Scott was used to giving false names and never stumbled for a second. He normally used the names of lesser known Prime Ministers of the UK but when he met particularly stupid ones, he used well known ones. Although very deserving of a Winston Churchill, Scott thought it more appropriate to flatter her.
“Andrew Law, Clifford Chance,” naming one of the least known PM’s who, due to ill health, had served only 7 months in office and paired this with the largest law firm in the world. She’d have to search for some time to check he wasn’t genuine. He hadn’t mentioned which office he worked out of.
As she handed him the slip of paper, he added. “And you are?”
“It’s on the back…with my phone number,” she blushed.
Scott read the name, Julie Hughes. “Well, it’s been lovely to meet you Julie and I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” replied Scott waving the slip of paper. Turning and walking towards the door, he heard Julie call out. “Call me!”
“Definitely,” replied Scott without turning around.
Once out onto the street, Scott checked the address. Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire. Not somewhere Scott immediately recognised but he knew enough to know that it wouldn’t be too far from London as Buckinghamshire was well within its commuter belt. That, however, could wait. Next stop was Companies House. Closing at five, he had just over two hours to try and trace the loan company. Back on the tube and ten minutes later, he was exiting Tottenham Court Road tube station and after a short walk, had located Companies House and was speaking to a research assistant.
Two hours later, the loan company information had not given him any more leads.
A nearby internet café gave Scott all the information he needed on Gerrards Cross. A very affluent commuter town just 20 minutes from Marylebone Station. Scott typed the postcode into a mapping website and printed off the exact location of the house in relation to the train station. Five minutes later, he was back in the underground and after a quick journey to Marylebone Station, he was on the 17.33 overground train to Gerrards Cross.
With twenty minutes to spare, he pulled out his phone and called Ashley.
***
Ashley’s journey, despite being significantly shorter, had taken almost twice as long, although she was the first to admit the scenery was spectacular and the time flew by. The train had left Geneva at precisely 12.45 and thanks to the efficiency of the Swiss railway had pulled to a stop at exactly 15.28 as published in the timetable. Her meeting with the Chairman had been scheduled for 17.45 and had allowed her some time to enjoy the vast array of stores before arriving at Union Bank,of Zurich’s only branch, at 17.40. She was getting used to Swiss time keeping.
Although just as grand in appearance as Rothschild’s in Geneva, Ashley could not fail to sense the overwhelming lack of class in comparison to the Geneva bank. Everything seemed rushed and hassled whereas Rothschild had been quiet, relaxed and undeniably efficient. UBZ felt like a bank under pressure, which it was.
At 17.46 and 32 seconds, a flushed and harassed looking lady came bustling towards Ashley and introduced herself as the Chairman’s secretary.
As instructed, Ashley followed the secretary, struggling to keep up without breaking into a run and was led up to the first floor and towards an open door at the end of the corridor. She was shown through the door and saw a gentleman, in his sixties, sitting by his desk refusing to lift his head from the book that lay in front of him.
“Miss Jones,” announced the secretary who received nothing more than a gruff ‘Ja’ and a wave of dismissal from the man. Herr Meyer knowing Ashley’s real name had refused to accept any other name to secure the meeting.
The secretary pointed to a chair by the conference table for Ashley and hastily left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. The man behind the desk who Ashley could only assume was the chairman had still not looked up.
After waiting thirty seconds in complete silence, Ashley thought bugger this and cleared her throat. “Ahem.”
The Chairman looked up angrily but catching sight of Ashley immediately stood up and smiled the dirtiest smile Ashley had ever seen. She could almost feel his eyes peeling off every item of her clothing as he stalked towards her. She smiled as best she could under the circumstances. As he approached, he reached out for her hand which rather than shaking he bent down and kissed.
“Miss Jones, so lovely to meet you,” he slimed.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” she said.
“Anything for my good friend Herr Krauss,” replied the Chairman.
Ashley had to cough to stop herself laughing at the suggestion Herr Krauss would even stay in the same room as this letch, let alone call him a friend.
“Would you like coffee or perhaps tea, water or?” looking at his watch. “Perhaps something a little stronger?” he laughed suggestively.
“Water would be fine, thank you.”
Buzzing his secretary, the chairman demanded a water and an afternoon tea. Ashley couldn’t help thinking afternoon tea was some poorly hidden code for something alcoholic.
“So how can I help you, Miss Jones?” asked the Chairman, failing to raise his eyes higher than Ashley’s cleavage.
Ashley knew that the disgusting male who made her stomach churn was one of the only men in the world who could help her find the killers and as such she leaned forward. Her blouse moved further away from her skin revealing more cleavage and the majority of her lacy and extremely see-through bra.
A bead of sweat almost immediately appeared on the chairman’s brow as he struggled to remain calm and not look too obvious in his attempt to catch a glimpse of the stunning Miss Jones nipple which he could just make out and no more. He moved slightly in his seat to secure a less obstructed view.
“I need some information about a transaction your bank made.”
“I’m sorry but unless you are involved in the transaction that will not be possible.”
Ashley sat upright as the disappointment of the answer registered and the Chairman’s wonderful view disappeared.
The secretary knocked gently on the door and deposited the drinks without a word, before excusing herself for the evening; it was 6.00 and closing time.
Ashley’s heart sank, closing time would mean an end to her opportunity of getting the information.
“We’re not quite finished here, tell the night guard that I’m still in my office,” the chairman winked at Ashley immediately reawakening her spirits. The old dog thought he had a chance!
As the door closed, Ashley leant forward again ensuring her blouse fell open.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life or death and it was twenty-five years ago.”
The Chairman, now mesmerised by the glimpses of Ashley’s breasts, desperately wanted her to stay exactly where she was.
He leaned forward conspiratorially, catching a glimpse of the other nipple.
“Well, that is an awfully long time go,” he suggested. “Perhaps if you give me the details of the transaction I can check to see if client confidentiality would be breached. I mean, they might not even be clients any more.”
Ashley inched further forward. “That would be wonderful,” she said handing him the transaction date and the account which had sent the funds.
“Now, don’t move,” said the chairman, meaning exactly what he said, praying the view would be just as good on his return.
He made his way from the conference table back to his desk and entered the transaction details into an old looking system. Ashley looked on quizzically as the chairman waited for the information to appear on the screen.
“It’s pre 95, have to use the old system to get the details,” he explained.
The chairman took the details from one screen and entered them into a newer system that looked more like a traditional PC. After a few seconds, he began to read the details on the screen in front of him and smiled back at Ashley.
Ashley’s hopes rose as the old letch looked particula
rly happy with himself. However, as he walked back towards her, the excitement of the find had obviously aroused him a little too much and it seemed he had no intention of hiding his new found enthusiasm. Ashley averted her eyes and hoped he’d sit rather than stand in front of her.
Thankfully he did sit and Ashley was once again able to look the chairman in the face.
“It seems we’re in luck. The account holder who transferred the funds is no longer with us. In fact I was only informed this morning of his sad demise. An excellent customer for many, many years,” he shook his head as he spoke.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Ashley, crestfallen at another lead dwindling away.
“Now, exactly how much does this information mean to you?” asked the chairman, the twinkle in his eye telling Ashley exactly how much it would cost.
Although the lead was dead, there was still a chance that it would lead them onto something else. She needed the information.
“What do you have in mind?” her voice had taken on a more husky, sexy tone as she reeled the chairman in.
“How about dinner?”
“I’m not hungry, well not for food anyway,” suggested Ashley, leaning forward. She had undone another button in her blouse and it flapped open enough to allow the chairman a very enjoyable eyeful.
As Ashley predicted the previously forward letch was flustered and was not used to having his wish handed to him on a plate. He would normally have had to ply his women with alcohol to get anywhere near them and never anyone in Ashley’s league.
The Chairman’s mind had moved from his business head to his leisure head and when Ashley suggested a couple of minutes to get herself ready, he almost jumped out of his seat and rushed from the office, taking note of the time. In 120 seconds he’d be back in there and Ashley would be ready for him.
As he closed the door, Ashley buttoned up her blouse, walked over to his computer screen and noted the name and address of the client on the screen. In his eagerness to please, the chairman had failed to clear his screen. Ashley had noticed this in the reflection in the window. All she needed was 10 seconds alone in the room and she’d have everything she needed.
With the name and address memorised, Ashley walked across the office and opened the door to a chairman who was wetting himself with anticipation. When he saw the blouse firmly buttoned to the neck and the look of disgust on Ashley’s face, he realised he’d been played, well and truly played.
“Prick teasing bitch,” he spat out as she walked down the corridor and out of his life.
Ashley was just leaving the building as her phone rang. It was 18.35 in Switzerland, 17.35 in London.
“How’s it going?” asked Scott.
“Eduardo Ramirez, Paraguana, Falcon, Venezuela,” replied Ashley as she stepped past the night guard on her way through the front door of UBZ.
“Who?”
“A guy called Eduardo Ramirez but he died yesterday!”
“Yesterday? Shit!” exclaimed Scott frustrated at another dead lead before considering the coincidence and adding.
“How did he die?”
“Don’t know yet but I think I need to speak to my old colleagues,” Ashley made subtle reference to the DIA. They had discussed her contacting them ad nauseum but Scott felt the chances of her being tracked far outweighed the help they could offer with what they had so far.
“I don’t know, whoever has been tracking us has access to government agencies and resources and they killed your boss!”
“We don’t know that for certain,” protested Ashley, although the chances of it not being related she knew were minuscule.
Scott remained silent, not justifying her response with a reaction.
Ashley took the hint.
“OK, OK but if we don’t get any further by tomorrow, I’m calling them,” she concluded firmly.
Scott smiled as she made her stand.
“OK, let’s see how we get on today, I’ve still got two people to visit.”
“Two?” replied Ashley surprised.
“Yep, my father’s old lawyer and one other.”
“But I thought you didn’t get anything at Companies House?”
“I didn’t.”
“So who then?”
“There are only two people in the world with the power to destroy my island who knew where it was and that I was there!” replied Scott. “And I’m going to pay a surprise visit to the one I think I can trust tonight!”
Chapter 61
The helicopter set down on the Spirit of Washington heliport in the South East of Washington and deposited its one passenger before immediately departing. Max Ernst strode off the helipad and into the waiting limo which contained the Unit Commander responsible for tracking Eduardo Ramirez
“Met Police HQ,” instructed Ernst to the driver before raising the sound proof partition.
“OK, where are we?”
On hearing the update of Ramirez fleeing to the Anacostia area of D.C., Ernst had immediately called a chopper to take him to Washington. Baker had entrusted him personally with resolving the Ramirez issue and so far he had failed. With Ramirez disappearing into the most neglected and crime ridden area of the capital, it seemed the hunt was getting harder rather than easier. Four hours had passed since their last sighting of Ramirez and Ernst was beginning to panic. The information he had was dynamite in the wrong hands although there were very few of them left. There was always the chance Ramirez may hit lucky and approach somebody not within Transcon’s control.
“Nothing. They’ve just disappeared. They walked out of that station and vanished.”
The answer was exactly what Ernst had feared. They were going to find very few if any allies in that area of Washington.
“I’ve put requests out for every black and hispanic Unit member to be sent to Washington with immediate effect,” added the commander.
Ernst was impressed the man had realised that his predominantly white team were going to achieve nothing more than drive Ramirez even deeper into the deprivation of Anacostia.
“Excellent, how many and how long?”
“I’m afraid only about twenty,” replied the commander slightly embarrassed, it seemed the Unit had not embraced the age of diversity.
“What about freelancers?”
“If you OK the expenditure, I should be able to treble that easily.”
“Do it,” replied Ernst without hesitation.
As the commander got on the phone to instruct the trawl for black and hispanic freelancers, Ernst called Baker. It was not a call he was looking forward to but it had to be done.
Ernst quickly brought Baker, who was uncharacteristically quiet, up to speed.
“I’ll only say this once,” replied Baker slowly. “In three weeks, I will win the election to become the next President of the United States of America. I don’t care what needs to be done to ensure that happens. Do you hear me, I don’t care what you have to do. Just kill that little fucker and do it quickly.” Baker hung up.
For twenty-five years his plan had been perfect. With less than four weeks to completion, it was all of sudden one disaster after another. The bastard child, Ramirez, Hughes…fuck, he had forgotten all about Hughes. The stupid little fuck had called his office earlier in the day. He should have told Ernst but he had enough to do. Ramirez was the real threat. Hughes was just a nuisance, he could wait.
***
Stephen Hughes was in trouble, the Director of National Intelligence had one major flaw, gambling. Not just a few thousand dollar problem but a few hundred thousand dollar problem. A problem that he felt sure would be fixed with his next sure thing. Unfortunately, that sure thing always turned out to be not quite so sure after all. With debts well beyond his government salary, the additional monies paid to him by Transcon for his ‘consultation’ services were not just a luxury but an absolute necessity.
Following his call to Ernst the previous day, he had expected a call informing him of his new payment details. Howev
er, it never came and the number he used was now unobtainable. He had tried Transcon all day but the answer was always the same. ‘I’m afraid Mr Ernst isn’t available.’ He had even tried to speak to Henry Freeman, the boss but he too was unavailable and it was clear from the reaction that his call was not welcome.
The final blow was dealt when one of Washington’s less than illustrious citizens called him to find out where the fuck his money was. Hughes apologised profusely and immediately checked with his off-shore private bank as to why the man’s payment had not been sent. The answer was simple, he had no funds to pay him. The payment he had received from Transcon, via an anonymous subsidiary only two days earlier that would cover his debt payments for the month, had been withdrawn the night before. How they had managed to do it he didn’t know but he was in no position to complain. The payments were highly irregular and any complaint would raise more questions for the Director of National Intelligence than answers. Questions that would more than likely see him imprisoned.
Hughes was a desperate man, the gambling bosses had already threatened him with serious bodily harm. He could claim death threats had been made against him and obtain extra security but as had been pointed out, that didn’t save his sweet little mother or ensure his darling daughter or wonderful wife didn’t meet with some horrific tragedy. Hughes was fucked. He could either spill the beans to the president about the conspiracy and Transcon’s involvement and risk jail or try to find another source of income. Jail was not something Hughes could contemplate and therefore his focus was entirely on who could benefit from his information. Of course, foreign intelligence services would pay him vast sums of money but Hughes was many things but he was not a traitor. Transcon, as far as he was concerned, was an American corporation and as such everything they did benefited the American economy. Ergo, he was not a traitor. Plus they still executed traitors.
After many hours of panicked thought, Hughes finally had a brainwave. The illustrious governor of Florida, the next US president was an exceptionally wealthy individual who, with his help, could be fully up to speed on all issues long before he took office. It was a brainwave that completely by chance would finally tie Sam Baker to Transcon and cost Stephen Hughes his life.
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