars … ”
They exited on the tenth floor and stepped out into a familiar reception area.
“The floors must all be built to the same layout,” said Drum as he approached the desk. A young man was busy at a computer terminal.
“Deja vu,” said Fern.
“Hello,” said the receptionist, looking up from his screen. “Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Beth Flack, HR,” said Drum.
“Who shall I say is here?” said the young man.
Fern was just about to flash her warrant card when Drum stayed her hand. “Just say that it’s Roderick Olivier and Delaney.”
“Oh, right. We were told you might be coming. Hold on.” He picked up the phone. “Hi, Ms Flack. The two investigators are here … right.” He put the phone down and smiled. “She’s expecting you. Go straight through.”
They walked down a short corridor and were met by a stout lady in her mid-forties with cropped brown hair. “Hi, I’m Beth Flack, Head of HR,” she said, extending her hand.
“New York,” said Drum, as he took her hand. She spoke in a husky breathlessness, possibly the result of too many cigarettes. “Long Island, I’m guessing.”
“Well … yes! That is very observant of you, Mr …”
Drum gave her his warmest smile. “Ben Drummond. But call me Ben.”
Beth Flack returned his smile. She wore a dark-pink lipstick, accentuated by a slightly darker lip pencil, so it looked like she had a permanent pout.
“Alex Fern. Pleased to meet you,” interjected Fern, thrusting out her hand.
“Goodness. Yes … Sorry. Pleased to meet you. This way.”
They followed her into a well-furnished office. She sat down behind a large desk and waved in the general direction of a couch. “Please take a seat. I’ve been preparing for you.”
“You have?” said Fern, as she seated herself beside Drum.
“Oh yes,” Flack replied. “All senior staff received a memo from Sir Henry. We’re to help you in any way we can.” She gave them both her very best Human Resources smile.
Drum wondered how many people she had fired over the years, all receiving the very same smile with a pout of her pink-lined lips.
“What can you tell us about Harvey Pinkman?” said Fern, cutting to the chase.
“Ah, yes.” Flack turned to her desktop computer. She typed a few keystrokes and stared at the screen. “He has been terminated.”
Fern looked at Drum in surprise.
“Beth means he’s been let go. Moved on to pastures new –”
“Right, I get the idea,” said Fern with a scowl.
“That’s right,” said Flack. “I forget I’m not in New York. You use different expressions over here.”
“When was he let go,” asked Drum, but thinking that termination was probably a more likely explanation of Pinkman’s disappearance.
Flack made a big show of studying the information displayed on her screen. “About two weeks ago,” she said, smiling.
“How convenient,” said Fern under her breath.
“How about Harriet Seymour-Jones,” continued Drum, although he knew what the answer would be.”
Again, Flack stabbed a few keys and stared at her screen. “Term … she was also let go.”
“At the same time,” said Fern.
“Well … yes! Now how did you know that?”
“Just a lucky guess,” said Fern, with a look of exasperation on her face.
“But Seymour-Jones was a contractor,” continued Flack. “It says here her contract was up.”
Drum thought he would try for an address, but knew the answer he would get. “Could you provide us with a contact address for Seymour-Jones?”
Flack looked at her screen and then back at Drum, her lips pursed into a perfect bow. “Well … I would like to help, but you guys have such strict Data Protection laws, over here. I just couldn’t give out that information.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled.
Fern was starting to get up when Drum grabbed her hand. “You feeling alright, Alex?”
Fern sat on the edge of the couch and looked at him. “I’m fine,” she said, frowning.
“No, really,” pressed Drum, squeezing her hand. “You’re looking a little queasy.”
“Oh, dear …” exclaimed Flack. “Can I get you some water?”
“You look like you’re going to throw up. Something you ate, perhaps?” continued Drum.
“Oh, no,” said Flack, fearing a mess in her lovely office. “Let me take you to the bathroom.”
Fern rose from the couch as Flack ran from behind her desk and tried to help her up. “It’s alright,” said Fern as she towered over the shorter woman. “Just lead me to the loo.” She scowled at Drum as she and Flack left the office.
Drum quickly closed the door and moved over to Flack’s desk. He had less than a minute before her screen saver kicked in and locked him out. He punched a few keys and brought up Harry’s address. He heard footsteps outside in the corridor. He quickly memorised the information on the screen then hit the Esc key. The RBI corporate screen-saver appeared. He quickly made his way back to the couch just as Flack opened the door.
“False alarm,” said Flack, with a cheery smile. Fern filed in behind her and stood in the doorway.
“Well,” said Drum jumping up, “we mustn’t take up any more of your time.” He extended his hand to Flack who took it gently in hers.
“You’re welcome,” she said, huskily, giving him her very best pout. “If you need anything else, Ben …”
“I know where to find you …”
“C’mon … Ben. I’m starving,” shouted Fern as she strode down the corridor.
Drum caught up with her at the elevator. “Feeling better?” he asked, with a grin.
“Good grief, Drum. If you laid on the charm any thicker, I might really want to puke.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Return To The Vault
The next day Drum visited Fern at the NCA offices just off Vauxhall Bridge. By the time they had reviewed the paperwork needed for the investigation, it was late afternoon when they left for the vault. Drum hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of the RBI vault in Blackfriars. Fern sat moodily beside him. He wondered why she was so irritated.
“You got Harry’s address, right?” asked Fern
“Right.”
“So why are we going to the vault? Shouldn’t we head for Harry’s apartment? The gold won’t be going anywhere.”
“Probably not – if it’s there at all. And I doubt we’ll find much at Harry’s apartment either. She’s not going to be there.”
“It’s your call,” said Fern, and went back to staring moodily out of the window.
The taxi dropped them outside the RBI building on the banks of the Thames. A light rain was falling, and the horns of the pleasure boats passing beneath Blackfriars Bridge sounded mournfully in the darkening gloom of the day.
Fern looked up at the building. “This is a bank vault? Looks more like a French chateau.”
They were met in the lobby by a thick-set security guard. He escorted them to a large room, ornately furnished in a Regency style. They were greeted by a tall, slim woman dressed in the corporate dark-grey of RBI who looked like she hadn’t slept in a while.
“Rosalind Baxter,” she said. “I’m the Security Administrator.”
“Ben Drummond, Senior ROD Investigator,” said Drum, taking her hand. “And this is my partner, Alex Fern.”
Baxter smiled weakly at Fern. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said and moved to her ornate Regency desk where she retrieved two cards.
“Your security passes. They’ll get you into most areas. Keep them on you at all times. But …”
“But what?” asked Fern, opening her jacket and attaching her card to a zip holder on the front of her belt. Fern looked up and saw Baxter staring at her gun.”
“We don’t allow firearms in the building, I’m afraid,” said Baxter, looking anxiously between Drum and Fern.
Fern reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved her warrant card and waived it in front of Baxter’s nose. “I’m authorised to carry a firearm by her Majesty’s government.” She snapped the card shut. “So let’s get to the vault, shall we?”
Drum’s mind seemed elsewhere. He appeared to be scanning the room and looking up at the high ceiling with its ornate, plaster cornices.
“You coming?” asked Fern.
“Right behind you,” he replied.
They followed Baxter out into the lobby and walked further into the building before reaching an elevator beside a large wooden staircase. Baxter waved her card over a side panel, and the doors to the elevator slid open.
“The vault is below us,” she said, pressing a button marked one. There was a whine of a motor and they started to slowly descend.
Drum continued scanning around him. So far he had counted six security cameras, not including the one in the elevator.
“Mr Rhodes phoned through this morning,” continued Baxter. “Said you might be stopping by, so I’ve arranged for the Vault Manager and someone from the Custody department to meet us there.”
“Who is representing Audit?” asked Drum.
“That would be Mr Simmonds. Head of Internal Audit,” replied Baxter.
The elevator bumped to a stop. They walked out into a marbled corridor, illuminated warmly by up-lights running along the length of each wall. At the far end of the corridor was the huge, steel door of the vault, brightly picked out by two spotlights in the ceiling.
“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Fern. “It’s huge.”
Drum counted three more security cameras in this area.
Three people were waiting for them. “This is Walter Baker, our Vault Manager,” said Baxter, indicating a young, nervous-looking man. “Mr Simmonds, our Head of Internal Audit, who I believe you’ve already met, and Sarah French from our Custody department.” She waited until introductions were over and said “Right. I’ll leave you in the good hands of Mr Simmonds. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” She turned back to the elevator.
“There is just one more thing,” said Drum. “I’ll need security access to the RBI network and some of its systems.”
Baxter looked at Simmonds who nodded. “See me upstairs when you’ve finished down here,” she said and walked briskly back up the corridor.
Fern turned to Drum. “Can we get this show on the road? It’s getting late.”
Drum glanced at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock. He turned to Simmonds. “Mr Simmonds. Nice to see you again. Can you give us a tally of the contents of the vault?”
Simmonds turned to the Custody Officer. “Sarah?”
“According to our records we have approximately six metric tons of gold bullion stored in the vault, as of today,” she said, clutching her tablet with both hands.
Walter Baker glanced at Simmonds and then back to Drum. “Yes … of course. I can print one for you now.” He looked over at Sarah. “Sarah, be a love and print Mr Drummond the bar list.”
She blinked. “Oh, sure. No problem.” She looked at her tablet and stabbed at the screen. The sound of a printer could be heard in a small anteroom just off from the vault. “Won’t be a minute,” she said and disappeared into the room.
“Right,” said Drum. “Let’s open her up.”
Walter walked over to a side panel, fixed to the wall beside the vault door. He activated the panel with his card key then placed his hand on its surface. A bright, green bar of light appeared at the top of the panel and moved slowly down to the bottom, scanning his hand in the process. The panel turned blue, and he stepped back. “Can you all please move back from the door,” he said.
A klaxon sounded. A small vibration was felt beneath the floor and then the whine of electric motors spinning up. The huge steel door began to open – centimetre by centimetre.
Lights inside the room began to flicker on as the vault door completed its arc and slowly came to a stop. Drum was the first to move inside, followed swiftly by Fern.
Drum was standing in the middle of a well-lit room with a high ceiling and a smooth concrete floor. On the far wall were rows of numbered safety deposit boxes. The two side walls were recessed to form large alcoves within which were placed wooden pallets, piled high with stacks of bright yellow bars of gold bullion.
“Good grief,” said Fern. “There must be hundreds of them.”
Sarah French walked into the vault, followed by Simmonds and Walter Baker. “Sarah,” said Simmonds, looking around in awe. “How many bars are stored in here?”
Sarah checked her tablet. “Six metric tons stored as four hundred and eighty-two bars.” She held up several pages of printout. “Here’s a list of bars and their individual serial numbers and weights.”
