Satisfied her work was done, she turned quickly and left, calling out: “Can you two make it to my office in half an hour?”
She had recently been appointed as one of two Deputy Commissioners at Scotland Yard, a well-earned promotion that pushed her into the highest echelons - meaning she had needed to review her role running the Special Investigations Unit.
There had been some talk of Brian Hooley being promoted behind her, but he’d fiercely resisted the idea, arguing they made a good team as it was. In the end, after a little arm-twisting, he had agreed to take up more slack if she remained to provide the strategic direction which dovetailed so well with his old-school know-how.
As she disappeared, Hooley couldn’t help but smile. He knew he’d been had but it was his own fault for not being aware of what was going on. The trouble with spending time with Roper was that his immersive techniques of researching cases proved highly contagious.
Roper, still looking startled, ran off, shouting that he was going for coffee. “Just got time for a drink before we go in. Do you want one?”
“No thanks. I’ve had about five pints of it so far today. I won’t be sleeping for the rest of the week if I have any more and it can’t be helping my blood pressure.”
Given that current health advice was for moderate caffeine consumption he imagined that Roper would agree with him, but not for the first time he was taken by surprise.
“That’s just nonsense. People go on about the harmful effects of caffeine but it all depends on how you, the individual, reacts to it. It’s only just after lunch now so one more won’t affect you at all.”
Hooley knew better than to be sucked into a conversation.
“That’s a very good point you make, and reassuring for someone like me who likes their coffee - but I still feel as though I am at my limit, so the answer’s still no. Thanks all the same.”
Twenty-five minutes later an agitated Roper reappeared. Things had not gone well.
“There was a huge queue and I thought I might have to come back before it was time to go.”
Hooley silently filed that under “Roperisms”: moments when his partner used language so precisely it stopped making sense.
“At least you made it, so let’s go.”
They hadn’t sat down before the briefing was underway. “We’ve been paid the ultimate compliment of being asked for by Special Branch and the Counter Terrorism Command. It’s not often those two will both ask for assistance.”
She had a touch of the theatrical about her and paused for several beats before moving to the big reveal.
“Ever heard of Georgi Yebedev?”
Roper’s hand shot into the air. There was nothing fake about it; he was quite unable to hide his enthusiasm. This had earned him the nickname “Keeno”, as in “super keen.”
“He’s a former Russian citizen, now based in London. He’s worth in excess of £10 billion but no-one is quite sure of the total and there are questions about how he got it. What is known is that he was one of the group of Russian businessmen and Kremlin cronies who appeared in the early 1990s and grabbed a lot of the state assets following the collapse of the Soviet Union.
“He turned up in Britain more than 20 years ago and has since married the daughter of an English Earl. They have three sons, all of whom are currently at Gordonstoun School, where Prince Charles went. The eldest boy is said to be highly intelligent and will be going to Cambridge to study mathematics.
“There was an interesting development over the choice of school. It has a policy that every pupil must carry out basic communal tasks, like cleaning the lavatories. Mr. Yebedev demanded that he be allowed to send a cleaner to do the work. When that was turned down he asked his sons to try and bribe the other boys to do it.
“Somehow the matter became public, and it was later reported that the headteacher had left Mr. Yebedev in no doubt, that unless his boys did what everyone else had to do, he was welcome to take them elsewhere.”
The information was delivered at a clipped pace without hesitation. Mayweather never failed to be impressed at the variety of information Roper had at his finger-tips. Little wonder he was also known as “search engine”.
It seemed there was more.
“There was a big profile of him in the London Evening Standard a couple of months ago. It was raining that day so I got the bus and read it on the way home. It’s very interesting to read how many rich Russians are over here, especially in London.”
Hooley leaned across and tapped him on the arm. “It will be a sad day when that elephant-like brain of yours becomes as flaky as mine and you start forgetting things.”
“I very much doubt that will happen,” said Roper, his face showing he was not in the mood for light-hearted comments. “I have always looked after myself properly and done everything possible to enhance my neuro-function, something about which I’m afraid you have been very remiss.”
Hooley couldn’t help biting on the comment. “That’s a bit harsh. I’ve been doing the cross word every day, like you suggested, and taking those fish oils.” As he spoke he looked at his boss, but she was maintaining a determinedly straight face, a slightly raised eyebrow the only sign she was listening.
But as Roper went to say more, Mayweather intervened. She knew the DCI was one of the most phlegmatic men she had ever worked with, but even he had limits.
“Let’s keep to topic, shall we?” she said. “Your summary is spot on, Jonathan. He may have been born in Russia, but he is now part of the fabric here, known for his generosity and his love of all things English. He’s very much regarded as one of the good guys.”
“I take it something has happened to challenge that view?” said Hooley, leaning forward in his chair and pulling his emotions back under control.
“There might have been. The information being passed to us is from other intelligence agencies, so I have no way of telling how complete it is, but previous experience suggests we should assume that plenty of details have been left out. MI5 are in on this but if they know anything else they aren’t telling me. It comes from a joint US and Israeli intelligence operation that was monitoring some unusual cash flows through offshore banks.”
“I wonder if it’s something to do with that new software they’ve developed?”
“I’m sorry, Jonathan?” said Mayweather.
“A couple of weeks ago, on the dark web, there was chatter about some new code that could crack open bank security systems and track money movements back to their origins.”
Mayweather looked at Hooley, who shrugged. Not only was this news to him, it took him way out of his comfort zone as well.
“Is this something we should even be talking about?”
Roper looked puzzled. “So long as we keep it to ourselves I don’t see that it’s a problem, and it might be relevant to what you’re talking about. I do know that it is also being discussed at GCHQ.”
Mayweather tapped her index finger on her notepad. Hooley knew that meant she was thinking furiously.
“Let’s leave that to one side for now. Maybe you’re right about the software, but it doesn’t matter at the moment. Keep it at the back of your mind and we can discuss it later.”
She looked at him, hoping to see signs that he had accepted what she said, and settled for the fact he wasn’t arguing with her.
“What we are being asked to look into are some unusual transactions linked to money controlled by Yebedev. He keeps large sums offshore. But over the last year some of his money, and we are talking hundreds of millions of dollars, have been moved to accounts controlled by an Israeli-based entrepreneur who has long been suspected of money laundering.
“The Israeli, Aaron Sopher, spends quite a lot of time here in London but until now there has been nothing to link him to Yebedev. There’s more, but MI5 want to brief you. You’re expected over at Vauxhall this afternoon; you need to ask for a Bill Nuffield.
“I’ve been asked not to tell you the details so that you can approach the briefing w
ith an open mind, but I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say this is probably the most significant threat we have ever faced. That’s why I need my two best people on it.”
7
Thames House is the imposing Grade-II-listed home of M15, the domestic intelligence service, and sits proudly on the North bank of the Thames, close to Lambeth Bridge and its sister organisation MI6, the foreign service, housed in a modern building on the opposite side of the river. Friends and rivals, they keep a beady an eye on each other.
Roper had insisted on walking there, setting a brisk pace it left the DCI breathing heavily. As he cooled off he pointed over to MI6.
“I watched that being blown up a couple of weeks ago.”
Roper came to a sudden halt, his expression leaving no doubt that he thought the DCI had lost it.
“Ever seen a James Bond movie?”
Roper continued to stare.
“I know you’re not a fan of popular culture, but millions of people have seen the scene in Skyfall where that building gets blown up.”
He was left talking to himself as Roper moved away. A few minutes and he watching Roper squirm from a vigorous pat-down. The younger man hated being touched at the best of times and having a complete stranger lay hands on him was clearly an ordeal as a deep frown appeared on his face.
Hooley thought the whole thing was overdone. Only a short while ago Roper had been given a top security clearance for his work at GCHQ, the British listening post just outside Cheltenham in Gloucestershire, but that clearly counted for nothing now he was back at the Met.
He was tempted to start an argument which would force this Bill Nuffield to come and collect them, but Roper was coping so he contented himself with staring at the guard in his best passive-aggressive manner.
Finally they were inside the building and shown to a waiting area. No one appeared and Hooley was just wondering if he should start making a fuss after all, when a young man, dressed rather like Roper in a skinny-fit black suit, arrived.
He brought them to a room equipped with a few dozen stacking chairs placed in neat rows. They were lined up in front of a large whiteboard. A lectern was facing them on the right-hand side. There were no windows.
A man standing at the lectern looked up. When he spoke, it emerged he was American. “Bill Nuffield. I’m on a sort of exchange programme from the NSA, attached to the Deputy Director General’s staff. I’m your point man on this.”
He was a tall, rangy man, in his forties, and Hooley’s eyes were drawn to a flattened, S-bend nose that had been broken more than once. He either enjoyed contact sports or got in a lot of fights. He had piercing blue eyes and a close cropped, military-style haircut.
Roper had been staring at him and said. “Lake Michigan.”
A brief smile appeared on Nuffield’s face. “And you must be Mr. Roper. I take it you’re identifying where I come from in the good ol’ US of A.”
He looked at Roper closely, seeming to check details against some internal list.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from the people here at M15. People say you were smart and different. I can tell that. A lot of Americans would have been pushed to know I come from the Lake Michigan area.”
Roper said nothing, adopting one of his more sphinx-like expressions. A lot of people assumed he did this because he was thinking deeply, but Hooley knew it was more likely that the younger man was unsure of himself.
The DCI pushed on. “I understand you are the man who is going to brief us on this Georgi Yebedev character and explain what it is that makes him a person of interest for Scotland Yard.”
Instead of replying Nuffield walked over to the corner of the room, where a small table contained a couple of insulated jugs and a selection of cups and saucers. He checked both of the containers and turned back to Roper and Hooley. “Tea or coffee? I’ve got sugar and milk, and not that awful long-life stuff.
“Most of the people who work in this building went to public school. They all love that stuff. I have a theory it must be something to do with going to those famous public schools of yours.”
Hooley suppressed a smile. He knew the man was making an effort to charm. He shared Nuffield’s opinion about the background of the many young men who occupied this building.
“I suspect that’s going to be two white coffees.” He looked at Roper who nodded in confirmation.
Drinks in hand, they settled into their seats as Nuffield went back to the lectern. He shrugged apologetically.
He tapped something on a laptop and the image of a man filled the screen. He looked young, maybe late thirties, although Hooley wouldn’t have been surprised if he was a decade older. He had the appearance of someone who worked out. His dark hair was cut short, with no signs of grey, and he had a round face and wide mouth that gave him a kindly appearance, enhanced by his faint smile.
“Aaron Sopher. And don’t be fooled by his welcoming expression. We, as in Homeland Security, only recently picked up on what an important player he is on the international scene. Money laundering, people trafficking, espionage, drugs… you name it. He’s got fingers in many, many pies.”
He looked at the two men. “I can see you both have questions already so let’s see if I can guess. The big one is: why don’t we just pick him up? The truth is that we should have, while we had the chance, but now he’s dropped out of sight.
“Let me take you back a little way. It was Mossad that first tipped us off about him, nine months ago. Up to then he had evaded our attention, which means he is either very, very good, or very, very lucky. The fear is that it’s both, and now he’s up to something which is raising his importance.
“Once we had him tagged we decided to put him under surveillance, and I mean a large-scale operation split between Tel Aviv, London, Washington and Los Angeles. We were hoping that we would start to pick up other operators and maybe get some sense of the true scale of what he was up to.
“It was all going fine until two weeks ago when he vanished. We don’t know if we spooked him or it was part of a bigger plan all along.”
“How long was it before you realised he’d gone?”
“A very good question, Mr. Roper. I’m afraid to admit that it took us thirty-six hours before we realised he was in the wind. Since then there has been a massive review of the surveillance operation.
“We have gone through everything and it is throwing out a ton of information. There is one bit that we would like you to look at for us.”
He prodded his computer again and a fresh face appeared on screen. This was a much bigger man, broad-shouldered and bull-necked. He was in his late fifties and his large head was closely shaven.
“Georgi Yebedev, I presume,” said Hooley. “What a bruiser. I wouldn’t want to run into him in one of those cells they have in the Kremlin.”
Nuffield laughed. “You’re not the only one to make the KGB connection, or I should say FSB, since the Russians would have us believe the KGB no longer exists. What about you, Jonathan?”
“Stalin. He looks like Stalin.”
Nuffield nodded. “It’s the eyes. When you look at pictures of them side by side they look very similar. If Yebedev had hair like Stalin’s you might think they were brothers. He also comes from the same region, so that probably explains it.”
Hooley leaned forward. “This is all very interesting, and I mean that, but why are you involving us? What haven’t you told us yet?”
Before he could reply Roper jumped in. “It’s something bad and something very recent.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because so far most of the surveillance pictures you’ve shown us were taken a while ago. I can tell from the plants that these were taken in the autumn, and it’s early summer now, so there has to be more.
“I think it’s very recent because you haven’t had a chance to fully assess it yet, and it’s bad because what you have seen is enough to reach out to us already. You don’t want to waste a moment; that’s why you�
�ve made a direct appeal.”
*
Nuffield made the mistake of trying to break the tension with a light-hearted comment.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roper, but if I was to confirm your guess I wouldn’t be allowed to let you leave the building again.”
Roper was already fairly wound up by being at MI5.
“What do you mean by not leaving the building? You can’t hold us here, and the involvement of an American security official in obstructing two British police officers - in Britain, I might remind you - would be very badly received indeed.”
Hooley couldn’t help smiling as he watched Nuffield’s mouth drop open. Clearly no one had briefed him that, as well as being a brilliant analyst, Roper didn’t do jokes and could go from zero to angry in the time it takes most people to blink.
To his credit, Nuffield staged a remarkable recovery.
“Hey, let’s slow down here. That was my bad. I was told you Brits have an amazing sense of humour but I guess I need to work on my timing, or something. Please, forget the last few seconds and let me start again.”
Fortunately, Roper calmed fast and made no more comment.
“What I was trying to do is explain how difficult this is. I can’t tell you everything, but neither am I going to insult your intelligence by pretending we have a full understanding of what is going on.
“Let me give a tiny bit of background. The operation that uncovered Mr. Yebedev was sanctioned at the highest level and there was considerable debate as to whether to bring you guys in at all. In the end I like to think common sense prevailed – that, and your reputation for getting results.
“There’s a mass of raw data being thrown out and it covers lots of individuals, most of whom we don’t have the resources to cover, but Yebedev has suddenly become a person of interest to the UK government after years of being clean. We - that is, MI5 - are now certain that he has reactivated ties to the Russian President’s inner circle.”
Nuffield came out from behind the lectern and picked up a chair, placing it, so he could sit facing the two detectives.
The Long Reach_British Detective Page 3
