Pete had been studying Jeremy, who was athletic in build and had one of those faces that was handsome but did nor stand out. Pete realised he was hooked; he had to find out more.
‘Are you really MI5?’
‘Yep, have a look at this.’
Pete scrutinised Jeremy’s MI5 warrant card, looked up at his smiling face and considered things. He’d just put a good story to bed, had a second almost completed and so didn’t really need another one, but he did have a spare hour or so. What the hell! The spook was interesting.
‘I might be able to help. It depends on what you’re after,’ said Pete.
‘I could do with tracing a fast motor vessel. I’ve got two leads as to who the owner might be – both mix with the great and the not-so-good! Can’t tell you what it’s about as it’s highly sensitive, but you’ll be the first to know when the story breaks.’
‘That’s a bit thin,’ said Pete.
‘My sources tell me you’re a man up for a challenge,’ replied Jeremy.
‘How’s about we go back to my office and see if we can turn something up in the library?’
It was a short walk across to the shiny, glass-fronted building. Pete signed Jeremy in and they made for the library via the coffee machine.
Jeremy gave Pete the details of Maryam, her husband and the sheikh, and showed him some photos of the individuals that Emma had sent through on his phone.
‘Where do we start looking?’
‘First let’s look under their names. Let me show you how the manual and electronic cataloguing and indexing work. I suggest you start over here and I start at the other end and we see how we do,’ said Pete.
Jeremy looked at the mass of catalogued photos. Bloody hell! If only MI5 had this type of information on people! He was fascinated by the tabloid approach to life. Some of the pictures made the mind boggle and the eyes water. They surely couldn’t publish many of them, but he supposed they made for a good bargaining tool!
It soon became apparent that Maryam and her husband were landlubbers; they loved high society, opera and the Arts. There was nothing on boats.
Then Pete struck gold. A colleague had been working on a story about oil magnates and beautiful but hard-up celebs. There were pictures of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women and there, amongst the pictures, was the sheikh with a movie star draped across the back of a sleek-looking monster of a powerboat.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ said Pete. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one of those. It looks like a Sunseeker Predator 75 if I’m not mistaken. Like shit off a shovel. I reckon her top speed would be something like forty-seven knots – over fifty miles per hour.’
Pete looked carefully through the similar pictures. ‘Hell’s bells, what a bugger! None of the photos show the boat’s name. Don’t worry.’ He picked up the phone and chatted to a colleague, and within moments was talking to a specialist yacht broking agency. He spoke to them for a while and then hung up. ‘This is the boring bit of the job – the waiting for someone to phone back with the info. And the coffee’s cold!’ commented Pete.
They didn’t have to wait long. The yacht broker advised Pete that a limited number of these boats were built each year. The manufacturer had given him the names of the boats constructed in the past five years. The broker reckoned that it wouldn’t take him long to track down whether any of them were owned by a rich Arab sheikh.
Jeremy smiled. It was great to see a professional at work! Pete didn’t give away who he was researching. He reckoned Pete could give a lesson or two to some of his younger colleagues. To pass the time, and not wishing to lose an opportunity, Jeremy pulled together a bit of information on Maryam and her husband.
Less than twenty minutes later Pete’s broker contact phoned back. He’d identified three such boats which were owned by Arab sheikhs.
‘The first one is owned by a Sheikh Tufayl.’
‘Voilà!’ said Jeremy
‘Her name is Flying Goddess,’ continued Pete. ‘She is usually moored at either Monaco or Cannes and has a full-time captain.’
The information cost Pete E500. On the basis that it would help with a story, he would mark it down to expenses. Pete made a couple more calls and discovered that the boat wasn’t in Monaco or Cannes. His contact in Monaco reckoned the boat left late last year for a refit somewhere or other, but not locally.
‘Thanks mate,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t tell you much at the moment, but odds-on your morning’s work will have been your most profitable yet.’
‘Exclusive as and when?’
‘Of course, but in the meantime our discussion remains just between the two of us,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.’
On the journey back, Jeremy phoned Emma.
‘That’s brilliant!’ she said. ‘You’ve got the name, the make and the type of boat and even know that she’s being refitted.’
Kate called across to Emma, ‘Look at Iceland first. If that’s where Basel is, I bet that’s where Flying Goddess is having her makeover. Have a chat to Jeremy’s colleagues and get them to pass the information on to their man travelling to Iceland.’
The morning had gone by fast; it was already 12.15 p.m.
Emma called across to Kate. ‘You’ve got a phone call from a DI Rick Feldon in Manchester.’
‘Ar’noon, we’ve pulled in Stone and Wesson,’ said a businesslike Mancunian voice. ‘The story is that we’ve linked them with a paedo ring – indecent images, etc. Well, that’s what the paperwork says. Could have got it wrong, though,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Mr Stone is screaming blue murder. I’ve put an embargo on either of them seeing any outsiders. His solicitor isn’t best pleased – human rights and all that!’
Emma called across, ‘Remember to ask him about whether they use outsourcing companies in their police station.’
‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Kate under her breath. ‘I’d quite forgotten.’ She asked Rick.
‘Yes, catering,’ came his reply.
‘Do me a favour. As far as the two from Dewoodson are concerned, treat all your caterers as hostile! I’ll explain later.’
‘Will do,’ said Rick with a hint of surprise in his voice. ‘We picked up William Wesson at a property he was valuing. He’s like a feral cat – seriously pissed off. I never knew surveyors could be so bloody difficult.’
‘Wesson’s computer has been set up in the interview room and we asked him to show us all his files relating to PREH. The bugger tried to delete the folder they were in. Thankfully we stopped him. Phil Scott is emailing the valuation report to you as we speak. By the way, if you want any more of the clowns at Dewoodson brought in, please let me know. It would be my pleasure. We’ve spoken to Mr Stone’s number two and explained the sensitivity of the situation. He’s agreed to close the office until Monday. Also, a couple of suits from MI5 turned up to give us a hand – said they were friends of yours. They’re giving the offices a once-over.’
‘Excellent work and thanks,’ said Kate.
‘Good luck at your end. Cheers!’ Rick was about to hang up, when he added, ‘Do you have a biro at hand? Here are Phil’s and my mobile numbers. If you need anything, day or night, please don’t hesitate.’
‘Thanks Rick and please make certain that no outsiders speak to either of them.’
The email arrived; Kate opened the attachment and printed it off. Rafi scooped it up from the printer. He went through the valuation, marking off the properties which hadn’t shown up on the mortgage register. Two of the new addresses were prime high street shop investments, but two were definitely not prime: some elderly light industrial units in Stalls Lane, Heysham, and a commercial property in Castle Street, Peterhead. Both were vacant. Result! Two more possible properties, mused Rafi.
He then had a thought and scanned through the tenancy schedule. Windmill Road, Peterhead – vacant; Shawfarm Industrial Estate, Prestwick – one unit vacant; Folgate Road Industrial Estate, North Walsham – two units vacant; and Tees Road I
ndustrial, Hartlepool – vacant.
Rafi typed Castle Street, Peterhead, into the mapping software. It was next to the docks. He did the same for Stalls Lane, Heysham. ‘Bloody hell!’ he uttered under his breath. It was right next to the nuclear power station.
‘Found anything?’ enquired Kate.
‘We can add another nuclear power station to our list. The Heysham property is bang next to the nuclear power station.’
Rafi was about to continue when Emma piped up. ‘Our contact at the coastguard has traced both of the missing trawlers. Rosemarie has just finished a refit at the dry dock in Great Yarmouth and Highland Belle is at Troon dry dock. Both are poised to set sail.’
‘Well done, Emma,’ said Kate. ‘Are all the other trawlers at sea?’
‘Yep. Except Northern Rose; she is still in Peterhead harbour. That gives us three exit points,’ said Emma, who marked up the location of the two new properties and the two trawlers on the screen.
Rafi smiled. It was as if he was at the centre of the terrorists’ web, undetected and slowly but surely identifying the strands of information that might enable them to scupper their plans. There were still too many missing pieces of information, but at last he felt they were getting a clearer idea of their intentions.
Kate stood up and clapped her hands. ‘Let’s recap on the information we have.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘We’ve trawlers poised to leave from three ports. Rafi has located suspicious properties at these five locations, and the terrorists have five missile launchers and sixteen unused missiles.’ She scratched her head, as she looked at the screen. ‘If we were to assume two targets per missile launcher then how might the properties and targets be paired? Any suggestions?’
‘How’s about we put the St Fergus gas terminal and Cruden Bay oil pumping station with the properties in Peterhead – as the targets for missile launcher number one?’ said Emma
‘And then there is the Hartlepool property which overlooks the local nuclear power station,’ said John, ‘but at the moment the second target in this pair is missing.’
Kate nodded.
‘Number three could be Heysham nuclear power station – plus perhaps Hunterston nuclear power station up the coast? And launcher number four could then go with the huge Bacton gas facility and possibly Sizewell nuclear power station,’ said Emma.
There was silence.
‘Which leaves us with bugger-all for the fifth launcher – could it perhaps be the nuclear train at Willesden Sidings?’ enquired John.
‘It’s all a bit iffy,’ said Kate with a note of despondency in her voice.
‘But a pattern is emerging,’ said John. ‘The proximity of the various dots to PREH’s properties is too bloody close for comfort for this to be random. If you think back, twenty-four hours ago we had next to nothing!’
The conversation was stopped by Aidan cutting in. ‘Can you stop what you’re doing for a moment? I need to hear your views on a couple of thoughts.’ Aidan looked at them from behind his growing piles of paper.
‘I still have more to do, but I’ve reached the point where I’m convinced that a small group of investors have built up sizeable positions in both the long gilt and the interest rate futures and traded options contracts. If the positions I’ve found at my bank are replicated elsewhere and these speculators turn out to be right and the markets crash – the terrorists will make huge profits and there will be lots of bloody noses.’
Aidan turned to Rafi. ‘What if we were able to stop the markets from crashing – or more specifically prevent interest rates rising and gilts prices falling – and limit the impact of the terrorist attacks.’ He grinned, ‘If we could do this then we could turn the tables on the terrorists and wipe out their investments in the derivative markets.’
Aidan paused. ‘I would be willing to bet that there are also a significant number of murky players with their snouts in the trough, who we could also take to the cleaners.’
‘Wooah!’ said Kate, ‘That wouldn’t be feasible, would it?’
‘Aidan, it’s brilliant!’ exclaimed Rafi. ‘All we need to do is pre-empt most of the attacks and make certain that interest rates and gilts remain stable for – how long – a month?’
‘No; far less than that. If interest rates remained stable, in a week to ten days the terrorists’ positions in the futures markets would become exposed and they would either have to close them and crystallise large losses, or pay large margin calls. However, if interest rates were to fall, 24-48 hours would be enough to crucify them financially. In both cases their investments in the traded options markets would be wiped out.’
‘That’s all very well and good,’ observed Kate, but the if is a massively big if.’
‘Yes, I grant you that,’ said Rafi, ‘but isn’t it nice to know that the terrorists mightn’t have everything going their way?’
Kate looked at him with that same look she’d given him when she had asked him to work with her. ‘You know what I like about you?’ her eyes sparkled as she held his gaze. ‘It’s your unbridled optimism.’
‘Hold on a moment!’ said Aidan. ‘If we go back to when would be the best time to carry out the attacks in terms of maximum impact on the markets, it would be first thing in the morning as the markets are opening, but not late morning or in the afternoon. The London Stock Exchange opens at 8 a.m. and dawn tomorrow is . . . ?
‘7.25 a.m., give or take a bit,’ answered Emma.
‘What are you getting at?’ asked Kate.
‘We are led to believe the departure time of the trawler in Peterhead is tomorrow early afternoon, aren’t we?’ said Aidan.
‘Yes.’
‘If we are right and the trawlers are to be used as part of the terrorists’ exit plan, I reckon that all three will leave at similar times.’
‘OK,’ said Kate sensing what he was getting at.
‘So, thinking about it, I’d be willing to bet that the attacks are planned for tomorrow as that’s when the trawlers are leaving, and that they will come between dawn and the markets opening at 8 a.m.,’ said Aidan.
‘Bloody hell! That gives us less than twenty hours,’ said John, quite taken aback.
‘We’ve got too many holes in our hypothesis,’ said Kate. ‘We’ve got to fill in more of these gaps! To put it bluntly, we have to find the missing targets, the missile launchers and the foot soldiers. In the meantime I’ll warn the commissioner of our dire line of thinking. And remember, not a word of this to anyone, please.’
Greg popped his head around the door at that moment. ‘Did I miss something interesting?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate, ‘have you been there long?’
‘No! You buggers are running me ragged. I dropped by to tell Aidan that I’ve arranged every computer access he should need. Bleeding strange,’ said Greg. ‘There I was working in my office, drawing up a list of all the databases we would need to get into, when the commissioner walked in and asked me – yes me – what he could do to help. I explained what I needed. He nodded and disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived. Not twenty minutes later he came back saying that he’d pulled a few strings. I’ve had the head of IT from Euronext.liffe, the CME in Chicago and Eurex in Frankfurt on the phone volunteering their services and wanting to know which secure IP addresses we would be using. They’ve sent me encrypted user names and passwords and authorised me to access all their databases. Their cooperation is 100%. Bloody marvellous if you ask me!’
He looked at Kate. ‘And I walk in here to be asked if I’d been listening at the keyhole!’
Greg chuckled to himself and went on, ‘Aidan, if I can use your PC for a moment I’ll get it set up to access databases you’ve only dreamed of getting into.’
Aidan smiled, like a young boy being told he was getting the keys to the local sweet shop. ‘Thanks,’ he said and got up to let Greg take his seat.
In less than five minutes Greg had Aidan’s computer set up.
Aidan’s thanked him effusively and called across to G
reg as he was leaving the office, ‘Any chance of a better printer? There’s going to be a lot of paper.’ Looking in the direction of Emma and the old printer, he said, ‘The old lady over there is getting too slow for me.’
Emma screwed up her face and then smiled at him.
Greg looked at Aidan. ‘How big a machine did you have in mind?’
‘Anything that prints quickly and has a big memory buffer would be great.’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Greg. Less than fifteen minutes later he was back pushing a printer-photocopier half the size of a desk. ‘This little beauty is from accounts downstairs; please look after it.’
John, who had been sitting, contemplating, stirred. ‘Why can’t we just close down the markets involved and stop the terrorists that way?’
Aidan looked at him. ‘In theory yes, but the turnover in these markets every hour of the trading day runs to squillions of pounds. To close the markets for anything other than a short period would be catastrophic for London’s reputation. We could close them for a day. The problem is that there are many ways of covering one’s tracks and the positions would still be there when the markets reopen. I’ve identified a number of suspicious contract notes, but it would take ages to look for them all. And this is offshore money via intermediary banks, which electronically can move the money quickly and secretively. It would be nigh on impossible to trace. What makes it really difficult is that we’re only focusing on two parts of the market. The terrorists’ positions are likely to be spread across a range of products. The two we have highlighted are the most obvious, but Sterling, the FTSE and gold would be good bets as well.’
Kate scratched her head thoughtfully. ‘Let us suppose that Sheikh Tufayl is good for £2 billion; his cousins Maryam and Jameel, via their client’s moneys, could be good for another £1 billion each and murky third parties put in another £1 billion. If this £5 billion is placed in the futures and traded options markets, and the terrorists get their way, what would their profit roughly be?’ She looked at Aidan and Rafi.
Aidan spoke first. ‘Conservatively they could make eight times their initial outlay; at the top end maybe fifteen times. Do you agree, Rafi?’
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