The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  “Got it in one.” He sat back, smiling. “It had to have been. You pay a bribe of £100,000 to some Saudi oil sheik. The money has to be accounted for somewhere, so they use transfer pricing. The transactions for buying the cartridges are recorded as revenue expenditure on the balance sheet, whilst the thousands going in either direction are in fact what they’re paying out in bribes to whoever, so, from the outside looking in, it all looks like a real business arrangement whereas, in fact, it’s simply covering up money being used to pay bribes, and it’s also helping to clean up dirty money,” he stated with certainty. “This’s what I mean about an honest auditor. He’d wanna know how come a £10 box of shotgun cartridges was being sold for however many thousands it was.”

  He took a couple of deep breaths. “You know just how easy it is to fiddle accounts? I just hope to God Bartolome never find out how much I’ve had out of them doing this over the years. They’d never let me out of here.”

  He was smirking like a schoolkid who’d got away with something right under the nose of the headteacher. I left Brixton thinking I was in the wrong profession.

  *

  The London offices of Armswatch were in High Holborn. I’d phoned the main site in Hemel Hempstead and been told Ian Harper was now mostly based in the London office, and they’d confirmed he was at work today, so I was standing in the foyer waiting for whoever was on reception duty. Ian Harper was listed as being an accountant involved with European marketing, and, with Thornwyn’s endorsement of him as being honest, he was someone I needed to talk to.

  Waiting at the reception desk, I noticed I was being given the evil eye by a biggish fifty-something man standing by the lift, wearing a fawn-coloured shirt and tie and a badge indicating he was security. He stood staring at me for several seconds, as though I were a demonic spirit needing to be exorcised. I was about to ask him what his issue was when I recognised him. On one occasion, I’d been talking to the London office’s manager, Diane Leander, and, afterwards, a security officer had tried grabbing my arm to lead me out the building. I’d neutralised him by putting him in an arm lock. It was this same individual. I held his stare for several seconds and he turned away.

  I was then greeted by a bright, cheery, smartly dressed forty-something woman, her hair piled high in a 1980s blonde beehive style, who seemed positively full of the joys of spring, considering she was working on a Saturday morning. I showed ID and mentioned that I wanted to talk to Harper. She contacted him and he agreed to talk to me. As I was about to ask where he was in the building, she told me I’d have to leave my phone at reception as the company was very concerned about industrial espionage. I refused to comply, stating I was Special Branch and needed to be contactable at all times. Her radiant smile vanished and, begrudgingly, she told me what room on which floor and handed me a visitor’s lanyard, which I slipped into my jacket pocket. I took the lift to the third floor and walked to room eight.

  Ian Harper was waiting for me at the door. He formally greeted me and introduced himself. I identified myself and he invited me into his small office. It looked like a typical office, nicely carpeted and furnished with filing cabinets, bookshelves and a small desk with a pair of laptop computers.

  He told me to take a seat. I did. He had a very serious expression on his face, and I guessed he was probably close to sixty, dark-haired with tinges of grey. He was dressed as if going to a wedding, suit and tie and a flower in his lapel. Whatever happened to dress-down Saturday?

  His eyes suggested he was nervous.

  “Why do police need to talk to me?” he began.

  Before I said anything, I stressed the extreme confidentiality of what I was here to talk about, and told him he wasn’t to repeat a word he heard. He hesitantly expressed his agreement.

  “The press already has an idea there’s a story here, so we’re attempting to get ahead of the situation. It’d help us if you could answer a few questions.”

  “The press? Oh dear.” He looked like he was trying to swallow something.

  My claim was quite likely a mild exaggeration. All I knew for certain was Nick Graves had said evidence of bribery would be sent to selected newspapers if Garlinge continued to stonewall, and also he’d an appointment to talk to someone at New Focus magazine. But using the term the press had made Harper’s face change colour.

  He sat virtually motionless for several seconds. I wasn’t even certain he was breathing. He looked to be deep in thought.

  I began. “Bartolome does business with an Italian firm named Bozetti, doesn’t it?”

  “We do, yes,” he said guardedly. “Have done for some time.”

  “A while back Bartolome entered into a joint contract with Bozetti to supply various items of weaponry, ostensibly to go to Bahrain.”

  Harper nodded his agreement.

  “Are you aware of what happened afterwards?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I explained carefully how the weapons made by Bartolome and destined for Bozetti had been diverted to Burundi, and they’d been used by police and the military against innocent citizens at a pro-democracy rally, leading to many deaths and worldwide condemnation at the United Nations. The person negotiating on behalf of Bartolome to set up the contract with Bozetti was Charles Garlinge, just before he became an MP.

  “Were you aware of any misgivings inside the firm concerning this deal?”

  He sat silently for several seconds. Somewhere I could hear a clock ticking, but I couldn’t see one in the room.

  He exhaled. “Look, I’m sorry, I really can’t talk about any of this without someone from our legal department being present.” He sounded like he was gasping for air.

  “Why d’you need a lawyer? You’re not under arrest; I’ve not even cautioned you,” I said calmly. “We’re simply investigating allegations made, and it’s been suggested by someone outside the company who knows Bartolome I talk to you about the situation regarding Bozetti.”

  He sat quietly, looking very nervous. I thought I could see his lower lip trembling slightly. From the movement of his cheeks, it appeared he was grinding his teeth.

  “Are you also aware very sensitive documents appear to have been leaked from inside Bartolome to outside interests? Do you know anything about this?”

  He took a few deep breaths. I waited several seconds for his reply. But then he suddenly stood up. From his body language I was wondering if it’d been him who’d sent the documents to Armswatch.

  “Look,” he said, “I really can’t talk about this. You’d need to speak to the chief executive or someone on the board. I can’t answer your questions, I’m sorry.”

  He walked around the desk towards the door and opened it, making it clear our little chat was concluded. He looked as though someone had just told him of a family bereavement. I got up and left.

  He’d been nervous throughout; this was obvious from his body language. He’d hardly looked at me whilst talking and he’d fidgeted constantly. I was convinced he knew something, so, for the moment, I was going to leave him to fret, but I’d return in a day or so and question him again.

  *

  I wanted to know more about Bozetti, so, back in the office. I logged on to the Branch database and discovered it was an Italian arms manufacturer based just outside Milan. The company was well established and highly regarded, with a reputation for providing top-quality products to its customers, which included police forces in several major Italian cities and various governments inside the European Union, as well as the Middle East. The company was the result of a merger between two other Italian arms companies, Bomacchio and Carozetti, who had manufactured military vehicles and firearms respectively. Bozetti’s average published turnover per annum ran into hundreds of millions of euros and, by its current high market capitalisation, it was one of the most valuable arms companies in Europe.

  Smitherman had mentioned earlier he’d been told by MI6 that Bozetti and Bartolome had been doing business together over a number of years. So how w
as it possible for arms destined for Italy to end up in Burundi? All arms transactions out of the country were subjected to strict control and scrutiny by Government, because no defence minister would sign off on an End User Certificate unless he’d been assured by the security service everything was in order for the transaction to proceed.

  This suggested someone inside Bozetti had been cooperating with Ibrahim Mohammed when he’d negotiated with Charles Garlinge to ensure the name of Bozetti could appear on the End User Certificate when the shipment left the UK. Had someone inside Bozetti ensured the weapons were going to be diverted, and had Garlinge been aware of this?

  *

  Mid-afternoon, I was about to go to Smitherman’s office when I received a text message from Taylor. Bold letters leapt off the screen at me: YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT’S JUST HAPPENED!!! alongside an emoji with eyes and mouth wide opened in surprise.

  I knew she was spending today, as journos put it, polishing up her story about the sale of Septimus House to Yuri Krachnikhov before putting it to bed for tonight’s deadline, so I was puzzled about what she meant. Had her editor now spiked the story?

  I quickly replied with sounds intriguing, can’t wait.

  I brought Smitherman up to speed, relaying my conversations with Edward Priestly and Ian Harper, highlighting Harper’s reticence and Priestly’s certainty of a slush fund. I mentioned Priestly’s claim of funds being occasionally channelled through Byzantium to cover the real purpose behind movements of finance. I repeated what he’d told me about the usage of transfer pricing to mask illicit movements of money and to hide funds.

  Smitherman listened intently. “Confirms what I’ve been told by MI6. Obviously, they know about what happened in Bujumbura, and they’ve traced the weapons used as ones manufactured in this country by Bartolome.”

  I considered everything for several seconds. “The issue is, would Garlinge have been aware of the likely destination when he was negotiating with Mohammed?”

  “This’s what we’re going to find out.” Smitherman nodded. “We’d rather not go after Garlinge just now, because he’s at an arms trade fair at the ExCeL centre this afternoon, accompanying a few senior military figures, plus the Secretary of State for Defence, who’s representing the Government in the negotiations. They’re meeting a few potential buyers from other governments as well, and there’re a lot of press and police there because there’s a large static demonstration against it outside the building. Police’ve had a tip-off some of the lunatic fringe elements amongst Armswatch’s supporters are going to try to force their way into the building and disrupt proceedings.” His expression suggested he’d just drunk vinegar. “So, as we don’t want the press seeing him talking to police, first thing tomorrow, before he leaves to return to the arms fair, talk to Garlinge again. Press him hard this time, get him to be more precise about this situation. As you can imagine, neither Government nor MI6 wants details of British-made weaponry being used in killing innocent civilians splashed across the front of the newspapers, and they certainly don’t want a Serious Fraud Office investigation of the company’s accounts either. So make this your next priority. The Government’s emphasised to MI6 this mustn’t be allowed to enter the public domain under any circumstances.”

  I thought for a moment. “But, even if Garlinge does agree to stand down, what if Armswatch still goes public with what it knows?”

  “Oh, things’ll not be allowed to get that far,” he replied enigmatically. His face was difficult to read, so I asked him what he meant by this statement. He didn’t answer.

  *

  I finished summarising the report about my conversations with Priestly and Harper, emailed it to Smitherman and went off duty just after seven. On the bus back to Battersea I checked emails and then reread Taylor’s message from earlier this afternoon. What could have occurred in the offices of the Evening Standard? Had a lawyer representing Blatchford learnt what was about to be published about him and had an injunction served on the paper? Would there be any legal basis for such a course of action? I was intensely curious all the way back home.

  From the excited look on her face, I could tell Taylor was bursting to tell me about what had occurred earlier, so I poured myself a mug of good Italian coffee, draped my jacket over a chair and slouched down on the couch next to her, giving her a warm hug and kiss.

  “So, what won’t I believe happened today?” I asked, grinning.

  Her answer, when it came, was so far out towards the furthest edges of left field, it was practically over the horizon.

  “I had coffee with Michael Mendoccini.”

  The news hit me like a kick in the solar plexus. It felt like a tree’d fallen on me. I took a few deep breaths.

  I’d assumed what had happened was to do with her story; I certainly hadn’t considered this as a likely scenario. I remembered him saying last evening he’d like to meet Sally properly one day. I’d not realised he’d meant he was gonna do it the very next day.

  “What, he just strolled up into your office?” I eventually asked after regaining my poise.

  She laughed. “No, nothing so dramatic.”

  She told me how it had played out. She’d arrived at the Evening Standard offices early, intending to devote the whole day to polishing up the story on the Septimus House controversy.

  “So, around one, I decide to go get a latte from the Caffè Nero across the road. So, I’m standing in the queue and, when I get to the counter, I ask for a latte to take away. Next thing I know, a guy’s standing right alongside me saying, Can you change the order to a large latte to drink in, and also a cappuccino, per favore? I turn and see a guy holding a £10 note smiling at me and saying, This is my treat, Sally. I was startled for a moment, but then I recognised him as the guy who gave me the card. It was your friend Mendoccini.”

  “You’re certain it was the same guy?” I needed to be sure.

  “Yeah, it was the same guy who accosted me on Tuesday,” she said, smiling, “the same one you showed me the picture of. I must have looked stunned or something, but he touched my hand and said, No need to be nervous, Sally, he’d just like to have a quick word with me. He sounded so reassuring I think my surprise soon passed. I just thought, What could happen in a Caffè Nero? So he pays for our drinks and we sit down at the table near the window. After what you’d told me about you and him Tuesday night, I couldn’t believe this was happening. I’d heard so much about you and him the other night and, suddenly, right out of nowhere, here he was.”

  I was trying to picture the incongruity of this scene, Taylor and Michael Mendoccini sitting and talking at the same table with me not present. I took a deep breath. These were the two people in this world I’d felt the closest to and, aside from my parents, loved the deepest. In another reality I would have loved to introduce Taylor to him and Angie and the four of us could have gone out to do something together. A mild sadness came over me. She’d seen him and spoken to him and I hadn’t.

  I quickly recovered my poise. “So, what’d he wanna talk about?” This was all too unreal.

  “He starts by looking directly at me and saying in a low voice, You know who I am now, don’t you? and I said I did. He said, You now know what I meant when I told you Robert and I are old friends, don’t you? and I agreed. He was looking at me with these piercing eyes; you can see why a woman might fall for him.” She smiled. “He then said it’s good to finally meet me, and he asked if you and I are happy together. I said we were; I told him we’re extremely happy together.” She squeezed my hand lightly. I nodded. We were. “He was pleased to hear it, had a big smile when I told him. He said he really wants you to be happy. He said, It’s important to me Rob is happy.”

  I was listening intently. I took a mouthful of coffee and found it hard to swallow as I was trying not to choke up at what I’d just heard. Any lingering doubts I’d had about whether or not Mendoccini was actually in the country had now been dispelled.

  “He asked if you’d told me about his phone
call last night. I said you had. He said it’d been great talking to you again and it was a real pity he couldn’t just turn up at the flat and have a beer and talk with you, like two civilised humans, and said something like È un vero pecatto. I don’t know any Italian, but he said it meant it’s a real shame.”

  I was trying to imagine my surprise if I’d opened the door and seen Michael Mendoccini standing there, smiling at me. Would I have hugged him? Hit him? Arrested him? Offered him a drink? In a way, I was glad it hadn’t happened.

  “Yeah, it’s something like that,” I agreed.

  “He said, I’ll bet the first thing Rob did when you gave him the card was to tell you all about us, from when we were kids right up to when I met him again not too long back. He did, didn’t he? I said you had. He laughed and said that’d be just like you. He then asked if you’d told me how close you’d been as teenagers, and I told him you had. He was pleased, said they’re amongst his most precious memories.”

  They’re some of mine as well. We’d been closer than brothers growing up into adulthood. I too had great memories of the times I’d spent with him and some of the things we’d done, which went some considerable distance towards explaining why I felt as I did when I thought about us now. He figured in all the best memories of my early life somewhere.

  She paused for a moment, tapping her fingers against the arm of the couch. “He also asked if you’d said he was involved in Red Heaven, I said yes, you had. I was mildly nervous at this point, because I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but he stopped talking and looked out the window for a few seconds, and I couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking, from the look on his face. I really wanted to ask him a few questions about his involvement with Red Heaven, ask him why and suchlike. For a second, I even had this fleeting notion of an article entitled ‘My lunch date with a terrorist’, but I didn’t know where to begin. I’d never sat so close to a terrorist before.” She smiled.

  “What’d he do after this?” I had to know.