Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  ‘Oi! Wake up and get your arse in gear!’ shouted Mike as if every second was urgent. ‘You’re here to talk to us not to daydream.’

  Rafi drew breath and started: ‘Do you understand what I mean by butterfly positions in the forward financial futures markets, when a leveraged investor is speculating on a break out of a trading range, precipitated by new knowledge coming into the market?’ He stopped. The two interrogators looked at each other, dumbfounded.

  It was bullshit, but not total bullshit. ‘OK, I’ll go through it slowly. In the futures market you have two positions: calls when you’re a buyer and puts when you’re a seller of the market. With a call position, you make a profit if the market rises more than is anticipated and in a put contract you make a profit if the market falls by more than anticipated. OK so far?’ Rafi carried on before they had had the opportunity to respond. ‘Leveraged derivatives are when you’ve borrowed money to finance your positions in the market, thereby making your profits bigger. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Er . . . Could you perhaps speak English?’ said Andy.

  ‘Where do these butterflies come in?’ asked Mike in a bemused manner.

  ‘They’re a type of trade where you mix call and put contracts together. It’s the information flows that make the derivatives market appealing in highly volatile times.’

  The two interrogators obviously didn’t have a clue what Rafi was talking about. Their faces showed that as much as they wished to follow his line of thought, it wasn’t their area of expertise.

  ‘Perhaps we should have a break whilst you check out what I’ve said?’

  Mike scowled. They chatted between themselves for a couple of minutes. Apparently they’d had enough trouble understanding what an equity was, let alone a futures product.

  ‘By the way, I have a USB memory stick with the data on it, which will back up my assertions.’

  ‘You what?’ exploded Mike. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell us earlier? Where is it?’

  Rafi remained silent.

  ‘You devious little sod,’ said Andy. ‘Back to your cell while we decide what to do with you.’

  Rafi was bundled back to his cell. He lay on his bed and hoped that they’d make a decision relatively quickly.

  The bolts on the cell door clunked loudly and the door swung open. There, standing in the doorway was his bête noir.

  ‘They want you back, now!’ the guard said ominously. ‘Come with me,’ he barked.

  Rafi struggled to sit up; his back had seized up as a result of the blows he’d received from the man who had brought his food. He rolled on to his side, slid off the bed and on to his knees. Yes, he could stand up now, he thought as he straightened his knees.

  He was too slow. Suddenly he felt the vice-like grip of a pair of hands locked around his neck and was forcibly hauled upright. He couldn’t breathe and started to struggle, which had no impact other than to increase the pressure on his neck. Rafi felt himself starting to black out.

  The guard was strong, very strong, and with ease he pulled Rafi up. Then in one movement sent him flying towards the corner of the cell.

  Instinctively, Rafi tried to cushion the impact by stretching out his right arm in front of him – it hit the inside rim of the slops bucket taking much of the brunt and was unceremoniously lying in the contents. Then his shoulder hit the wall with a sickening thud. Rafi felt sick as pain shot up his arm from his wrist.

  ‘You messy little git,’ said the guard. ‘Can’t take you anywhere without you making an effing mess of yourself. Phwaaw! You smell like a sewer rat. Better not keep ’em waiting.’ With that he hauled Rafi to his feet and frogmarched him down the corridor.

  His wrist was already swelling up and going a deep purple-blue colour. Rafi tried to move his fingers; they hurt like hell, but he found he could still partially move them – at least nothing seemed broken.

  As he pushed Rafi towards his chair, the guard hissed under his breath, ‘You won’t be so lucky next time!’ His distinctive company’s badge – the BlueKnite emblem – was inches away from Rafi’s eyes and impressed itself in his memory.

  ‘Silly idjut tried to get here in too much of an ’urry, slipped and put his hand down the karzi. A right plonker, in’t ’e?’ said the guard.

  Rafi laid his swollen wrist and reeking wet sleeve on the table. He looked at his two interrogators and tried to give them his best grin.

  ‘Phew, you stink! Before we go any further we need to get you cleaned up.’ Andy beckoned to those behind the one-way glass window.

  A couple of minutes later there was a knock at the door and a new face appeared. The man was carrying a clean shirt and a plastic first aid box.

  ‘Meet Sergeant Chris Archery. We thought you should be checked over before we continue.’

  Rafi slowly unbuttoned his shirt and then got stuck.

  ‘Could you help me pull it off?’ Rafi sat there, leaning slightly forward in his chair, and, as his shirt came off there was an involuntary intake of breath.

  ‘Bloody hell, mate!’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re looking a bit rough aren’t you?’

  Rafi’s wrist had swelled up to nearly three times its normal size and had turned a deep shade of dark blue and purple. He couldn’t see the bruises on his back, but they ached like hell.

  ‘I can’t do much about your back, but I can strap your wrist,’ the sergeant turned to the two interrogators. ‘Can I give him a couple of painkillers, or are they off the menu?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Don’t want him accusing us of treating him badly,’ said Mike sarcastically.

  The sergeant carefully lifted Rafi’s arm up. ‘Looks painful; let’s get it washed and strapped.’ He opened his first aid box and pulled out a couple of sterilised cleaning towels. He cleaned his forearm, wrist and hand.

  ‘Hold still; this may be a little uncomfortable’ – an understatement if ever there was one. The sergeant quickly and efficiently strapped his wrist from the base of his thumb to his elbow and helped Rafi put on the clean shirt.

  The sergeant rummaged again in his box and took out a plastic bottle of a yellow-looking liquid. He opened it, poured some of the contents on to a piece of cotton wool and wiped Rafi’s swollen hand. ‘Nothing to do with the treatment – I thought it might cover up the smell; it’s the best I can do on the deodorant front,’ he said grinning at the two interrogators. ‘If that’s all gentlemen, I’ll go now.’

  As soon as the door closed, Mike recommenced the inquisition. ‘Tell us where you have put the USB memory stick – and why the files are important. If you don’t, we’ll send you on holiday to the Americans.’

  Though the threat was probably hollow, the idea of what they might do scared Rafi. He remained silent for a moment.

  ‘I suppose a phone call is out of the question?’ Rafi asked hopefully.

  ‘Bloody well right!’ said Mike.

  ‘What was on the files? Tell me! Then you get a phone call,’ added Andy.

  At last he had something to go on. Up to then he’d been hitting a brick wall. ‘I’ve a proposal,’ Rafi said quietly.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ said Mike.

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone, but I’ll need your help.’

  ‘You must be bloody joking!’ interjected Mike.

  ‘Please hear me out,’ said Rafi.

  ‘Make it quick,’ replied Andy.

  ‘Find me a detective who’s an expert in corporate fraud or economic fraud. The City of London police force has a specialist economic fraud team. I know they’re bloody livid with me as a prime suspect, but if you can get one of them to interrogate me, they’ll understand what I have to say.’

  There was silence; it was definitely not what the two MI5 officers had expected to hear.

  ‘One of our specialists should be able to understand,’ said Andy, who looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon.

  ‘Should be, I’m afraid, isn’t enough. I need to speak with someone who really knows their stuff. The people at
City Police are experts and won’t suffer fools gladly. If I’m seen to be pissing them around, they’ll no doubt tell you,’ countered Rafi.

  ‘I don’t think your suggestion is viable. They’re not MI5, or anti-terrorism, so they are outside the group of people we work with,’ said Mike.

  ‘Even though they’ve got a vested interest in the Bishopsgate bombing?’ insisted Rafi.

  ‘Oh hell, you’re a little shit, aren’t you? We’ve got enough to bang you up for decades. Your bargaining position is crap and yet you’re asking to be interrogated by a plod from the City of London.’ Mike looked far from pleased.

  ‘Bloody nutmegs, if you ask me,’ cut in Andy.

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ said Mike. ‘I think he’s just trying to give us the runaround.’

  ‘We’ll ask the boss, but I reckon the answer will be a categorical no,’ said Andy.

  They left the room, leaving Rafi to wait anxiously. A couple of minutes later they reappeared.

  ‘We’ve a proposal. You tell us the information and we then pass the tapes to City of London police.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s time?’ Rafi asked. ‘All I’m asking is to meet a detective from City police; you can record the conversation and hear everything we talk about.’

  ‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea,’ mumbled Andy under his breath.

  ‘Time for you to go back to your cell,’ said Mike.

  Rafi was ushered to his cell by another guard who had obviously been to the same training school as his ugly colleague.

  Back in his cell Rafi waited nervously. He rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say. He waited and waited. Finally they came for him – the walk to the interrogation room felt like the longest of his life.

  As Rafi entered the now familiar place, his heart sank. There were just two people in the room: Andy and Mike. His request had fallen on deaf ears. There was no one from the City of London police to interrogate him. Rafi felt despondent and broken. His hope of having someone to help fight his corner evaporated.

  Mike started the conversation. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘Let us recap why you’re under arrest. We’ve got CCTV footage of your meeting with the Bishopsgate bomber; one of the £20 notes you took from the cashpoint was found in the dead bomber’s wallet; you’ve hidden a USB memory stick with crucial data on it and you’ve consistently refused to cooperate.’

  ‘What the hell is your defence?’ added Andy.

  Rafi’s mind was close to calling it a day. He hesitated. A phrase a former hostage had once used in a TV interview came to mind: ‘It’s your belief in there being a future that pulls you through the ordeal’. Sod it, he thought; even if the City Police weren’t there, he still had to give it a try.

  ‘Could I have a whiteboard or a flip chart?’

  The two interrogators looked at each other. ‘No you bloody well can’t,’ snapped Mike.

  ‘It would speed things up and make things clearer,’ Rafi countered weakly.

  ‘The answer’s still no,’ said Andy.

  ‘How about some paper and a pen?’

  Andy pushed his pad and a pen over to Rafi, who picked up the biro in his left hand and transferred it across to his swollen right hand and winced as he started writing on the paper sheet. The pain wasn’t too bad if he supported his swollen wrist with his left hand. In the middle of the sheet, he wrote:

  £20 note

  CCTV footage

  Packed to leave

  Callum’s car crash

  Prima Terra / Jameel

  USB Memory Stick.

  The handwriting was awful, but it was legible. Rafi smiled; he had a framework from which to operate. All he had to do now was to get his exhausted brain to remember everything he had to say and to put it across clearly.

  The pain in his right hand had reached a point where he wondered if he could deal with it. He tried to ignore it and continued shakily. His throat was dry and his voice scratchy. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee, white with sugar and no salt, please?’

  Andy nodded and, as if by magic, a cup of hot coffee was brought into the room a few moments later. It gave Rafi a much needed boost.

  ‘You have me here as your prime suspect. Let me explain why I’m innocent.’

  ‘This better be good,’ Mike interjected under his breath.

  ‘I’m an innocent bystander, but at the same time I am linked to those involved,’ said Rafi. He looked at the two of them. He’d got their attention. ‘The CCTV footage showed me taking £500 in £20 notes from the cashpoint, one of which ended up in the dead terrorist’s pocket. How did this happen? Your records will confirm that, after taking the money out, I went straight to the Bishop of Norwich where my firm was holding a celebratory lunch. Jameel Furud asked if I could sub him £360 towards the restaurant tip. The total tip was £500. If you check with the restaurant, you’ll find that the denominations of the notes that they received were fifteen of my brand new £20s and four £50s.’ Rafi knew this was just a calculated guess, but was prepared to bet he was right. Jameel was a big tipper, liked round numbers and £50 notes. ‘Jameel pocketed three of my £20 notes, and it was one of these notes you found on the dead body.’

  Rafi wondered whether he was talking sense. He had a splitting headache. ‘Let’s turn to the CCTV footage. My office in South Place isn’t that near to Bishopsgate. I reckon that there must be thousands of CCTV cameras in the Square Mile. Let’s assume that there are 4,000 cameras – that’s something like 100,000 hours of recordings. Finding the bit showing me handing the money over to the bomber would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack and yet it was found in a matter of hours. I’d make an educated guess that it was found thanks to an anonymous tip-off and not by tracing the movements of the bomber. Where did the tip-off come from? It was the person who arranged for me to bump into the bomber; the person who had asked me to go to the cashpoint before going to the restaurant to get cash for the tip. The same person who knew that there was only one set of cashpoints between my office and the restaurant. All the evidence points to me being set up by Jameel Furud, who has conveniently left the country.’

  Andy and Mike looked straight at Rafi. Their blank faces gave nothing away.

  ‘I would now like to explain the items at the bottom of the sheet of paper.’ Rafi dropped his head for a few seconds, partly for effect and partly because he felt like death warmed up. His body was crying out for some rest.

  ‘The Stock Exchange takeover code, the Blue Book, sets out strict rules on the disclosure of shareholdings in companies listed in London. Callum and I had found four instances where Prima Terra’s large disclosable shareholdings were mirrored by large clandestine nominee shareholdings. These nominee holdings are run out of Luxembourg. Before Callum was killed he’d meetings with specialists in this field. He’d called his colleague, Seb Warren, and implied that he’d found proof that would verify the data on the USB memory stick and substantiate that Prima Terra was linked to the clandestine nominee names. This would be a major breach of the rules.’

  Rafi paused. ‘To reinforce my allegation that Callum was murdered, please consider the following. He’d arranged to borrow a Porsche and drive it to Amsterdam via the German Autobahns. He was really excited about the Porsche and wouldn’t have given up the opportunity of driving it. So why was he found in a rented Mercedes, driving east towards Belgium and not west to Germany? My answer is: his assassins put him there and set fire to the car to cover up any evidence.’

  Mike and Andy looked at Rafi as if he was as mad as a box of frogs.

  ‘My premise to you is that there’s more to this than meets the eye,’ continued Rafi. ‘You’ve quizzed me about impending attacks on police stations, railway stations, airports and other public places. You’ve got this wrong. Jameel is one of a team plotting something far larger. I believe they wanted me out of the way as they thought I’d stumbled on to something that could uncover what they’re planning.’

  Rafi raised his a
ching head and looked at the interrogators. ‘The data on the USB memory stick holds the key to this conspiracy. That’s why I want an interview with someone from the City of London police. They’re uniquely placed to understand the data and to put it into the context of the workings and intricacies of the financial markets. I implore you to let me be interrogated by one of them. What have you got to lose?’

  ‘So where is the memory stick?’ asked Andy.

  ‘Safe,’ Rafi replied.

  ‘Do continue,’ said Andy.

  ‘Why was I packed to leave? And why was I not going abroad? Quite simply, I feared for my life and wanted to go somewhere safe to mull things over. I booked ten days’ holiday in Cornwall. If I’d been involved with the terrorists, surely I’d have gone to a safe haven overseas?’

  Rafi looked at his two interrogators. He reckoned he had at best a 50:50 chance as to whether they believed anything he’d said. They remained silent, their faces unfathomable. He sensed he’d lost. He wasn’t going to get out of jail – ever.

  Just then the door opened. A smartly dressed police officer stood in the doorway, pausing momentarily to take in the scene in front of him, then strode in, head up high. He introduced himself as Commissioner Giles Meynell of the City of London police. He came and sat opposite Rafi, next to the two interrogators.

  He had a calm yet forceful voice, packed with authority, no doubt gleaned over many years of high ranking service.

  Rafi was gobsmacked. Oh hell, why did the commissioner have to arrive late? He’d have to do the whole presentation again and realised he physically couldn’t – he was just too tired.

  The commissioner studied the prisoner. ‘Mr Khan, I’ve listened to what you’ve had to say. It’s too early to determine whether there’s any truth to your story.’

  Rafi’s hopes rose and then fell.

  ‘However, even if there’s an outside chance that your theory has substance, I’m duty-bound to investigate.’

  Rafi could have leant across and hugged him. He felt he had been given a new lease of life.