‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘So in round terms the financial markets could be hit with losses of £50 billion,’ calculated Kate and after a brief pause continued, ‘at which point several banks and insurance companies would get into trouble and the Government would have to step in again!’
‘Yes, it would be seriously nasty,’ added Aidan.
‘And the outright winners would be those sitting on key commodities, like oil!’ said Rafi
‘Thank you – I just wanted to be clear,’ said Kate.
Jeremy hurried back into the office and updated the team on MI5’s progress. ‘Neil Gunton’s team is working at full throttle. UKSOIL is at the top of their list. The CCTV footage from outside their shop on the eastern fringe of the City is being looked at. Whizzy new gait assessment software is being used to look at individuals’ walking characteristics to identify suspect people. Neil desperately wants to speed up the process and get his hands on some photos to check against the CCTV footage.’
Jeremy smiled. ‘On the travel agency front, things are looking promising. The UKSOIL shops collect students’ travel requirements and pass them on to an independent private ABTA-approved travel agency – Fly Skywards Travel. I’m off to pay them a visit.’
The buzz of Jeremy’s brief visit had gone. Rafi was sitting at his desk. He was tense, his wrist throbbed and his lower back ached. He felt awful. The lack of sleep had suddenly crept up and overwhelmed him.
John finished his phone call, walked over and pulled up a chair next to Rafi. ‘Are you alright?’
Rafi gave a small nod.
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve had a call about Callum’s funeral. It’s at 2.30 tomorrow in Clifton, outside Bristol. Kate has suggested that we send some flowers via the undertaker. We can’t say they’re from you. How about a card with something like: “Thank you for your friendship and help.” Is that alright with you?’
Rafi sat there feeling desolate and nodded slowly.
‘We have his parents’ names and address should you wish to write and/or visit them when this is all over.’
He wasn’t one for tears, but in his tiredness they welled up. There was nothing he could do to stop them. John briefly placed his arm across Rafi’s shoulder as a gesture of comfort.
Rafi looked up to the heavens as if to seek divine inspiration. How on earth can we sort out this horrendous mess? he wondered. A tranquillity came over him. It was as if Callum was in the room alongside him. Rafi’s mind was crystal clear – they needed a game plan to stop the adverse effects of the attacks on the financial system. And for that they would need three things: a huge pot of money, a group of people to whom the Treasury and the Bank of England would listen, and a . . . Kate called over interrupting his train of thought.
‘If you’re doing nothing could you see if you can find another property? We’re still a couple of targets adrift.’
As if from nowhere, a possible solution flashed through his mind. His tiredness evaporated. Rafi felt relaxed, collected and strangely on top of things. ‘Everyone! Do you have a moment? Can we go somewhere quiet to get away from the phones, please? I need to run through an idea,’ he called out.
‘Let me finish this call and I’m there,’ said Emma.
John nodded, indicating he would be there as soon as he, too, had finished his call.
Kate put down her phone. ‘We can use the meeting room down the corridor.’
John walked in to the meeting room just as Kate had started to quiz Rafi. ‘Why the meeting?’
Rafi started explaining, hesitantly. ‘We’re piecing together some of the locations of the terrorist attacks and hopefully we’ll soon have a good enough picture to stop much of what they’re planning. What scares me is their assault on the financial markets. Their two sets of plans are intertwined. So what’s been worrying me are the consequences of one or two missiles getting through and a nuclear facility being damaged. The loss of life and the radioactive pollution would dent public confidence. The clean-up costs alone could run to billions before one even starts talking of decommissioning costs. Aidan, how big a pot of money do you think that the Government might need to sort out their financial problems if things get nasty? And how much could they take on without spooking the markets?’
‘Answering your first question: how long is a piece of string? It could be anywhere between . . .’ Aidan hesitated and the room fell totally silent. ‘Let’s say in excess of £75 billion as a ballpark figure. It could easily be more. Answering the second part of your question, in the present environment, I reckon £15 billion of additional expenditures spread over, say, five years would be containable – a whisker over 1 penny on income tax.’
‘What are you getting at?’ enquired Kate quietly, as though suspecting Rafi had flipped under the strain. Her eyes still had a sparkle to them and looked at him caringly.
‘Well,’ said Rafi, ‘a few minutes ago you mentioned property – as I was thinking about Callum. He’d been visiting a specialist property investor before he was killed. Who’s the biggest owner of property and tangible assets in the UK?’
‘The Government, the public sector and its various agencies,’ replied Aidan. ‘I recall from a recent article in the financial press that it is worth around £500 billion.’
‘Precisely!’ said Rafi. ‘So why couldn’t the Government put together a contingency fund, such that it did not have to go to the debt markets? Instead it could package up these assets into one or more of the new real estate investment trust vehicles – rather like the Swedish Government has done. Our Government could then issue shares in these REITs to those who require payment, compensation, etc., which is straightforward as they would be listed on the London Stock Exchange. Let’s suppose the Government had to pay out and therefore issue a whopping £100 billion in REIT shares over five years. The cost of the dividends would be modest – not far off your 1 penny on income tax.’
‘Yes, but I thought that the commercial property market and real estate investment trusts were in the doldrums at the moment.’ Aidan paused. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be a wet blanket.’
Rafi looked crestfallen. He thought for a moment. ‘OK, how about pepping up the market?’
Aidan looked at Rafi; a broad smile stretched across his tired face. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Rafi’s mind was racing. ‘You could improve the demand for the REIT shares. What if the pension industry and those retiring could use these investments as an alternative to annuities? The REITs would have better yields than Government bonds and would appeal to many pension fund trustees and those with private pensions. Also, property’s inflation hedging characteristics would be an attractive feature.’ He paused. ‘Hold on a moment – and property valuations for owner-occupied properties are done on an existing use with vacant possession basis. Whereas the valuations for the REITs’ accounts would use the investment valuation method and the properties would have a Government lease on them guaranteeing the income flows – the valuations would therefore be a lot higher.’
‘Simply brilliant! No, better than that, it’s the nuts!’ said Aidan. ‘Real estate investment trusts would take off. Your sleight of hand would easily produce £125 billion for the Government to use at a manageable cost. Furthermore, if they raised a bit extra they could use it to buy back gilts and keep prices firm. With all their assets they could have a war chest of £400 billion, or more. That would underpin the markets – big time. Bloody magic!’
Aidan paused for a moment. ‘Your suggestion would need to be packaged properly and explained to the Treasury in terms that they understood. If it went hand in hand with a modest drop in interest rates and the markets remained stable for a couple of days, then the terrorists’ derivative positions would become untenable and they’d be wiped out financially.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ said John. ‘Could you explain what an REIT is?’
‘A real estate investment trust is the property investment vehicle of choice f
or major investors. All it does is group a number of property investments under one umbrella. Investors can buy shares via the stock market, and they receive dividends instead of rents.’
Kate looked at Aidan and asked, ‘Is this realistically a possible solution to the impending financial problems?’
‘Yes, yes it is!’
‘Excellent! In which case let’s get back to finding the terrorists with the missile launchers,’ said Kate. The meeting had finished. She stepped over and gave Rafi a hug.
He flinched and jumped back.
‘Oh sorry,’ she said, looking worriedly at him. It was as if he’d repulsed an unwanted invasion of his personal space.
He’d done it again – he’d sent out a contrary signal. Kate turned to go. Rafi reached out and touched her shoulder; she turned and their eyes met.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I ran out of painkillers at lunchtime: my shoulder and back are rather painful, not to mention my wrist. Are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ she replied, ‘I’m glad. No, that didn’t come out right: I’m not glad you’re in pain, but rather—’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rafi cut in.
Part 4
Kate sat at her desk hoping beyond all hope that crucial missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle would start falling into place. Her instincts as a detective told her that her investigation was perilously poised. Rafi and Aidan’s reading of the position could all be a horrendous miscalculation and if their scenario was wrong she would not only look a real idiot, but . . .
Jeremy’s phone rang, interrupting Kate’s thoughts. John put the call on speakerphone. It was a call from Jeremy’s colleague, Gareth, in Iceland. ‘How’s tricks, Gareth? Jeremy’s out at the moment,’ said John.
‘It’s brass monkeys here! And there’s no bloody daylight!’ came the reply. ‘Got a nice hotel, though I’m not certain if I go a bundle on the cod liver oil or the roast puffin. What the heck! At least the locals are hospitable. I’ve hooked up with the Víkingasveitin, their Viking Squad, who seem to be a cross between our MI5 and the SAS. We’ve been inspecting all the shipyards and boatyards around Reykjavík – said it was a health and safety check. We have just hit the bullseye at the last boatyard. There was a large yellow-hulled motorboat on the slipway, inside the big boat shed. Didn’t look anything like the picture I got of Flying Goddess; they’d altered her superstructure and given her a new name to go with her new colour: Golden Sundancer. I spotted Talal inspecting the boat with a geezer wearing a captain’s hat. We didn’t want to tip Talal off, so we left sharpish.’
‘Good news that you’ve found Talal,’ said John.
Kate called across, ‘Any chance you could find out exactly what work the boatyard has done to her?’
‘Whilst Talal is in there, I can’t just walk in and chat to the boatyard manager,’ replied Gareth. ‘It would be too bloody obvious. As we speak, I’m standing outside waiting to see if they leave, which is why I’m so bloody cold.’
‘Great work. Keep in touch,’ said John replacing the receiver.
‘Now we’ve found Talal and the sheikh’s yacht, what we could do with knowing is what they are going to do next,’ said Kate.
‘I’ve an idea,’ said Emma. ‘If I could borrow Aidan for a few minutes and if the people at the Icelandic boatyard speak English, it might work.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Kate.
‘Well, Aidan is the type of guy who might easily be able to afford something like Golden Sundancer. Why doesn’t he pretend that he’s considering buying a second-hand super-yacht which needs a refit? All he needs are the sales particulars of a boat and a contact suggesting the Reykjavík yard. Hopefully, the yard manager will be interested in new business and not consider questions linked to his last four or five fit-outs as suspicious.’
‘Good idea,’ said Kate, before adding, ‘John, see if you can get the contact details of the yacht broker Jeremy’s journalist friend, Pete, has been using.’
‘No problems.’ Several minutes later, after a tortuous phone call, John had the broker’s name and phone number. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that was like drawing teeth. Journalists are too bloody protective of their sources for their own good.’
Emma took the piece of paper from Jeremy and dialled the yacht broker’s number. ‘Hello, I wonder if you could help me. I’m the personal assistant of Aidan Gilchrist, of international bankers Maine Leadbetter in the City of London. My boss tells me that you’re the agents to speak to concerning the purchase of a large powerboat . . . Good, good, thank you. Could you please give me the details of what you have on your books in the E3 million price bracket? If possible located in Scandinavia, which is where his partner is from. I should mention that he’s thinking in terms of spending a tidy sum on getting the boat refitted to her taste – lucky lady!’ Emma chuckled. ‘Yes, I can give you some contact details.’ Emma gave her ex-directory phone number and the station’s private fax number which came into the station’s switchboard.
‘Work address? Hold on a moment, sorry the other phone is going.’ Emma put her hand over the receiver and shouted across to Aidan. ‘What on earth is your work address?’
He scribbled it down for her.
‘My boss is a bit impatient. Could you perhaps fax me something at your earliest convenience? Within the next ten minutes would be great. Thank you.’
As good as his word, the yacht broker faxed through the details of three stunning motor yachts, ranging from twenty to thirty metres in length with prices between E2 million and E3.5 million.
Aidan, briefed by Emma, picked up the phone and spoke to the Reykjavík boatyard. One could see very quickly why Aidan was a top financial dealer. He oozed charm, but came quickly to the point. It didn’t take long before the boatyard manager was chatting openly and describing the boats they’d worked on.
‘So, have you done work on anything seriously fast?’ enquired Aidan.
‘Yes,’ came the reply.
‘Excellent.’ And before he could ask what, the shipyard manager helpfully proceeded to give a lengthy description of what they’d done to a Sunseeker Predator 75. ‘She’s had a complete refit; new colour to the hull. We installed long-range fuel tanks, upgraded the engines and the air-conditioning, done work to the bridge and superstructure to make the vessel more comfortable in inclement seas and installed de-icing kit to help her with the local weather. Basically we’ve enabled the boat to go virtually anywhere at any time of the year,’ said the manager proudly.
‘Did you do work to the interior?’
‘Not much needed – oh we did put in a couple of very large ice boxes, well insulated with polystyrene. They won’t run out of beer for ages!’ Aidan cut to the chase. ‘My brokers and I are looking at . . .’ he picked one of the details of the boats in front of him at random, ‘a seventy-foot motor vessel, currently moored in Sweden. It’ll need its engines reconditioning and my partner doesn’t like the colours of the state room or the master bedroom. How soon could you start work on her? I’m thinking of putting a bid in this afternoon – subject to survey, of course.’
Aidan paused and listened to the shipyard manager, and then said, ‘Oh that would be excellent. You say that the works to Golden Sundancer are completed, yes? So you can start any time from next week, as soon as the boat is delivered.’
Aidan drew breath and continued. ‘My partner, Johanna, is rather fussy. Would it possible for her to fly over, say, tomorrow or the next day to see the quality of your work on the Sunseeker 75?’
He paused again. ‘Oh that’s a shame; she’ll be disappointed that Golden Sundancer is putting to sea later this evening. Thank you very much for your time though, you’ve been most helpful. I have your name and contact details so I’ll ring again on Monday to discuss the refit works.’
With that Aidan gently replaced the receiver, stood up and bowed to a round of applause from Emma.
‘Good work – no – excellent work,’ said Emma. ‘I knew you could do it. So we now
know that the sheikh’s boat is leaving within the next twelve hours.’
Emma did some mental arithmetic. ‘That would tie in with the possibility of a rendezvous with the trawler from Peterhead, somewhere off the north coast of Scotland tomorrow night.’
‘Time is running out,’ said Kate. ‘We have got to find the missing locations and the people who are going to fire the missiles.’
Emma walked casually over to Aidan’s desk. ‘I didn’t realise you had a partner.’
‘Ah well, I can be rather deceptive.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Emma, looking a little crestfallen.
Aidan smiled. ‘No you’ve got it wrong; it’s my partner that’s the deception.’
Emma brightened visibly.
‘Emma, I have a problem,’ said Aidan, changing the subject. ‘I could do with some more space. I was wondering if you could help. I’ve printed out the vast majority of the contract notes and I’m swamped with paper!’ He flashed one of his most inviting and charming smiles in her direction. ‘Any bright ideas where I could go?’
Emma muttered something under her breath which Kate didn’t catch.
‘Thanks,’ said Aidan. ‘I need to find a large table or floor: somewhere where I can lay out all this bumph,’ he said pointing to the piles of paper stacked on and around his desk. ‘I’m almost there but the lack of space is slowing me down.’
Kate stood up. ‘You two follow me. Pass me some papers to carry.’ They left the room weighed down with printouts.
Kate and Emma returned a couple minutes later to collect the remaining paperwork. ‘We’ve put him in the commissioner’s conference room and asked Beverley to keep an eye on him and to top him up with coffee. The commissioner is out, so he should get some peace and quiet,’ said Kate.
Half an hour later Aidan called Emma. He sounded pleased. ‘Could you, Rafi and Kate come up to look at a few things?’
They walked into the commissioner’s conference room and saw it was covered with paper – not just the large oval table but also the chairs, which had been pushed against the walls, and the carpet as well.
Latent Hazard Page 18
