Quantum Breach

by Powell, Mark

  What really surprised McCabe was that Surat’s younger brother was the man shot by McCabe in Myanmar back in 1993 when rescuing Stowe. McCabe had already learned from Stowe that Trent’s son had also been killed in the same operation. It was weird how fate had linked Surat, Stowe, McCabe and Trent back together, the common link being the Rain Angel.

  Then, shockingly, McCabe learned that MI6 wanted the Rain Angel very much alive. It was decided by British Intelligence and certain other high-ranking political offi cials that, despite her highly illegal actions, terrorist links and—as he now discovered—CIA allegiances, she would be allowed to go free. Her value as an informer, which in the main helped stop serious terror attacks in different parts of the world, was much more important than a bank. After all, it was said, in the current climate, banks were almost becoming embarrassments. As such, what in reality was a bank’s damaged reputation for failing to know who its customers were, compared to the safety of civilians from terrorists?

  McCabe thought they were somewhat missing the point given that money laundering was the very thing that often funded such terror activities. But the thought of a bunch of terrorists owning their own bank was too shocking to even contemplate. But then again, fi nancial services were full of criminals these days, he thought. Look at Bernie Madoff and the billions he lost or was that stolen? Madoff was just another Aziz tempted by the lure of money. Odds were that Madoff had lost not just the funds of honest people, but also of a few criminals all of whom would be hunting his head. One hundred and fi fty years in jail would not protect him from the potential hit men. And this, barely quantum breach 290709.indd 241

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  when Obama had set down in his new Oval Offi ce, McCabe mused.

  He then pondered on why Trent had been so insistent on having the Rain Angel terminated. He owed it to Stowe to fi nd out, a matter he would look into at another time.

  Tai Investments and Moon Star Holdings, together with the two shipping companies, were about to have their own problems: vans full of government agents were about to raid them. All assets were to be seized and bank accounts frozen. McCabe then imagined the black vans turning up and loads of agents and SWAT teams pouring out and terrifying the shocked executives, half of whom would have no clue as to what was going on. These poor professionals probably thought they worked for an honest company—which, in reality, they did. As is so often the case, it was the management who were corrupt, not the poor man or woman lower down the food chain.

  The boring end of an operation, McCabe thought. He much preferred the covert stuff, which often ended with guns going off. ‘God, I’m starting to sound like Stowe.’

  As for the bank, McCabe had also been questioned by two of the bank’s internal auditors who had arrived from London to conduct an interrogation; in McCabe’s opinion, wet-faced boys who had no real idea of what they were looking for. They wanted to know his view on where the bank was negligent in picking up on the trades and where the process had been breached. McCabe found this the most interesting part, as, in fact, the trades were perfectly normal. It was the lack of diligence on ‘who’ the customers were that posed the breach in policy and process; the process had simply failed.

  Paul Stern, who worked within the bank’s operations department, was in essence responsible for making sure the trades got settled. One morning over his cornfl akes, he decided that the bank did not pay him enough, so he wanted extra cash. As such, he gave what in McCabe’s opinion was an exaggeration of the events to the press and got paid quantum breach 290709.indd 242

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  £20,000 for his trouble. The stink that followed in the press caused the UK regulatory vultures to circle and eventually land in the bank.

  Every nook and cranny was looked into. The fi nal report issued to the bank’s board members and shareholders stated that a ‘quantum breach’

  of considerable implications to the industry’s stability had occurred; as such, certain members of the bank would be held fully accountable.

  McCabe clearly had his own view on who should carry the blame.

  Despite McCabe’s efforts and that of Ying, they were both placed on gardening leave. For one thing, it would give the bank a chance to ensure they themselves were not inside sleepers for Afzal Jihad or Tai Investments, a thought that disgusted McCabe after all they had done.

  Process was process, but facts alone should have perhaps given the bank a more gracious approach, he reckoned.

  Not that McCabe thought he would, in fact, ever go back to working for them. Banking was now in the past for him. He had tasted blood again, he had a thirst for adventure, and it would not be found in dealing foreign exchange for Banning Capital Bank.

  MI5 had offi cially approached him, offered him a fi eld offi cer role.

  Whilst fl attered, even McCabe was not sure spook work was for him.

  The salary was also crap; no wonder Stowe was always broke. McCabe broke a smile at this point, thinking about his old buddy.

  As he left the High Commission walking somewhat like a zombie (MI6 now happy he could leave the country), McCabe was informed that the High Commission had at least arranged for him to be taken to the airport after a shower and a fresh change of clothes. His fl ight to Singapore would leave that afternoon. MI5 had even arranged for a fi rst class Singapore Airlines ticket, so not all bad. If it had been left to the bank, it would have been economy at best, he thought.

  Having enquired about Ying, he was informed that she had been fl own out a few hours earlier, patched up and in a fi t state to fl y. The Singaporean offi cials wanted to get Ying back as soon as possible. Stowe, quantum breach 290709.indd 243

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  on the other hand, would be fl own back to the UK. His funeral would follow a few days later. McCabe knew he wouldn’t attend the funeral service; it would serve no purpose. Stowe was in his memory forever; no formal funeral would ever make his feelings or levels of respect change.

  He would say his goodbyes another day. Most likely with a bottle of vintage whisky.

  As for Mooney, he had knocked back a couple of aspirin and taken the next fl ight back to London, dragging his intravenous drip with him.

  McCabe had smiled when he heard that; so typical of the big guy.

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  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Christopher Fleming was seated like a proud peacock at one end of the highly polished mahogany boardroom table, dressed as he normally was in a navy blue suit, white shirt and old Etonian tie, his white hair in perfect, almost wig-like order. His mood, however, was not that of a majestic peacock; more like a ravenous bear.

  As each board member shuffl ed in, the pale, taut expressions etched upon each of the faces signalled to Fleming that they had reluctantly attended his special meeting. As they took their seats nervously, they looked very apprehensive as they all duly and neatly faced left towards the purposeful looking fi gure of power seated at the head of the table.

  Seated on either side of Fleming were his dutiful guard dogs: Stewart Bateman, the group head of legal, and Paul Jones, group head of audit.

  Bateman was a well-built, shrewd man who took no nonsense, while Jones was a pink-faced, lazy, fat lump of a man who made everyone’s skin crawl. He took pleasure in playing corporate politics and ending the careers of those who dared to challenge him. Rumour suggested his liking for small Asian boys of questionable age, a matter of frequent executive washroom debate.

  In most banks, auditors were right up there with traffi c wardens on the popularity scale. But Jones was in a class of his own: pompous, two-faced and perverted. How he survived was a mystery to most. Last to arrive was John Palmer, the CEO for the wholesale arm of the bank, the section in which the breach had taken place. He was a talented q
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  man with over 20 years of market experience, yet he was known to be somewhat shallow, often too quick to apportion blame without really establishing the facts.

  As the meeting was called to order by Fleming, he stood up, placing his hands fl at on the table, bearing down on the men and women in front of him.

  ‘We have had a breach in control, ladies and gentlemen. The regulators have called it publicly a “quantum breach”. A rogue salesman in Dubai by the name of Harish Aziz was doing trades with a couple of our clients, both prominent shipping companies.’ He then paused, his eyes now slowly scanning the room to ensure the fullest of attention was being accorded him.

  ‘The investment company which sits at the top of this sordid issue, I am now told, has managed to buy our stock by injecting tainted liquidity.

  We were not aware that this investment company had purchased the two shipping companies, which had previously been longstanding clients of the bank, via an offshore shell company. As a result of this foul deed, we now face not only fi nes from the UK regulators, but people being kicked out on the street.’ He paused again, looking at the initial reaction from around the room.

  People were now muttering to each other, rapid hand gestures were being made, all of which was brought to an abrupt end when Christopher thumped his fi st hard down on the table. As a result, one poor lady jerked around and screamed as if sitting in a cheap horror movie, her embarrassed face glowing red.

  ‘I want answers, people! How could this have happened?’

  A fake cough then rang out and announced a polite interjection by Bateman, the group head of legal.

  ‘With respect, Christopher,’ which normally when said meant ‘You, arse, you have it all wrong’, ‘the trades in themselves were perfectly normal, whilst odd, I admit, due to the profi ts and losses between them.

  It was the fact that our internal controls around “Know Your Customer”

  broke down.’ Bateman then paused.

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  ‘What the hell do you mean broke down? Explain, man,’ Fleming volleyed back.

  Bateman then puffed himself up, as he was not at all happy he had been so abruptly addressed.

  ‘The two shipping companies in question, Christopher, Al Safad and TJ Cargo, were, as you said, acquired by Tai Investments via a holding company called Moon Star. This meant, in essence, that there were changes in their Board of Resolution that went undetected by us.

  As a result, we had not detected that Moon Star Holdings, who are owned by Tai Investments, were the new legal owners. Had we checked, we may have found out that the Tai Investments board is, shall we say, less than credible. This Khun Surat, the CEO, is a known criminal, a drug lord by all accounts,’ Bateman pronounced sternly.

  Fleming sat down as if hit by a train, the reality of the oversight now dawning on him. He looked soullessly down into the polished veneer of the boardroom table. He knew that he himself had sent out a corporate-wide communication stating how happy he was that Tai Investments were looking to buy stock—the answer to the bank’s pending liquidity problem, he had thought.

  ‘Furthermore, Christopher, you were made aware, were you not, by your friend Malcolm Trent from MI5 that an investigation was in place, a terrorist attack on the bank was a real threat. Yet you did absolutely nothing.

  ‘I also heard that people from within the bank were even involved in the investigation, this McCabe chap, for example. I have a copy of an email here that you sent to Helen Brown in Dubai, telling her to fully cooperate. Jones from audit was copied, for God’s sake. Audit, to be frank, should have stepped up and mobilised a team. Maybe, just maybe, we would have detected this breach in process before the rights issue went out. We may then have uncovered the Tai Investments link in all this. A “quantum breach” is damn right, in my view.’ Bateman then shot an accusing look towards Jones, who was not really listening.

  After a brief pause, Fleming lifted his head and looked directly at quantum breach 290709.indd 247

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  Bateman. ‘We are in the shit then, aren’t we?’ Fleming himself was now bright red in the face.

  Visibly shaken, Fleming turned sharply to Jones, who was seated on the other side of him playing with his Blackberry. ‘When you have quite fi nished, Jones… Is there anything I’m keeping you from?’ Fleming was enraged, his hand banged down hard on the table which caused everyone to fl inch.

  ‘I want you to fi nd some information, any information that shows that we, via our standard methods, could not have known they were criminals before the rights issue. We have contacts with MI5 and 6 for God’s sake. So Jones, work with them and the regulator if you have to, and get me something that shows we are not negligent in selling our bloody shares to a drug cartel that were also in bed with a bunch of terrorists. The shareholders will have my guts over this. And fi x the bloody process, do you hear me,’ Fleming fi red at Jones.

  ‘Yes, Christopher; understood.’ His fat little body was now leaking sweat, his face a bright pink, looking more like a slapped ham than the visage of a cool head of internal audit.

  ‘As for you, Palmer, did we disturb your bloody golf game?’ Fleming was now just attacking anyone he could reach.

  Palmer expressed his anger. ‘I beg your pardon. I was not even informed by you, Christopher. How the devil would I have known? I will have this McCabe chap fi red.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Palmer, do you not listen? McCabe was the one trying to save the bloody bank,’ Bateman fi red back.

  With that, the meeting was adjourned and people could be seen hurriedly exiting the room to get answers—or at least evidence they could use to protect their own backs.

  The truth, however, was that all the answers were already evident: a breach was a breach. Irrespective of whom they were, Tai Investments had purchased the shares, and no amount of trying to cover it up now would save Fleming from the baying shareholders and angry regulators.

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  TWENTY-NINE

  As Ying opened her eyes, her mother’s face slowly came into focus, beaming a big smile. Her father, a deeply proud and traditional man not known for his display of emotions, gently squeezed her hand, which in itself was worth a thousand smiles to Ying. Ying then noticed her frail grandmother sitting in the corner, just visible behind her father, her typical smile peaking out of her wrinkled face. A little wave of her hand signalled that she had seen Ying.

  The embrace her mother gave her as she woke up was all she needed to feel at home. She had only vague recollections of the past few days in and out of consciousness, the odd glimpse of a face.

  ‘Oh my dear, thank God you are okay,’ her mother said, and kissed her, tears rolling down her face.

  Ying could see that her mother had not slept well in quite a few days: she looked very pale and drawn, to be expected from any mother who knew her daughter was being held captive in a foreign land.

  ‘You gave us quite a scare, girl,’ her father commented.

  Ying beamed. ‘Hi. Good to see you all.’

  Looking at her father, she said softly, her mouth dry, ‘Grandfather paid me a visit. That story you shared with me helped.’ As if he knew exactly what Ying meant, her father just smiled back.

  Ecstatic at seeing her family, Ying spent the next few hours talking to her parents. The stories of deals and money laundering came fl ooding out. Not that her dear parents fully understood much of what quantum breach 290709.indd 249

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  she was talking about, but they still listened intently despite their lack of fi nancial acumen. Ying was very careful no
t to tell them too much detail about the torture; she felt that whilst they would understand, it was information that would only serve to make them worry, and that would not be good.

  As her family left, now late in the evening, she turned her thoughts to Stowe and McCabe. Where were they? she wondered. It must have been those two who got her out and saved her life. That whole episode was a blank, however. She only remembered being hit hard across the face, and only glimpses of dark faces thereafter, until she woke up and saw her mother.

  Her recovery would take a few weeks, she was informed, though the injuries were mainly bruising and dehydration, nothing serious.

  However, as the hospital doctor had told her, the mental scars might take longer to heal.

  Ying would also have to give numerous statements to the authorities and her employer with regards to her role in the operation. This, however, could all wait, as recovery was the most pressing priority.

  A rather young female police offi cer was diligently stationed outside her room. Arrays of pictures in her fi le displayed who could go in and see her; absolutely no media were allowed. The added security was a precaution the authorities wanted to take to ensure not only Ying’s safety, but also that the media would not get wind of the events. As far as British Intelligence was concerned, it never happened. But the UK

  media had already started to publish accounts in the various newspapers, unscrupulous bank employees having broken the news.

  The next morning, as the lift doors opened, the tall, rugged fi gure of McCabe emerged. As he paced towards the ward, he caught sight of a cute nurse who was busy writing notes on what looked like a patient’s fi le. Her smile caught his attention; he returned this with his own beaming smile. Perhaps the large bunch of fl owers held fi rmly in his hand gave him a caring edge.

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  on guard, he walked into Ying’s private room, a small gesture from the bank she had tried to save. She appeared to be asleep. She looked so frail, not the bouncy ‘babe’ he was used to. The ordeal had obviously taken its toll. He noticed the abundance of fl owers and cards; she was well-liked and loved. A picture of her parents stood proudly on her bedside table. As he placed the fl owers on the end of her bed and started to slowly walk away, he heard a familiar if not distinctly weaker voice: