Looking through the individual advice notices for June she found a simple debit note. It said, ‘Reserve against potential loss: Asian Atlantic Investment Funds: €1,100,000’. The value of the investment had been written down to zero!
Jenny opened her laptop and looked up the company website. Nothing came up except a notice saying, Closed for business until liquidation of relevant holdings. She typed in Asian Atlantic Investment Funds. There were hundreds of recent articles. The last newspaper extract had been published ten days previously with the headline, Asian Atlantic Investment Funds Managers Arrested for Fraud and Embezzlement.
She read the article with a sense of déjà vu. Asian Atlantic Investment Funds was a holding company which owned five subsidiary funds. Although the funds specialised in investing in mid-sized Asian, US and European companies, she saw that the holding was registered in the British Virgin Islands, the directors were mostly Brazilian and the head office was in Dubai. The company had been created immediately after the Lehman debacle, in December 2008 amid a considerable fanfare. The top strategy manager was Alwyn Forsdyke, a Wall Street legend who had, allegedly, foreseen the last three economic crises and made a fortune in the process. His book, Why Will They Never Learn? published at the same time as the launch of the Asian Atlantic Investment Funds, became the US best-selling financial exposé of 2008.
In December and the first quarter of 2009, over a billion dollars poured into the five sub-funds and this inflow continued until mid-April, when Alwyn Forsdyke was killed in a motor accident. Rumours abounded and the newspapers were full of contradictory reports surrounding his death. An investigation into the ‘accident’ was set up in late April, apparently after a dossier was passed to the FBI by his one-time secretary. The dossier was reputed by the financial press to contain a lot of background on the dubious dealings of Asian Atlantic Investment Funds, its founders and directors.
Immediately after this announcement a run of substantial customer withdrawals commenced, causing a halt in the growth of net asset values and a shortage of liquidity. By May, clients were waiting up to thirty days for repayment of their funds and by June the funds were closed to new investors and all repayments were postponed indefinitely. On July 1st AAIF was shut down by the Securities and Exchange Commission and several criminal warrants were issued.
The latest newspaper report implied that Forsdyke had been eliminated because he discovered that the directors of the fund were operating a massive Ponzi scheme, paying dividends from new incoming cash. The underlying investments were proving difficult to locate or were worthless ‘special purpose vehicles’, set up just to receive money and pay it to the directors and their cronies.
She sat back from her laptop. Another Madoff, she thought. It was in December 2008, the same month that this fund had been set up, that Bernard Madoff had cost investors, including members of his family and lifelong friends, almost twenty billion dollars in the biggest Ponzi scheme in history. At least he didn’t murder anyone in the process, she reflected. Or at least not as far as they know.
She turned her mind back to the problem in hand. So Leticia has lost twenty-five per cent of her money in Spain because of Patrice. He didn’t steal it, which is a good thing, but why didn’t he liquidate the investments when he saw the writing on the wall? Then another thought occurred to her. He told her that it was just a temporary problem. It would be back to normal by September. What was he expecting would happen before then to put it right?
Jenny closed her laptop and put the file aside. Worrying thoughts crowded into her mind as she lay trying to fall asleep. Thoughts about Patrice flying around and being in London so often, especially this week. Lord Dudley, whoever he was, tracking people in South Africa from London. Esther Rousseau and Leticia’s face in her dream. Doctor Constance, Emma’s friend who had suddenly become Leo’s kidnapper. And Leo himself, victim of an abduction plot whose perpetrators demanded ten million dollars and still hadn’t been found. She finally fell into an uneasy sleep, full of invasive and frightening dreams, the kind she had experienced after Ron’s death, the kind she thought she had got over long ago.
London, England
A ‘ping’ from Dudley’s laptop woke him. He’d fallen asleep and had a crick in his neck and a dry mouth. He looked at his watch, it was almost eight thirty. Laboriously he got to his feet and went to the toilet, drank a glass of water then came back and looked at the screen. There was a new message, from Harare. It had no subject or text, just an attachment. He opened it up. It was a photograph.
Sydney, Australia
“Thanks Rolf. Is that everything?”
“That’s all I could find, Mac. Come back to me if there’s anything I’ve missed.”
Detective Sergeant ‘Mac’ McCallister reread the notes he’d made from his call. He was starting to understand Espinoza’s obsession with the Forrester case. None of this information had been available to his department previously because the accident had been handled by the Perth police force and then filed away when the death was officially registered eighteen months previously. He had asked for a copy of the whole file to be FedEx’d to him
He looked at his watch, it was two in the afternoon, midnight on the previous day in South Africa, Espinoza might still be up. He didn’t want to send an email. Digging up a closed case, especially in another jurisdiction, wasn’t encouraged unless there was reasonable evidence that a serious mistake had been made. All he had was a query from Spain and a possible line of enquiry into a confirmed case of accidental death. He pressed Espinoza’s number on his mobile.
There was no reply and he got the answering service, in Spanish. He left a short message, just enough to pique Espinoza’s curiosity. This’ll put the cat among the koalas, he thought to himself. Let’s see what it’s all about.
London, England
Dudley’s phone rang several times between nine o’clock and midnight. Both Esther and Slater were calling for news, but there was no reply and he never called back. After receiving the message from Harare he had finished off the bottle of Gevrey Chambertin. He was drunk and fast asleep.
Johannesburg, South Africa
“So what did you think of Leo, Abby?” Coetzee and his newly reacquired wife and daughter were driving back to Delmas.
“He’s nice. I really like the way he talks, his accent is lovely. Shame he’s gone back to the UK.” She smiled shyly.
“So at least you have a new pen pal, or I should say, Facebook pal. Keep in touch and I’m sure he’ll come back to see us again. He’s mad keen on visiting the Kruger properly so we can organise a safari and invite him.”
“Only if you start making some money from the business.” Karen had the upper hand for the moment and she intended to take full advantage of it.
The drive home was relaxed and comfortable. Coetzee already felt he belonged again, that he had someone to report to and two people to feel responsible for. He was also looking forward to finishing Emma’s book when they got back.
Over South Africa, en route for Zurich, Switzerland
“I’ll have a glass of champagne, please.” Espinoza was settled comfortably in his seat, a blanket over his knees and his feet up on the folding stool. He turned to ask Leo what he would like but the boy was already out like a light, snuggled down into his seat and snoring gently. He had been looking forward to chatting with him, getting to know Emma’s son and finding out more about Coetzee and Lambert, the abduction and especially about Constance’s death, but it would have to wait.
He must be more exhausted than me, he mused. After everything he’s been through, if anyone deserves an undisturbed rest, it’s this boy.
The cabin attendant placed the glass on his table with a packet of nuts. “Thank you,” he said. “Could you show me how to operate the television? It’s not a system I’m used to and I’d like to watch a movie.” If he couldn’t talk to Leo, he was determined to get the most out of the flight before he went to sleep.
London, England
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br /> Slater called Esther at midnight, after trying Dudley’s number one last time. “What the hell is going on?” He almost screamed. “I’ve been calling Arthur for two hours and he’s not answering. I’ve come outside to call you so my partner doesn’t hear me, but I can’t keep this quiet for long. It’s all going to blow up if we don’t get any news.” His voice trembled and he stumbled over his words as if he’d been drinking.
“I’ve been calling too and I’m none the wiser. I agree it doesn’t look good, but we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he hasn’t heard from Harare, or he’s gone out somewhere, or he just doesn’t feel like talking to us. He’s a peculiar man, so leave him alone tonight. I’ll go to his apartment first thing in the morning and find out what’s happening and then call you. Just relax and remember we’ll soon be together and we can forget this whole business.”
“OK. I’ll try to keep a lid on it until tomorrow, but call me as soon as you can. I can’t take much more of this uncertainty. Goodnight darling.”
Esther switched off her mobile and sat on the bed in her shabby hotel room, reflecting on the situation. He’s cracking up, she thought. He doesn’t have the balls to manage a crisis. He’s not half the man Ray d’Almeida was.
She still hadn’t got over her Angolan lover and didn’t think she ever would. He had been a strong, clever and resourceful man, nothing could stand in his way; he was indomitable. And he was the most accomplished lover she had ever encountered, unlike this second rate substitute. The six months they had been apart when she was working with Schneider at the bank in Geneva, preparing the groundwork for their master plan, had been almost intolerable. He had been able to come down from Haute Nendaz on just a few occasions, but she had remained true to him until their plan was ready to execute. One night with Ray was worth a lifetime of waiting and the waiting was almost over.
But somehow, on the night that should have been the start of a new life together, he was suddenly gone and it was over. She had never found out exactly what had happened but she knew it was the work of that bitch, Jenny Bishop, the daughter-in-law of Charlie Bishop. The man who had condemned Ray’s family to a life of poverty and hardship and caused his mother and father’s premature deaths while he and his ‘Angolan Clan’ of thieves were living high on the hog in big houses with swimming pools, spending Ray’s money. Money that had then gone to Bishop’s Angolan girl friend and his bastard son and to the Bishop woman. The fortune that had been stolen from Ray and that she was determined to recover. It had been her lover’s inheritance and it was rightfully hers to reclaim.
The abduction plan was a work of genius. Apart from a few minor hiccups it had been well executed and she had been confident of recuperating at least a part of Ray’s fortune. Until, she reflected, this evening.
Now it was time to face the facts. For some reason it looked likely that Dudley’s confident announcement of this morning was unfounded. Otherwise why would he not answer the phone? He was embarrassed and he was hiding from them, so Leo Stewart must not have arrived in Harare, there was no other explanation that made sense. The scheme was compromised and there would be fallout, there always was. Recriminations, blame, arguments and ultimately the risk of disclosure and punishment and that wasn’t part of her plan. The other conspirators were just cogs in the machine and meant nothing to her. If there was no future in the ransom plan then it was time to move on and regroup. There were still ways in which she could come out of this mess ahead of the game. She had learned from the Angolan Clan disaster that she needed a backstop and she had taken some wise precautions, but first she had to extricate herself from the potential repercussions of tonight’s news, or rather, lack of it.
She went to the British Airways website on her iPad. There were seven flights the next day from Heathrow to Belfast. The two o’clock flight was ninety-nine pounds and there were a few seats available. She knew if she booked it the next morning it would be even cheaper. The Heathrow express cost twenty-one pounds, so that was a maximum of one hundred and twenty pounds and she had an Oyster card for the tube to Victoria. Slater had paid the hotel bill including tonight, so she owed nothing for her room. In her purse she had four hundred and seventy pounds and the train from Belfast to Dublin would be about forty-five Euros. She could manage for a few days in the inexpensive B&B she would go to.
She quickly made up her mind, as she had been forced to do many times in the last couple of years. I’ll go to see Arthur first thing in the morning. If he hasn’t got confirmation that the boy is in Harare then it’s over. I’ll take the train to Heathrow for an afternoon flight.
Esther cleaned her teeth and went to bed. She fell asleep almost immediately. Unfortunately, she was becoming used to things going wrong.
DAY SEVEN
Saturday, July 17, 2010
SIXTY-THREE
At sea, between Antalya, Turkey and Marseille, France
The cargo ship Erzurat was making eleven knots between Antalya and Marseille. Flying a Greek flag, she was a medium size ninety metre Norwegian vessel, built in 1970 and rebuilt in 1979, with a 2,000 HP MAK engine and 2,900 dead weight tonnage capacity. The ship had left Latakia in Syria two weeks previously, carrying a cargo of shoes, boots, handbags, travel goods and other leather, plastic and rubber articles insured for five hundred thousand dollars. A stopover had been made in Turkey, which produces over half of all TV sets and twenty per cent of white goods manufactured in Europe. In Antalya, on the southern Turkish coast, sixty containers containing ten thousand flat screen television sets, various types of audio equipment, refrigerators and other white goods were loaded, with an insurance value of three million dollars.
During these loading operations, under the strict control of Captain Bahadir Yilmaz, one of the containers was opened on the dockside and fifty of the television sets were removed and taken into a warehouse. They were extracted from their cartons and polystyrene packaging and the back panels removed and emptied of their components, leaving only the screen and the panel intact. The components weighed four kilos and were easily detached with a screwdriver and a pair of sharp pincers. Inside the four centimetre deep compartment thus created in each TV, four waxed paper packages wrapped in cellophane, measuring thirty by twenty centimetres and weighing one kilo each, were placed and packed around with wood shavings and coffee grounds. The back panels were then replaced, the TVs restored to their original packaging, marked with a new bar code and reloaded into the container amongst the other sets. The twenty foot metal box was then loaded onto the ship alongside its fifty-nine identical partners and the Erzurat was ready to sail for Marseille.
The two hundred kilos of material inside the packages had a value of over sixty million dollars on the street, or thirty million dollars in bulk, a fraction of the three and a half thousand tons of the same material, valued at over fifty billion dollars, which was shipped from Afghanistan through Pakistan annually. It was heroin, the most potent and most valuable of the mind altering substances available to the two hundred and thirty million people in the world who use hard drugs. Captain Yilmaz had been paid fifty thousand dollars for his attention to this cargo, equivalent to almost two years of his salary.
The heroin now hidden inside the television sets had come on a long trip. It had started life in an opium poppy field near Jalalabad in Nangahar province, Afghanistan, near the border with Pakistan and more importantly, close to one of the busiest ports of entry for people and goods moving between Afghanistan and Pakistan, at Torkham - the historic Khyber Pass. After being refined from two thousand kilos of opium locally, on June twentieth, the two hundred kilos of pure heroin had been brought across the border in a horse drawn cart carrying a family of farmers and leading a small herd of cattle. The cart was full of chicken feet, already beginning to decompose and smelling so badly that the customs official accepted a very small bribe to avoid investigating the bloody, stinking mess. Even if this had not been the case, the money that changed hands ensured discretion. Jobs at border crossing
s are highly valued and equally competitive, as money earned from corruption usually exceeds actual salary. These posts are commonly awarded along familial, tribal or friendship lines. As a result of corruption and inefficiency on both sides of the frontier, Torkham border is favoured by drug smugglers as ineffective and not threatening to their movements.
Once comfortably over the border, the two hundred packages were transferred to cavities built into the side panels and floor of a battered and broken down lorry filled with second hand bicycles and spare parts. It took three days, including stops for two flat tyres and a broken fan belt, to cover the fourteen hundred kilometres that brought them to the coastal area of Balochistan, on the Arabian Sea. In the port of Karachi the merchandise was transferred to the Lady Guinevere, a cabin cruiser kitted out as a fishing boat and flying Gibraltar colors, where it was hidden underneath the cabin floorboards in the hull space.
The thirty-one foot 1972 Trojan Express cruiser, powered by its Mercury Mercruiser twin inboard/outboard engines, set off at twenty knots westward towards the Gulf of Oman at seven in the morning on the twenty-sixth of June. The boat passed Ras Al-Kaimah and Dubai in the United Arab Emirates in the evening of the twenty-eighth, sailing through into the Persian Gulf. Off the coast of Qatar a customs boat came alongside, but after a short discussion and an exchange of several packages of cigarettes, the Lady Guinevere was sent on its way and entered the Port of Shuaiba, in Kuwait, on the twenty-ninth.
The Rwandan Hostage Page 42
