Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  It was 7.05 a.m. when Rafi entered the fourth floor office. Emma and Jeremy were hard at work. At 7.15 a.m. coffee and bacon croissants arrived from Luigi’s together with fresh orange juice.

  Emma looked at Jeremy and asked, ‘Is the food always like this at MI5?’

  ‘It would be if I had anything to do with it,’ said Jeremy. ‘I was starved of an edible diet for eight weeks working undercover. I thought Rafi and I should catch up.’

  The whiteboard had been wiped clean. Rafi’s scribbles from the previous evening had been removed.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Rafi. We decided on a colour-coding system: red for – important, blue for – it could be relevant and black for – background information thought to be of minor significance. A green circle means it needs following up,’ said Emma with a smile.

  On the whiteboard, written in red, were the names of the four companies which Prima Terra and unknown others effectively controlled. The activity of each was abbreviated to a couple of words as an aide-memoir.

  Kate looked across at Rafi and asked, ‘Why do you think that time is against us and that worse is still to come?’

  ‘In part it’s just a gut feeling and in part it’s to do with the nature of the markets Jameel and I work in. I’ve £4 billion of funds under my discretionary control and Jameel has almost twice that. To Jameel, dealing with very large sums of money is second nature. Prima Terra, under the stewardship of Jameel, has invested in four companies with market capitalisations from £10 to £400 million. These aren’t vast sums in terms of takeover plays. In my professional view these companies aren’t the sort that others would pursue or wish to buy. Therefore, it has to be something that the companies do, or something they have that Jameel and his colleagues need as part of their game plan.’

  Jeremy, who had been very quiet, sitting at his desk finishing off his second croissant, put his hand up and said, ‘Excuse me? These moneys you have – they’re not yours, are they?’

  ‘No,’ Rafi replied.

  ‘What’s to stop you flushing the lot down the pan? If you’re a terrorist, you don’t go around making things better, you do the opposite; particularly if you’re playing with someone else’s money!’

  Rafi looked at him. He’d stated the bloody obvious. He wished he’d thought of it first. ‘Thanks, I reckon you’ve got something there.’

  ‘Let’s look at the four listed companies from that perspective,’ said Kate.

  Emma stood, pen in hand, by the whiteboard.

  Rafi started the ball rolling. ‘Renshaw Smithers are specialists in finding financial backers for Government-backed projects like new hospitals, prisons and schools, and they are a big lender to businesses that provide the outsourcing services to these Government-funded schemes.’

  ‘If this company suddenly became insolvent, what would happen?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I’m not certain,’ Rafi replied. ‘It depends on how much impact it would have on the PFI and PPP sectors. If it caused some of those providing outsourcing services to go under, then a large number of hospitals, prisons and schools could stop functioning.’

  Jeremy whistled.

  Kate looked across at Rafi. ‘That sounds ominous. So, how does Unicorn Sceptre Finance fit in?’

  It’s a small business,’ said Emma. ‘They lend money to students and people with poor quality credit ratings. If it went bust, surely it wouldn’t be much of a problem in the scale of things?’

  ‘Could it be a front for lending money cheaply to a select group of students, for example, to the bomber Imaad Wafeeq and others like him?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Possibly,’ nodded Kate.

  ‘Dewoodson are property consultants; heaven only knows why they want property expertise?’ said Kate.

  ‘If you look at ESSA, they’re a leading executive search company; they’ve an excellent list of blue chip clients,’ said Emma.

  ‘Being cynical, could they be used to get bent ringers into key positions in companies they need for some specific purpose?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘If they used a dodgy international bank to sort out the bungs,’ said Rafi, ‘it would be an ideal way to pay the people put in place by ESSA to do the terrorists’ dirty work!’

  Jeremy’s phone rang. He listened intently, put the phone down, got up and with a red pen added Marrakech next to Jameel’s name. ‘If I wanted to go somewhere safe as a Muslim, Morocco would be an excellent choice. Jameel has booked a ten-day stay at a luxury five-star golf hotel on the edge of the city where he is scheduled to arrive later this morning. We’ve sent a colleague to keep an eye on him and to report back should he meet anyone.’

  ‘I thought he’d do a runner,’ said Rafi smiling.

  ‘One question,’ said Emma. ‘How long do we think that the share stake-building exercise has been going on?’

  ‘I remember the Dewoodson’s IPO,’ said Rafi.

  ‘What?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Sorry, initial public offering; when a company raises money from the market. It was eighteen months ago. Prima Terra picked up its stake in the company at the flotation.’

  Jeremy grimaced.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Kate.

  ‘That’s bad news. In my book any bad guy who plans something for a couple of years is definitely up to no good. We’re up against a very well-planned plot, whatever it might be.’

  Rafi sat there, thinking about what Jeremy had just said. Then, as if from nowhere, an associated thought flashed through his mind. He was gobsmacked.

  ‘Are you feeling ill?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Er . . . No, I just remembered an IPO launch I attended a few weeks ago and an incident that completely slipped my mind. Please bear with me for a moment,’ Rafi began hesitantly. ‘Let me try and recall it. It may seem like a shaggy-dog story, but it’s relevant, I’m sure.’

  Rafi closed his bloodshot eyes and took his mind back to the bright January morning a few weeks earlier. ‘It was a Wednesday, three weeks ago. I’d had a hectic morning. The market was buoyant. I had lunch scheduled with a bank and some brokers who were launching an IPO. It was a normal sell-side promote. I was running late and took a taxi. It dropped me a couple of minutes’ walk away from their smart new office building on the South Bank; a stunning development scheme. Great attention to detail: black granite walkways, fountains for children to play in and even a small “Pooh sticks” stream which flows down the middle of the walkway to Tooley Street, almost 400 yards away. Sorry; I digress.’

  Rafi paused to collect his thoughts. ‘After the short presentations, the cheeky beggars pushed through lunch at a cracking pace, as they were running two sittings. At 1.15 p.m. I was politely offered my coat and a couple of minutes later I was standing in front of the building feeling rather pissed off. My nice lunch had turned into a fast food experience. I stood there, taking in the view across the Thames. It was a lovely afternoon; the winter sun was out and London looked great, so as I wasn’t expected back in the office before 2.30, I decided to stretch my legs and walk back to the office rather than take a taxi.’

  Rafi smiled. ‘I set off towards Tower Bridge, along the river walkway past the London Assembly Building.’

  ‘Is that the one with the unfortunate nickname relating to a part of the male anatomy?’ enquired Jeremy.

  ‘Yes,’ Rafi replied, ‘a singularly imposing building,’ he paused. ‘I then made my way up the distinct granite steps of Tower Bridge. By the time I reached the far side, the cold wind had got to me. I considered wimping out and take a taxi back to the office, but eventually opted for the exercise and turned down the steps that cut under the bridge, went past Dead Man’s Gate and headed out into the sunshine past the Tower of London. Whoops, sorry I’m rambling again.’

  ‘Don’t worry. As long as you remember something useful we don’t mind if you ramble on a bit,’ said Kate reassuringly.

  ‘I continued my stroll and headed along Lower Thames Street. I crossed the road and walked up St Mary at Hill then turned
into a narrow cobbled street – St Dunstan’s Lane. What prompted me to go that way, I don’t know. Perhaps it was because I was enjoying my amble and the lane, with its cobbled surface, looked quaint. It was an impulse. On the corner where St Dunstan’s Lane turns into Idol Lane there was a delivery van blocking the single carriageway.’ Rafi paused again. ‘Behind it, fifty metres up Idol Lane, was a chauffeur-driven Mercedes facing me, with its door open waiting for someone to come out of a building.’

  Rafi stopped; time seemed to stand still. He stared towards the printer to the right of Emma’s desk. It all came flooding back as if it were an action replay. He continued with his story. ‘I walked around the corner behind the parked lorry and reappeared just in time to see someone getting into the car facing me. The person looked familiar. At that precise moment the lorry driver leant out of his window and called to me. I turned and walked back towards him. He wanted to know where the nearest McDonald’s was. I apologised, saying that I didn’t know, but thought that there was one in Cannon Street and pointed to the end of the road. He thanked me and drove off.’

  Rafi’s eyes widened. ‘As the lorry left, it was followed by the Mercedes; no wonder the person in the car had looked familiar: it was Jameel! I smiled at him and our eyes met fleetingly but he didn’t acknowledge me. At the time I assumed that he was engrossed in his work. What must it have looked like to my boss? One moment I was there, the next I had hidden behind the lorry. He couldn’t have known I was speaking to the driver.’

  ‘It would have looked suspicious,’ said Emma, ‘like you didn’t want to be seen.’

  ‘So what did you do next?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I walked to the top of the Lane and passed by the building Jameel had come out of. It was nondescript, with the numbers 2-4 on a plain dark blue front door. There was nothing to give away who or what was based there. At the time I wondered who Jameel had been seeing but, as I didn’t think it was important, I dismissed the thought and carried on back to the office,’ said Rafi.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Kate.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Rafi, looking up at his audience. ‘Sorry it took a while to get to the punchline. Could my spotting Jameel doing something he wanted to keep secret have triggered his interest in me, particularly if he thought I was spying on him? What do you think?’

  Emma looked up. ‘Rafi, did he look sheepish when he left the building in Idol Lane?’

  ‘No, just businesslike.’

  ‘I think I should get a list of all the occupiers,’ said Emma. ‘You can then see if any ring a bell. I’ll nip downstairs and raid our database.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Kate.

  A short while later Emma returned looking rather pleased with herself; she walked confidently up to Rafi’s desk and handed him three sheets of paper.

  ‘Here is the list of occupiers for Idol Lane. Bit of a rabbit warren down there. In case your boss was visiting someone nearby, I took the liberty of checking the adjoining streets as well,’ said Emma.

  ‘Thanks.’ Rafi was impressed. He liked the way Emma worked. He scanned the list at speed, a skill he developed at work, honed by going through piles of brokers’ reports, newspapers and journals every day. The knack was to skim through the material looking for something out of the ordinary. Most of the material that passed over his desk was either a regurgitation of known facts, or a relatively standard analysis thereof. What he looked for was new information, something different, something that stood out. On finding such an item he would take the trouble of thoroughly reading it and carefully assimilating its contents.

  Rafi continued his scanning. He was two thirds down the second sheet when he came across a company name he recognised but couldn’t immediately place: AGVC Ltd. The initials look very familiar. He highlighted it, paused and carried on to the end of the third and last page.

  He went back to the beginning of the first sheet and started reading the names of the occupiers again. Nothing untoward stood out on page one; there were some well-known names, but none he could link to his boss. Rafi moved on to page two and to AGVC Ltd. He looked at the initials and wondered why they were familiar, particularly in the context of his boss – where had he come across them before?

  His memory was working overtime. From the dim and distant past he recalled meeting the managing director of AGVC at a company function. It must have been about three years ago. Rafi racked his brain, trying to remember where it was and who had invited him from Prima Terra.

  ‘Emma!’ he called across to her with more than a little anticipation in his voice. ‘I’ve a company I could do with you researching, please.’

  ‘Thank God,’ muttered Kate. ‘I was beginning to wonder whether we were chasing shadows.’

  ‘Emma, could you find out what AGVC does, please? And could you get me a large-scale map which shows exactly where their offices are?’

  Only a few minutes later she had the information up on her screen. ‘Right, here goes. AGVC – business type: venture capital company and financiers. Any good?’

  ‘Bingo,’ said Rafi. ‘That’s what I was hoping for.’

  ‘They’re located halfway down on the left-hand side of St Mary at Hill.’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said Kate, ‘I thought you said you saw Jameel in Idol Lane?’

  Rafi looked at her slightly crestfallen. ‘Good memory,’ he said looking at Kate approvingly. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  Emma smiled. ‘No problem, the two properties back on to each other.’

  ‘Excellent! Who are the occupiers of 2–4 Idol Lane?’

  ‘Rainer Spencer and Mitchell,’ answered Emma. ‘Says here that they’re chartered accountants and company secretaries.’

  ‘What’s the link?’ said Kate.

  At that moment someone on high must have been smiling on Emma. Breakthroughs come about in mysterious ways and her answer to Kate’s question, unbeknown to the team, would propel them forward.

  ‘Link?’ said Emma. ‘If the buildings were physically linked or interconnected this would allow Jameel to keep his visits to AGVC’s offices secret. Shall we see if the two buildings are in the same ownership?’ Emma’s fingers worked quickly over her keyboard. ‘Right, I’m into the Land Registry website; let’s take a look at AGVC’s offices first. The address and postcode?’ Before anyone could answer, Emma had cut and pasted the information into the Land Registry boxes. ‘Oh dear, not much help: the freehold is owned by British & Scottish Property Company.’

  ‘A major London listed property company,’ Rafi chipped in.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Emma. ‘I shouldn’t have been too hasty. There seems to be a long leasehold interest in the property owned by a company called PREH.’

  ‘OK, what about the building next to it in Idol Lane,’ said Kate.

  ‘Would you believe it; it’s owned by PREH as well.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, so they are connected.’ Kate was standing behind Emma, and gave her a friendly pat on the back and then did the same to Rafi.

  He almost jumped out of his skin. ‘Ooouch!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Whoops, sorry,’ said Kate. ‘I forgot your bumps and bruises.’

  It was now 2.05.p.m. on the Wednesday afternoon. Kate had a smile on her face. ‘At last we’ve got something concrete to go on and three more businesses to research: AGVC, a venture capital company; Rainer Spencer & Mitchell, a firm of chartered accountants and company secretaries, and the property company PREH. Let’s see what we can find on these organisations and their directors and partners. Emma and Rafi, can you trawl the web and do detailed Companies House searches on their accounts, shareholders, etc.? See how quickly you can get a picture of these businesses. Jeremy and I’ll look into the individuals involved and get as much as we can from the tax people.’

  ‘I’ve a suggestion,’ said Rafi. ‘How’s about we find out as much as possible on the private companies AGVC is financing. I reckon it’ll be one or more of these that will be of interest and not the company it
self.’

  ‘Got that,’ said Kate.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Rafi blurted out. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking around.

  ‘Never mind me,’ said Kate.

  ‘I’ve just remembered where I know AGVC from. The boss there, Basil Tatall – no – Dr Basel Talal,’ Rafi corrected himself, ‘did his PhD at the London College of Finance with my boss. I met Dr Talal several years ago, when Jameel invited me to a finance talk at the college. I was introduced briefly. But it was only when one of their contemporaries turned up that I found out they’d been fellow students.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ mused Kate.

  ‘It could be that they were two university friends meeting for a chat and nothing more than that,’ said Rafi.

  ‘Or equally that he was visiting the occupiers of 2-4 Idol Lane on an unrelated matter to what we are investigating,’ said Emma.

  ‘But something triggered Jameel’s distrust of Rafi and this is the best we’ve got, so let’s run with it and see where it takes us,’ suggested Kate.

  Jeremy strode back into the room. ‘Sorry to have deserted you. I’ve been liaising with my MI5 colleagues. They’re expecting another series of bombings. The consensus of opinion is that the target will be a transport hub. Security levels have been increased and leave has been cancelled. Rafi, they still think you’re a bit of a red herring. Talking of food,’ said Jeremy, ‘would you like a cake?’ The food had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and been put on the top of a couple of filing cabinets next to Kate where it had been forgotten.

  Jeremy tucked in. ‘Yum, I must give Luigi a ring and thank him.’ Emma looked across at Kate and smiled. She was about to add something when Jeremy caught her look. ‘If you’d spent two months living off Pot Noodles and black coffee . . .’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ apologised Emma.

  ‘Jeremy, I’d like you and one of my colleagues to visit the London College of Finance and ask about two doctors: Jameel Furud and Basel Talal,’ said Kate.

  ‘You mean, what are a couple of medics doing at a finance college?’ joked Jeremy with a schoolboy grin.