Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  He put his hand back into his pocket and pulled out the USB stick; he raised his hand to his mouth, spat out the blob of chewing gum and pressed it to the side of the USB stick. He put his hand around the back of the cold iron post and with his fingertips felt for the irregular hole. He reached inside and pushed the USB stick firmly up into the top section of the post. He smiled as the chewing gum stuck. The main part of his job was done.

  Rafi retraced his tracks to the road. He’d been gone probably no more than twenty minutes. His eyes had become accustomed to darkness and he could clearly pick out the outline of the houses fronting on to Heath Road. He looked up into the sky. The cloud cover, thankfully, remained impenetrable. He glanced across at a small bedroom light in the distance. Early birds, he thought. On a normal working day like this, he would only be in bed for another couple of hours and therefore he needed to get back home as quickly as possible.

  Although it was still dark, he was aware that just one light switched on near his front door would scupper his return, making him clearly visible to the person in the Mercedes car. Rafi slipped across the road and retraced his steps back to the passage. At the corner he stopped; in front of him was the last straight leading to his front door.

  Gingerly, he peeped round the corner. Was the Mercedes car still there? Oh hell, it was. On the way out he’d initially been oblivious to it. Now the black silhouette was straight in front of him. It looked menacing. He studied the car carefully. There was no sign of a lit cigarette. Either the person had stopped smoking, or he had got out to follow him. Oh shit, he thought, what if he was in the shadows waiting for him? Rafi hesitated and then forced himself to move, lest the light of an early-rising neighbour gave him away.

  He moved carefully down the passageway, hugging the wall on his left. He reached his front door. Everything around him was dark. He slipped his key into the lock and turned it. At that precise moment the light from a nearby flat came on. It was as if he had been caught in the arc of a spotlight. He pushed open the door, slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Had he been spotted? Only time would tell. He was relieved to be back on home territory. Quickly, with a bounce in his step, he climbed the stairs in the dark. As he reached the landing, he froze. Could he smell cigarette smoke? Could the person from the car be waiting for him in the shadows? He peered up the last flight of stairs into the darkness, but could make nothing out. He stood still, listening for anything.

  Not eight feet away his neighbour’s front door opened, lighting up the landing.

  ‘Oh bejesus!’ exclaimed the neighbour. ‘What the bleeding hell are you doing here? You scared the holy shit out of me.’

  If he knew what he’d done to Rafi’s nerves, he’d have apologised. Rafi stuttered, ‘Sorry mate, just got back from a night away with the girlfriend. I was creeping in trying not to make any noise.’

  ‘You lucky so and so,’ he commented, smiling at Rafi.

  The neighbour turned on the stairwell light, closed his front door, muttered, ‘Must get going, I’ve got the early shift at work today. See you around,’ and went on his way in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  Rafi climbed the last flight of stairs, went into his flat and stood there, shaking. He felt as if he’d aged years.

  Was the Mercedes still on guard duty out front? He needed to check so he climbed the narrow staircase to the top floor bedroom. It was in darkness. He stopped before the window, dropped to his knees and shuffled forward, resting his elbows on the windowsill in order to peer down towards the road. The Mercedes was still there, its dark shape hauntingly visible, but he couldn’t make out if the person was still inside the car. He stayed on his knees, surveying the dark shape parked across the road. Who could it be? Did he really want to find out? His mind was full of questions and precious few answers. He dozed off, leaning on the windowsill.

  The distant buzz of his alarm clock woke him. Rafi raised his weary head and looked outside; it was still dark. He came back to reality with a bump. The Mercedes was still there. He shuffled backwards, stood up and hurried downstairs to turn off the alarm.

  He was sure he was being watched, but by whom? He decided that he had no option but to continue as normal. He slipped into his early-morning routine. Twenty minutes later, he was sitting at the small kitchen table, staring at a bowl of cereal and milk. Normally he ate breakfast quickly. This morning, his appetite had vanished and the coffee tasted bitter. He gathered up his things and left for work.

  Rafi carefully opened the entrance hall door. Would the Mercedes still be there? If so, would he have the courage to walk by it on his way to the underground station? He stepped out into the shadows of the narrow alleyway and looked left towards the road.

  The Mercedes was nowhere to be seen; Rafi breathed a sigh of relief.

  On the tube, Rafi hid behind his Friday’s Financial Times, taking in little of its news. His head was in turmoil. Act normally, he kept telling himself. His mind was trying to stay rational, but his body was under a different set of controls. He felt his hands shaking and steadied them.

  At last, Moorgate tube station arrived. He got out and made his way to his office round the corner in South Place.

  Rafi greeted the security guard with a wave and headed for the coffee machine. He felt like death warmed up. The office was like a morgue. You idiot, he thought to himself, as he recalled the celebratory lunch and the previous evening’s festivities. His spirits rose a little as he realised that at least he would look a whole lot better than most of his colleagues.

  The office started to fill up. The open plan floor on which he worked was the quietest he could remember; the telephones were being answered in hushed tones and no one was really in the mood to work. By all accounts, the previous night had been an unreserved success; the bar bills would have been huge and the accounts team would no doubt have to do some creative juggling with the expenses claims!

  By 9 a.m. the office was regaining some of its momentum and the noise level had moved up a notch from deadly quiet to hush. The coffee machines were in demand, but unlike normal days there was little gossiping going on around them. At one of them Rafi bumped into Jameel’s secretary.

  ‘Did he make his flight last night?’ he enquired.

  ‘’Fraid not! He missed it by a mile,’ she smiled. ‘It was a good session yesterday, though, wasn’t it?’

  Rafi recalled seeing her perched on the edge of a table, enjoying the adulation of a group of dealers.

  To his surprise, she said, ‘Didn’t you see Jameel first thing this morning? He told me he had a couple of things to sort out before he rushed off to London City airport to catch a flight to Paris. Luckily, I managed to rearrange all his meetings.’

  ‘Is he still due back next Tuesday?’ Rafi asked.

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Why had Jameel missed his evening flight? He’d left the party early and had plenty of time. Rafi wondered what he had been up to.

  Minutes later, Seb Warren, a colleague of Callum’s, phoned. ‘Judy Ballantyne of HR asked me to give you a call.’

  Rafi could vaguely put a face to the young individual. He was of a similar age to Callum, but not in Callum’s class.

  ‘Is there any further news?’ asked Rafi.

  ‘Sorry, nothing. All we can glean is that he’d finished his work and was on his way to Amsterdam. The local Luxembourg police aren’t saying much. His body should be flown home early next week. I understand that his family is arranging the funeral for next Thursday somewhere near Bristol, I think.’

  ‘Callum was seeing some people for me,’ Rafi said, hoping Seb wouldn’t pick up his white lie. ‘Could you run through who he saw?’

  Seb hesitated briefly, but then went on. ‘Yes, OK. He had a meeting with a REIT, followed by a couple of meetings with tax lawyers. He had lunch with a local investment fund manager and then went to see a contact in the same building for an afternoon meeting. Rafi, I spoke to Callum as he was leaving the afternoon meeting. He was very upbeat
, saying, “I’ve done some useful research for Rafi, he will be very interested.” I don’t know what he meant – sorry – do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Rafi disingenuously.

  Seb paused and carried on. ‘He was in a hurry, said he was late for his rendezvous with the REIT director.’

  ‘I tried ringing him at around 6.30 p.m. but got put through to his voicemail,’ said Rafi.

  ‘So did I,’ replied the youngster.

  ‘Before you ring off, could you tell me who he had lunch with?’

  ‘I’m not certain if I should, but I know Callum was a good friend of yours so I’ll tell you off the record. He met Hubert Vynckt of CPR Investment Funds.’

  ‘Thank you Seb, you’ve been a great help, and I’m so sorry about Callum.’

  Rafi made a mental note of the name and had just stood up to go to the library when the whole building was rocked by a dull thump.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Gavin, a director who sat near to Rafi.

  ‘Oscar has self-imploded,’ quipped Dominic, to Gavin’s left.

  A voice from across the room said, ‘That was a bomb blast.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Gavin.

  All eyes in the open plan office focused on the office junior. He was seen but usually never heard. ‘Not close, but definitely in the Square Mile. I reckon it went off somewhere to the east of us.’ He paused before adding, going rather pink, ‘I’m in the TA so I am used to these sorts of bangs.’

  ‘So now what?’ asked Gavin.

  ‘There could be a follow-up bomb. People should move away from the windows.’

  ‘OK,’ said Gavin, ‘do as the man says and get away from the windows. We’ll wait for some news; it’ll be all over the screens very soon and then we’ll decide what to do.’

  Rafi looked at the newsflash on his trading screen. ‘Bombed – Police garage at the rear of Bishopsgate police station, opposite Liverpool Street Station.’ The newsflash continued. ‘City of London police are unable to confirm whether there will be any further attacks. The London Stock Exchange and Euronext.liffe have closed.’ This was followed by, ‘London underground and all mainline stations are shut.’

  Gavin stood up. ‘The office is closed for business. You are free to stay put or leave for home whenever you wish.’

  Rafi knew that news of the bomb blast would be plastered across the media, so he picked up the phone and dialled his sister’s number at her university department.

  A colleague of hers answered.

  ‘Is Saara there? It’s her brother speaking.’

  ‘Sorry, she’s nipped out. I’ll tell her you rang.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘could you put a note on her desk to say that I’m fine.’

  ‘Will do,’ she reassured him and the line went dead.

  Rafi decided it was time to leave. ‘See you Monday. Have a good weekend,’ he called across to Gavin.

  Outside, it was bright February sunshine. The streets had an unreal feel. There was the sound of sirens in the distance. It was the expressions on people’s faces that were different. They had a sense of anxious determination. The buses and taxis were still working but the queues at the bus stops and cab ranks were very long. Rafi considered his options. He wanted to get home. There was nothing for it but to walk and hope he came across an empty taxi on the way. With a coffee break in the middle, the six-mile walk was not too bad.

  The walk gave him the opportunity to think things over. He would take a holiday. If he went abroad and Prima Terra were investigated by the authorities, they might think he was escaping from them so he decided to find a comfortable hotel in Cornwall. He would leave first thing the following morning; being a Saturday it would be a good time to travel.

  Just under three hours later Rafi was opening the front door to his flat. It was a relief to be home. He stripped, showered and, with a bath towel around his waist, headed for the dining room table, opened up his laptop and went surfing for hotels in Cornwall. Into the search engine he entered: Cornwall +hotel +sea and scanned through the very long list of possibilities. He changed sea to “good food” and looked at the new list. Near the top, Headland Hotel, Fistral Bay, Newquay caught his eye. He clicked on the link. Its location looked great. Its restaurant had two rosettes and they were doing special deals on stays of over five days – perfect. He opened up another window, pulled up the search engine again and found National Rail Enquiries. London to Newquay was a five-hour journey from Paddington and there was a 10.05 a.m. train.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the Headland Hotel. In the space of a couple of minutes he’d booked himself a small suite with ocean view for ten days, extendable to fourteen, starting the following night.

  He decided he would travel light and packed some clothes into his computer rucksack and briefcase. He would look businesslike in the hope of concealing his escape plans. Tired, he turned in for an early night.

  A few hours later his living nightmare started, as he was dragged from his bed and taken to the godforsaken police station.

  Rafi lurched back to the present. From the memories he had managed to piece together, he concluded that Jameel, his boss, with some persons unknown in Luxembourg were involved in something highly illegal and could even be linked to the terrorist attack. Callum must have unearthed proof of what was going on.

  But why did they want him out of circulation? If Jameel was involved and something sinister was going on with the four companies, what were they up to? Why was he a danger to them and why hadn’t they killed him, as they’d done with Callum? Perhaps two deaths close to home would raise too many questions, and setting him up as the bad guy achieved the desired effect?

  Rafi’s head ached from the lack of sleep. The absence of edible food and the small intake of fluids were also taking their toll. The physical side was unpleasant but didn’t overly concern him. It was the mental fatigue that worried him. Without a brain he wouldn’t get out of there, he told himself.

  His thoughts changed tack. How long would it have taken for the evidence to be fabricated against him and the bombing to be planned and carried out? And how many people might be involved? His conclusion was that the bombing had already been scheduled and it had simply been a convenience to link him to it.

  So how was Jameel, a finance heavyweight, involved? Jameel was a big picture man: fine print and micromanagement weren’t his biggest strengths. Therefore, he had to be working with or for someone.

  Next question, mused Rafi: what was Jameel’s and Prima Terra’s part in the plot? It had to be something to do with the City of London – one of the three great financial capitals of the world. His thoughts drifted back to the research that Callum and he had been working on: the clandestine nominee names and the four companies in which Prima Terra was a large investor. Might they have thought he was on to them and close to unravelling what they were planning?

  In simple terms, he had two sets of obstacles to get over. The first was to show that the evidence against him – the CCTV footage and the £20 note – was contrived. The second was to get his interrogators to believe that he was on their side and potentially was the key to unlocking a larger terrorist plot.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ It came to him, out of the blue. What he needed was someone they trusted to do the persuading for him. Someone who would wish to look carefully at the four companies and work on what Prima Terra were up to. In the eyes of his interrogators he was guilty and he knew they wouldn’t be prepared to listen to a word he said as long as he insisted on protesting his innocence. Corporate finance was a blank in their book. Who might they listen to? His mind ached.

  It needed to be one of them! Yes, of course that might work. He needed a police officer who could put his case to them. Furthermore, he needed someone who was familiar with the workings of the City and understood corporate finance. His mind raced. Ideally it would need to be someone from the Corporate or Economic Fraud Squad at the City of London police force. Would they be prepared to
help him? Bloody hell, it was going to be a tall order. The bomber he was accused of being linked to had killed three – or was it four? – City policemen. He would be seriously unpopular with them. But it was on their turf and they might be interested in his story if they thought it would hasten the arrest of those who masterminded the bombing. He thought through the practicalities: he needed to get someone from the City Police to visit him. He could give them the location of the memory stick, but he was aware that it wouldn’t be wise to tell MI5 as they might then not let the police be involved.

  There was a problem, though. He probably only had twelve hours left before it all became too much for him to handle coherently. In particular, the lack of sleep and water were taking their toll. As he wondered how best to get things moving, the cell door swung open.

  In the interrogation room, he faced his two least favourite people. He was desperately tired and had lost track of time, but felt as if he had missed a night’s sleep.

  Before Rafi could speak, Andy started talking. ‘We passed your laptop to our boffins. They’ve found nothing to do with the four companies.’

  Thank goodness he hadn’t copied across the files from Callum’s USB memory stick, thought Rafi.

  ‘Very suspicious if you ask me,’ said Mike. ‘So where is the information Callum and you put together on the four companies?’

  Rafi’s stomach tensed up; he had to play things very carefully. The information on Callum’s USB stick might just be his passport out of there.

  ‘It’s rather complicated,’ said Rafi.

  ‘Proceed. Do we look thick?’ added Andy.

  Rafi allowed himself an inward grin. He hesitated; time for a bit of financial gobbledygook.