Chapter Fifteen
The same dingy room, the same smell of sweat and bad coffee – Henry recognised it immediately. He loved it. It had been fun to work on the LIBOR case with Nancy and Pole here, despite the dramatic twist that could have cost them their lives. Still, it had been a breakthrough for Henry, a way to consolidate his plan, to see how to go forward. Today the stakes were even higher. He had had no time to take stock of what Steve had said and what his proposition meant. MI6 needed him.
Henry rolled his head from side to side a few times, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly counting from ten to one. The palms of his hands had gone moist. He rubbed them on his thighs. So much was riding on this meeting. He was about to meet the SFO prosecutor, Marissa Campbell.
He dragged a chair across the floor away from the small table that would become his desk. It screeched, sending a shiver along his spine. He sat with an effort at the main table. He stretched his hands over its top, fingers spread to the limit. He was not ready the way he would have liked to be.
A soft noise startled Henry. He rotated his body with a wince to face the door. Friend or foe? He shook his head in relief at the sight of her.
Nancy had walked into the room carrying two cups of Benugo coffee, his favourite.
“Good afternoon.” She smiled.
“Good afternoon Nancy.” Henry stood up and bent forward to give Nancy a kiss on the cheek. She almost dropped their coffee as she spotted Henry’s bruises and swollen face. She hurriedly put the cups on the table and dragged him into the light. “Who has done that to you? I need to report —”
Henry lifted his hand. “No need to panic. It’s under control.”
“What do you mean?”
“The nutcase who did this will be spending a lot of time in the segregation unit.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.”
Nancy looked unconvinced. “Positive.” Henry repeated, bending forward and finally kissing her cheek, a gentle human touch that almost felt awkward. This was one of the other punishments he had to endure in prison. Human contact was either violent or non-existent. Nothing in between.
Henry handed her a coffee, they sat down and started drinking in silence.
“Inspector Pole is on his way,” Nancy changed the subject.
Henry’s jaws clenched and his look darkened.
“Surely, you can’t be that annoyed at working with Pole again?” Nancy said surprised. “Henry? I thought you had made your peace.”
“So sorry Nancy; getting out of HSU makes me nervous.” It was the best he could do. Pole’s involvement in the case had taken on a new meaning. A pang of sadness shook him. He had to lie to her.
She looked at him still in doubt. “Are you sure you are OK? Is something troubling you?”
Henry shook his head. He felt a distance opening between him and Nancy, a small gap but a break nevertheless. He had not thought about it but now, in her presence, he understood how much he had felt included, encompassed in a field of friendship that was seamless. And the fact that he was about to lose it wrecked his heart.
“I’m fine working with Pole, really.” Henry forced himself to smile.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy said laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. “You had plenty of time to prepare last time you were allowed outside Belmarsh; today has been very rushed.”
“Why was that?” Henry’s hopes were raised; perhaps she knew about MI6?
“The attempt on Marissa. The bomb delayed the procedure to approve your helping us, but this time —”
“What do you mean? Another bomb?” Henry had turned to stone.
“Have you not been told?” Nancy said surprised. She gave Henry the details of what she knew. He listened in silence. First Mark Phelps, now Marissa Campbell. The implications almost overwhelmed him. After all, he had been branded, no – he had been a terrorist too. Would these people still want to work with him? The thought hit him square in the chest. He took a gulp of coffee. Something to keep his throat from closing. His focus went for a moment. He pushed away the question that was crushing him.
Who would be next?
Their coffee was almost finished. Nancy started taking documents out of her satchel. Her yellow legal pad and unassuming biro came out as well. Henry welcomed the disruption. He picked up the pen between his thumb and index finger and inspected it.
“What on earth is that?”
“It’s called a pen I believe.” Nancy smiled coyly.
“Don’t you have anything more decent to work with?”
“You mean a Montblanc pen, Cartier?”
“Or even a good old Parker. With proper ink, I mean.”
“And it has taken you four years to realise that I cannot abide writing with any of those. Tut, tut, tut. Where has your sense of observation gone?”
“Ouch, point taken.” Henry was still holding the pen the way he would a piece of junk.
“We do not receive tombstones or ridiculously large corporate presents when we close a case. Unlike you bankers.”
“Ex-banker if you please. And Pritchard QC did have a very large collection of excellent pens if I recall.” Henry was enjoying the light banter.
“Indeed, a point on which Pritchard and I strongly disagree – my rebellious nature and my old communist upbringing,” Nancy replied, equally enjoying the tease.
“You, a commie?” Henry arched his eyebrows in genuine astonishment.
“I did tell you my father was a communist; remember I am half-Chinese from the mainland of China not Hong Kong.”
“Of course, you did say. And the years at The Sorbonne.”
“Absolument, rebel de la gauche.” Nancy nodded.
A knock on the door stopped them in their tracks. It opened and Pole entered followed by a tall and almost masculine looking black woman.
Henry stood up, uncertain whether she would want to shake hands. He thanked Nancy mentally. She had helped him once more to feel he was human after all.
Pole extended a firm hand towards Henry. Their eyes met and Henry knew he had been told not to make his life difficult. Pole introduced Marissa Campbell as the SFO prosecutor dealing with the Bank X whistle-blowing case. She extended an equally firm hand and shook Henry’s. Her broad face was amiable, the face of someone you could confide in. Perhaps wrongly. Her willingness to shake his hand after what she had gone through impressed Henry. She sat herself in front of him, impassive. She was here to do a job and a job she would do.
Marissa took over and started by recapping the facts of the case.
By 2009 Bank X had refused the UK government bailout programme. It had instead received funding from a state in the Middle-East. So far, so very good; nothing wrong with this. However, a large proportion of the funds raised had been subsequently lent to a Panama fund, the ownership structure of which was complex. It had been impossible so far to establish who the ultimate beneficial owner was. The suspicion was that the same Middle-Eastern state was benefiting through some of its government’s officials. And this was a circular transaction UK legislation did not allow, in clear contravention of the law.
Mark Phelps, the whistle-blower, had had access to information that supported the suspicion and he was ready to speak up. But the documents he had been able to collect were insufficient to bring about a conviction. The SFO needed the details of the Ultimate Beneficial Owner, the UBO.
Henry nodded a few times. He could already think of a number of ways in which he could disentangle the fund legal structure and find out the name of the UBO.
“How much do you know about Panama?” Marissa directed a first question at him.
“I understand how the system works.” Henry moved nearer the table and spread his long fingers over a set of documents Marissa had just put in front of him. “May I?”
“That is why you are here, right?” Marissa shot bac
k.
Henry ignored her tone and started going through the file, speed-reading the details it contained. “I’ll need more time to digest the information but I can see already that complex layering is going to make it very hard to find the UBO.”
“Yes, we gathered that.”
“You would like me to disentangle the ownership structure and trace the individual or individuals at the top.”
“That would be helpful.” Marissa blinked. It would be bloody marvellous.
“What do you need?” Pole asked.
Henry tapped his fingers on the side of the table. “I need a couple of Bloomberg terminals. Like last time, set up to access live market data. Access to the web.” Henry locked eyes with Pole again. If he wanted to facilitate he needed to provide the right tools for data mining. “And, a burner phone.”
“Shall I also provide you with the keys to your cell?” Pole shot back.
“That would be really nice. However, the governor at Belmarsh may not be that forthcoming.”
“Let’s calm things down a little.” Nancy moved her arm across the table to separate the parties. “Perhaps we should remind ourselves why we are here.”
“Well put,” Marissa added. “We are hoping to unveil significant criminal activity.”
“Why the phone?” Nancy asked.
“Because I need to make a call to a former contact. He won’t talk if he knows the call can be traced.”
“And you won’t give us the name, I presume.” Pole understood how information was gathered; he was not really unhappy. These people were outside his jurisdiction. He would rather focus on finding out who the relevant person was at the end of a long line of connections.
“Spot on, Inspector,” Henry replied, thumb up.
“Ms Campbell, would you agree to my suggestion?” Henry’s voice almost trembled. It was her he needed to convince.
“I will support it to the extent you can demonstrate it is necessary and I can see progress in the unravelling of the structure of the Panama fund.” Marissa had relaxed suddenly. Perhaps she had seen enough of Henry to sense that she could trust him to deliver the information needed. Perhaps it was something else altogether. Henry did not care. All that mattered was that she was willing to work with him.
“Which countries are you intending to call?” Pole asked.
Henry sat back and thought for a moment. “I may need information along the way from Malta but my first port of call will be Panama.”
“And in Panama?” Pole was not letting go.
“Mossack Fonseca, the largest law firm in the country.”
Marissa nodded. “If you can get something out of them, I’ll be very impressed.”
“Then prepare to be amazed.” Henry almost smiled.
* * *
“Your guest has arrived, Sir,” the porter said, whilst taking Brett’s trench coat and trilby hat.
“Has he?” Brett would have been annoyed at the news in other circumstances but MI6-Steve’s early arrival could mean only one thing.
Trouble.
Brett walked without stopping through his club. A few people he knew were reading their newspapers, expecting to be greeted, but Brett had no time for common courtesies.
Steve had selected a suitably secluded corner. Brett caught the young man unaware as he moved towards the chairs, a first since Steve had become his minder. He was observing a couple of men speaking loudly about their views on the current government. A lot of posturing and very little depth. Steve might have been amused by the shallow conversation; instead he seemed to survey the people Brett frequented. His small beady eyes, roving in their direction unnoticed. Brett resumed his walk.
“It is unusual to find you here before me.” No need to be civil with Steve. He might even have been disappointed if Brett had been polite.
“Thought I might pick up some intel.” MI6-Steve grinned. “But I gather you also have some important info for me.”
Brett sat in the armchair opposite Steve’s. He did not want to face into the room whilst discussing his findings about The Sheik. A gloved butler took Brett’s order – Glenfiddich, no ice – but no need to specify – the butler already knew.
“The Sheik is contemplating turning Crowne into a Jihadi.” Brett barely contained a smile. How was that for a piece of news?
“Good,” Steve replied, swilling his glass of whisky in slow motion to dissolve the ice that swam in it.
“Are you being flippant for the sake of it?” Brett’s nostrils flared. The East-End boy was annoying him more than usual today. His glass of whisky appeared as if from nowhere and Brett almost thanked the waiter. He took a large mouthful hoping it would help.
“Nope, just very happy to hear they think they can do that.”
“Enlighten me then.”
“It means they are starting to trust him.”
“And what if he gets —” Brett looked for the right word, “turned?”
“Don’t worry about that. That’s my problem, not yours.”
“Not so. I need to know whether to encourage The Sheik or not.”
“Do you think they will listen to your opinion on a matter like that?”
“He just did. So why would he ask if he didn’t want to know the answer?”
“To test you. To see whether you have an agenda; whether you want to place Crowne.”
Brett stopped for a moment to consider Steve’s point. True, he had not thought about that.
“You did good by not lying about your opinion by the way. He would have guessed in any case. Which is why the less I tell you the better.”
“You’re looking after my interests now?” Brett sniggered.
“No, looking after my interests, but since you are part of my interests …”
“And here I was, hoping.”
“You need to keep your powder dry for what comes next.”
“Are you intent on talking only in riddles today?” Brett drummed his fingers a few times on the arm of his chair.
“Be patient, I am coming to it.” Steve took a mouthful of whisky. “I believe you are about to be asked to arrange the transfer of another consignment out of the UK.”
“You believe or you know?” Brett sat back in his armchair. He had thrust his body forward in irritation.
“Let’s say we are ninety per cent certain.”
“That sounds pretty certain to me. Anyway I presume the next request from The Sheik will be armaments.”
“Have you been told already?” It was Steve’s turn to sound miffed.
“No, my dear fella,” Brett savoured his small success. “I might be a toff but I do have a brain, as you yourself remarked a few months ago.”
Steve whistled softly and grinned. “Go ahead, and …?”
“When The Sheik asked me to bring Clandestine X into the UK, he didn’t mention armaments and I was keen to stress that suited me fine. And it does.” Brett took another sip of whisky. “Then, there is the shooting – the one that caused the death of the young man at the Bank of England. And the other – execution.” Brett felt strangely queasy. He did not do emotions but the latest development had been a little too much even for him. MI6-Steve nodded encouragingly.
“A couple of days ago, The Sheik saw me and produced the photos of Visconti, as you know.”
This time, Brett felt sick. He braced himself and a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. He quickly wiped it away with a white cotton handkerchief.
“You think it’s a way to ‘incentivise’ you to do the things you don’t want to do. Like armaments?”
“That’s what I think,” Brett gulped down more whisky to clear the nausea.
Steve finished his glass and looked at the small lump of ice still dissolving at the bottom. “Possible.”
“What if it is something – lethal?”<
br />
“Brett, all armaments are lethal. That’s the point.”
“I may only deal with antiquities but I know what a gun is for,” Brett replied dryly. “I mean extreme weapons: chemicals, nuclear?”
“We will be tracking the parcel. You know the route; that is all I need. Just keep The Sheik on board.”
“Do I have a choice? Unless I want to finish like …” Even Brett couldn’t bring himself to be sarcastic about Visconti’s death.
“We are getting deeper into this project.”
“You mean I am.”
“No, we are. You have just become one of our top priorities. You should be flattered.”
“No, I should be mightily scared.”
Brett finished his glass and put it on the table. Time to leave the comfort of his club.
Chapter Sixteen
Pole and Henry were walking alongside each other, the prison officers who accompanied Henry walking a few steps in front of them. Pole slowed down a fraction, Henry matched his pace. The distance between them and the officers increased a little, then a little more until Pole felt able to speak.
“You spoke to Steve Harris?” Pole murmured.
Henry nodded. Pole glanced at him. Henry’s body had tightened. He was on the alert, looking straight in front of him.
“Why you?”
“Convenience and …” Pole hesitated. There was not enough time to speak about Nancy. He was not even sure he wanted Henry to know about the quest for her father. Should he trust Henry and tell him about the deal he had cut with MI6 to gather information on China?
The officers stopped in front of the lifts, in a few seconds they would turn around and see the two men lagging behind.
“Past history.” Pole added swiftly before quickening his pace.
It was too late for Henry to ask another question. Pole noticed the clenched fists in the tight clasp of his handcuffs. They had entered the lift and Pole still could not quite read Henry’s mood.
Anger – as ever. He was not surprised or even concerned about it but could the essential ingredient their relationship needed to work together be found? He did not know. Pole would have to work a little harder than he had anticipated.
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