by Tomas Black
“We are aware of the investigators Benjamin Drummond and Alex Fern. Unfortunate they saw you,” said Vlad.
Sir Rupert was surprised. “You know them?”
“Our paths have crossed,” said Vlad. “What about the bank’s Auditor - Seymour-Jones?”
“I’m told that Rhodes may be able to help you there. Why is she important?” asked Sir Rupert.
“She holds sensitive information. We have been trying to trace her – no success.”
“Well, our immediate concern is the two ROD agents,” said Sir Rupert. “This chap Drummond appears to be some type of security specialist. He’s tearing through all of the bank's transactions. Tried to have him closed down, but no luck. My contacts say he’s ex-military with connections to GCHQ. Has a security clearance that’s off the chart. My contact also believes someone in Vauxhall is protecting him.”
“Vauxhall?” enquired Vlad.
“Vauxhall Bridge. A British euphemism for MI6,” explained Sir Rupert.
“Ah, big problem,” said Vlad. “We need to accelerate OMEGA. One large deal. Your bank needs to accept the next shipment of gold.”
“I can probably swing it, but it’s going to look odd,” said Sir Rupert.
“Good, good. Then that’s settled. Have your people prepare to receive one million ounces –”
“One million ounces!” exclaimed Sir Rupert. “Are you mad? That’s close to $1.5 billion. The price of gold will plummet and –”
“Then, Sir Rupert, you will make a lot of money, I think,” said Vlad.
“I don’t understand …”
“Your options trading. You bet on the price of gold falling, no? I think so. Mr DeLuca was most talkative before his end. So, Sir Rupert, you’ll make even more money on this last shipment - providing, of course, you can find someone to trade the gold.”
“But, but …”
“No buts,” said Vlad. “Prepare your vault to accept the gold. One last trade. In meantime, I deal with Benjamin Drummond.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Just William
“Please don’t eat those dreadful things,” pleaded Alice.
She watched as William speared a gelatinous piece of eel.
“If you just tried one, you might find you like them,” said William. “Full of vitamins and the like.”
Alice gave him a withering look. Love William, love his jellied eels. It was something she would have to stomach. “Wait til I’m gone.”
“I don’t know why you need to go into the office today,” said William. “After all, it’s a Sunday. I’m sure Benjy can do without you for one day. I’ve hardly seen you all week.”
Outside it was threatening rain and the old covered market was growing dark and gloomy. Why William loved this place she would never know. She pulled up the collar of her old trench coat against the chill September morning and thrust her hands into its deep pockets. Her right hand rested upon the cold metal of the Sig that she had secreted there the night before. She casually took in her surroundings, scanning for signs of a threat with a practised eye. A big man in a black mac, sitting on his own, reading a newspaper. A young woman with a pram, looking at her phone. Years in the field had given her the uncanny ability to spot another agent. She saw nothing. But she had not been in the field for many years and this worried her. She knew the Russians wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. Whatever Ben had witnessed at the gala, the Russians would want to clean up loose ends.
“I need to talk to you about something,” she said. “It’s about my past.”
William smiled weakly. “We don’t have to do this, Alice. The past is the past. We’re together now, that’s what’s important.”
Alice heaved a sigh, suddenly weary. “I’ve done things, William – bad things. Things I can’t talk about – for the country …”
William reached forward and held both her hands. “I don’t need to know this, Alice. I don’t.”
She looked at him and held his gaze. “It’s important you know – who I am.”
William smiled and said “Look, Alice. We’ve all done things that we regret. In our youth. I only know the Alice I’m with now.”
She smiled. This was why she loved William. What good comes of digging up the past? But in her heart she knew the past had a habit of catching up with you.
“Things happened – a long time ago. I’m not proud of what I did …”
William squeezed her hands. “Don’t tell me, Alice. Please don’t tell me. I understand.”
“Do you, William?” She looked into his eyes, pleading, hoping that he did understand.
“I’m not a complete dope, Alice. I guessed you were trying to keep something buried. I’ve seen it before – in Benjy. After he came back from the war – well, he wasn’t the same. Troubled he was. He’d get upset about things – silly things. Things most of us wouldn’t give a fig about. He’d lose his temper or get depressed.”
Alice squeezed his hands. “War does that, William.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit insensitive to you at times. I know I can be a silly old bugger …”
Alice smiled. “No, you’ve been marvellous – you have.” She pulled her hands from his and reached inside her pocket for a tissue. She picked one from beneath the Sig and remembered why she had started this conversation.
“Listen to me. I have something to tell you – about the Russians.” She looked around the market one last time. The big man was still reading his paper. That’s what people do on a Sunday – read the papers. But Alice noticed he was reading the Times – a weekday copy and had yet to turn a page. Her hand tightened around the grip of the gun.
“What about the Russians?” asked William. “Is Benjy in trouble …”
“I think we’re all in trouble, William. It’s what I’m trying to tell you …”
The woman with the pram was walking towards them. The big man was now folding his paper and heading their way.
“I’m all ears, Alice.” He paused when he saw Alice wasn’t listening. “What is it?” he asked, looking around.
“Time we left.” She kept her hand inside her pocket, gripping the Sig and stood up from the bench.
“But we only just got ‘ere.”
Alice watched as the big man approached; the woman with the pram was now close by. The man or the woman? She couldn’t decide which was the greater threat. Logic told her the man was the obvious choice, but her gut told her the woman would make the first move.
“William, quickly. Come stand by me …”
The woman let go of the pram and moved towards William. She pulled what looked like a fat pen from her pocket and grabbed his arm.
“Er, what do you think you're doing,” said William, trying to pull his arm away.
Alice drew the gun from her pocket – too late. The big man was upon her. He grabbed her wrist in a crushing grip and wrenched the weapon from her hand. Alice cried out in pain.
William had started to stand when the woman rammed the pen into the side of his neck. The pen let out a soft hiss and William sat back down. He swayed, his eyes rolling back up into his head. Then with a crunch, he slumped forward onto the bench.
“William!” cried Alice.
The big man laughed.
A red mist of rage swept over Alice. She started to shake. With her free hand, she reached back until she found the butterfly pin keeping her hair in place. She gripped the enamelled wings and withdrew the pin – a disguised blade of hardened surgical steel. Her hair tumbled down across her shoulders as she swung the weapon in a graceful arc, ramming it into the ear of her assailant, penetrating his skull, lodging it deep within his brain.
The big man fell silent, a look of astonishment on his face, before releasing his grip and dropping to the floor like a stone.
The last thing Alice remembered was a feeling of satisfaction followed by a sting on the side of her neck. She instinctively raised her hand before the world spun into blackness.
Part Three
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Casing the Joint
Drum pressed himself against the side of the police motor launch as it pitched and rolled in the swell of a raging Thames. He steadied himself with one hand on the slippery handrail while trying to operate his mobile phone with the other. The police skipper throttled power to the small engines just to keep them from drifting back against the surge of the tide. He was cold and wet.
“Any news?” asked Fern.
Drum glanced up at his partner standing tall with her legs akimbo against the roll of the small craft. She looked imposing in her black waterproof jacket branded with the white logo of the NCA and her now familiar peak cap. It was the first time Drum had seen her back in uniform since starting the assignment. He thumbed the screen of his phone one last time.
“No joy,” he said. “I can’t reach either Alice or William.”
Brock rested effortlessly on the opposite side of the boat, absorbing the movement of the swell with the ease of a seasoned professional. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair causing the white stripe down the side to flash in the gathering gloom of a cloudy Monday morning. He pulled up the collar of his old combat jacket against the light drizzle that was now falling. “Probably having a lie in,” he ventured. “Better than sitting out here.”
Drum pocketed his phone and zipped up his jacket. He could understand William missing a call, but Alice was not the type to be late or lose a day in the office. Alice was a trooper, a real pro. He’d never met anyone more dedicated – well, perhaps Brock.
He shouted to the skipper. “Let’s get under the bridge and closer to the Embankment.”
The helmsman applied power to the engines, and the small boat crept forward under the shadow of Blackfriars Bridge. The structure shook and suddenly shuddered as a commuter train moved out from the station overhead, rumbling on its way out of London.
Brock swung himself across the deck to join Drum on his side of the boat and handed him his binoculars. “Over there.” He pointed to a row of lighter barges tied to a makeshift mooring.
“What am I looking at?” asked Drum.
“To the right of the mooring.”
Drum moved his line of sight to his left and refocussed the binoculars. Then he saw it. A large opening in the stone wall of the Embankment with an iron grill across the entrance.
Fern staggered over and Drum handed her the binoculars. “Looks like it’s in use,” she said.
“How so?” asked Drum.
“There are two brand new padlocks attached to the gate.”
She gave the binoculars back to Drum. He took another look. Fern was right. The gate was in use. They had found another entrance into the vault – if indeed it did lead to the vault. He also spotted another problem: two security cameras on either side of the gate.
Drum turned to Brock. “What do you think?”
Brock leaned over the side of the small boat. “It’s doable, providing the tide don’t sweep us downstream and we can cut our way in.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Fern. It must be thirty metres to the gate – and with this current …”
“We go tonight,” said Drum. He nodded to Brock. “How’s Poacher doing?”
“On his way with his gear. Be here this afternoon.”
“Wait,” said Fern. “We need to get this authorised – get a warrant. We can’t just bust in, guns blazing.”
“Harry will be dead by the time you obtain a warrant,” replied Drum. “You can bow out now if you need to.”
Fern frowned but said nothing.
“What about gear?” asked Brock. “Well need wetsuits, scuba and cutters.”
“We can supply that,” said Fern.
“Really?” said Brock, looking doubtful.
“You’re going to do it anyway. This way, you’ll have more of a chance.”
Drum turned to Fern and gave her a slight smile. “Let’s get back to the office.”
Fern cupped her hands over her mouth, turned to the wheelhouse and shouted. “Skipper. Let’s get back.”
The helmsman nodded and throttled up the engines, steering a course back down the river towards Butler’s Wharf.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A Rising Tide
Harry stood up to her waist in water and gripped the rusty iron gate of her prison. She let out one last scream. “I’m down here …”
She felt, more than heard, the engine reverberating down the brick passageway that led to the river. It was the first time in days that a boat had come close to the tunnel entrance. She strained to hear above the rushing of water and the low growl of the wind that had been increasing all morning. She thought she heard a woman shout. Something about a kipper? That can’t be right. Sounded more like ‘slipper’. Her brain was turning to mush from the lack of food and sleep. She rested her head against the bars of the gate and closed her eyes. God, she was tired. The rhythmic thumping of the engine slowly faded until all she could hear was the splashing of the rats.
Something brushed against her skin. She yelped and jumped back. A giant rat surfaced from between her legs and escaped through the rusty iron gate. She squeezed her head into the bars and shouted one last time. “Get me out of here!” There was no reply. Her captors had deserted her. The last Russian she’d seen was after Rhodes had left. Friday – or was it Saturday? He’d thrown her a bottle of water and waved goodbye. She occasionally heard a snatch of muffled conversation drifting down one of the tunnels. They seemed content to leave her to the rising tide.
She waded back to her wooden crate and heaved herself up and out of the water. It provided a temporary respite against the frigid Thames. The water was rising by the hour and would soon claim her island sanctuary. After that …
She drew her legs up to her chest and hugged her knees, resting her forehead on her arms. She could have comfortably slept if not for the continued probing of the rats. Several had now taken up refuge on the crate. She had long ago given up trying to kick them off.
She heard a soft buzz and the wall light flickered. Water was seeping into the electrical system. She wondered how long the light would last? Perhaps an hour?
She brushed aside dark thoughts. It ain’t over til the fat lady sings, she mused. Or in her case, the skinny lady cries. Her stomach growled. What was it that Rhodes had said? One last deal for the Russians. She had not seen that coming. Too fixated on finding the smuggled gold from Mexico City. She hadn’t figured on another player. And Vlad Abramov wasn’t just any player. His connections led straight back to Moscow. The Kremlin’s own money man. That had been evident from the cache of documents from Hoschstrasser & Bührer - lawyers to the wealthy and to the mob. They handled all the transactions, creating the network of shell companies and registering the nominee directors. Bills of Laden and delivery notes for all of the gold shipments were all stored on their servers. And Mueller – poor Mueller. Brutally murdered. She had pushed him to hack the server, just like she had bullied and cajoled Rachel in Mexico City. Both dead. Was there no limit to her obsession?
Her only consolation was that she had the original H&B cache. Somehow Mueller had hidden them on the net – a private location hackers called Altair IV. He’d scribbled the key on the back of her photograph.
And what of Ben Drummond? Her heart had leapt when Rhodes had mentioned his name. He would figure it out. Why hadn’t she contacted him when she arrived in London? It was her pride – and her shame. He had resigned over the Mexico City affair. She couldn’t involve him again. Yet he had been here – above her, inspecting the vault. Figure it out, Ben.
She heard the rats in the passageway and the sound of splashing. She strained to listen. The rats on the crate raised their heads and began to sniff the air. As one, they plunged into the water and headed up the tunnel. She craned her neck trying to see what the commotion was all about, not wanting to leave the relative safety of the crate. The orange light flickered and fizzed. She sniffed th
e air and then smelt it. Something bad. Something rotten. The smell of decay. The smell of death.
Then she saw it. The body of a man in a suit floating face up, slowly drifting past the gate. His head swollen. His eye sockets empty and black. He’d been dead for some time. Maybe dumped in a cell further in the tunnel. Now the rising tide had claimed him – as it would claim her. Despite the blackened head, she recognised the decaying form of Harvey Pinkman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Big Dump
Rhodes was holding court in the dealing room of the Undershaft. The anointed king of bullion trading addressed his devoted courtiers. They hung on his every word, on his every instruction, all eager to learn from the master and grab a slice of the action. This is where he loved to be. In the thick of it. Making money. The cut and thrust of trading precious metals.
And today would be exceptional.
There was a rumble of thunder and black clouds scudded across the large windows of the Victorian building, momentarily darkening the room. Rhodes ignored the threatening storm and stood, raising both hands like a messiah. “Ok, listen up. You have your dealing instructions for today?” He waited until they had all finished nodding and muttering their acknowledgements. “We have a million ounces of gold sitting in the vault, waiting to be sold. Make a note of the client: Borite Metals Holding. John, as the senior trader, will lead and the rest of you will pile in after. I want the order sold by the end of today’s trading.” He paused for effect, waiting for the first Judas to show himself. He didn’t have to wait long.
A young trader broke first. “A million ounces … That’s a lot of gold to place in one day. What happens if we can’t place it all?”
“You can fuck off back to New York, Henry,” retorted Rhodes. The room filled with laughter.
