By the time you open this letter a good twenty years should have lapsed, a long, long time to reflect on the human condition. It has taken a lot less than that for me to come to terms with mine.
You see, Henry, I have little time to live, six months at most says the Doc. I was told I could do so much in six months. What a joke! He does not understand men like us, he does not feel power and ambition the way we do. He does not see that a man who has lost everything he once valued, who has been stripped bare, has nothing left to him but his burning ambition. My wife thinks that I am uncouth, unsophisticated, the son of an immigrant that has never evolved to be the upper class man she wishes for, a lowlife that can barely keep her in style. My children hardly speak to me, although I suspect it is their mother’s doing. You will never understand this, Henry, as your ego precludes you from loving anyone. But I would die for them, no, I am dying for them. They won’t see me in my final hours, a body hooked to a machine, striped of all dignity. In the meantime, I have become the stranger who signs the cheques and sleeps in the spare room.
So what’s left? The job, but even that is no longer enough. I want what you have Henry, all of it! Why? Because I can. For all your intelligence, your immense ambition and the violence underneath, you are not a killer Henry but me … I am.
Did you know that I did a deal with McCarthy? Actually, by the time you read this you might have figured it out. He was so easy to convince, so wrapped up with his desire to have more, to be more, to hide all the shitty deals we did together and still be the hero of the day. I would never have lived long enough to enjoy it, the merged teams under MY NAME, so I did what I had to do.
You probably are starting to have a hint, aren’t you? Can you feel on the back of your neck your hairs bristle, the slight churn in your stomach? Yes … I know you can.
So, let me tell you how it all started.
You must remember the famous closing dinner in Dublin. Everyone wondered why I was there, celebrating with you. I know, I had little to do with this god damned incredibly ‘oh so clever’ deal of yours and boy you did not let me forget that one minute.
I don’t think you spoke to me once but you sure spoke enough about me. By the time we all rolled to the pub you were so fucking drunk (champagne and glory are a very lethal mix) that you had finally forgotten I was there. And then it happened, your two pals, Bobby and Liam. You might have been more cautious another day but on that day of splendour you did not care.
So you poured Guinness down their throats, introduced them around. I listened, I observed, I saw an opportunity. Which one I did not know yet. I can still play the foreigner role when it suits me, I forget this altogether in the City as you have done yourself but there in Dublin I felt Italian again.
Liam was cautious, but somehow the gate opened up. I played the oppressed Catholic and he got friendly with me, me – your worst enemy. Bobby was getting stoned in the corner of the bar and he blabbed about the IRA. He must have scored on some good stuff and he was on a high at seeing his friend (you, Henry). He, Bobby knew the real Henry, the City was only a cover up. What a treat this all was.
Then came the icing on the cake, if I may say. Did you know as an aside that you and I have the same voice? Partially the result of taking elocution lessons I presume, the other quirky twist of fate, at least according to the lovely Pam. I know you fancied her and I can tell you she sure did you, oh boy! But I am afraid … I got there first.
She tans in the nude by the way.
So now we have the ingredients. What I am going to do with them?
But you don’t decide to do what I did suddenly, the idea slowly creeps into your mind. It does not emerge in one go, it tentatively surfaces, alternatives shock you, they come and go and you become daring. You are amazed that you can think the unthinkable and then The Plan hits you with its logical, implacable certainty. Its insanity leaves you speechless but it fascinates you. Will you dare? Will you pull it off? Will you see it through to the bitter end? If you are reading this letter then I guess I succeeded. I simply hope that in Hell where I belong I will be able to see your face when you read. But enough indulgence, back to The Plan.
I bought a top-up mobile phone, simple, untraceable and I dialled Bobby’s number. For some ridiculous reason Bobby insisted on giving me it before we left the pub, he was too smashed to care, I loved the deceit. Bobby told me he was depressed at the thought of the IRA decommissioning, a sell-out, a surrender. I stirred him up a bit, it was not difficult, so we nearly became pals. He told me a lot about you and your childhood in Belfast. I nearly felt sorry for you, not for long mind. I have no mercy remember, neither have you.
So I called Bobby, when he replied I nearly hung up but lovely Pam had me convinced that our voices were the same and it worked. Your best pal, your childhood friend could not tell the difference, what a coup! I had a good old rant at the fucking bastard who wanted my business and Bobby got onto it straight away. The Plan, Your Plan to bomb a small executive aircraft back in the day. I had agonised for hours, how was I going to convince him and it was there all ready to fly (excuse the punt, I am a dying man)?
So he reminded me of The Plan, in all its details committed to memory by Bobby, everything was there, impeccably thought through. I nearly got jealous, but then again, I should be graceful in victory.
The rest was easy, the money, the timing, the secrecy from Liam, for someone who looks so wasted Bobby is pretty focused when it comes to killing. He followed my instructions to the letter, no question. I even got him to agree to leave the briefcase in your garage without us meeting – if only all my staff were as well trained.
It was easy to leave you the odd email and cryptic message that would confuse the coppers. The most difficult part will be transporting the briefcase. I have to bring a live bomb home. Adeila is wondering why I want the kids to board that week. She is a nosy bitch this one. I had a warm feeling at the idea of blowing up half of Belgravia but that would leave you off the hook – could not do that I am afraid.
The airport will then be easy I know the guys so well. The car will drop me just at the bottom of the aircraft stairs. I fly too often with them to be considered a security risk – how touching.
I will die a brutal and remarked death and you will be my unwilling murderer. In time you might even believe you did it Henry … until you open this letter that is and then, well …
Here we are, Henry, you alive but barely, and me dead, thankfully.
Don’t be fooled by my earlier comment, I don’t believe in Hell. I walked through its gates when I was born and will check out in a few days’ time, oblivion awaits. Anthony A.
Henry closed his eyes, the letter dropped from his shaking hands.
A very small but painful tear rolled from his eye, traced the side of his nose in a slow but certain journey. It finished its course upon his lips, a sad, salty kiss.
Words swam: pain, freedom, hatred, peace, revenge ... and when he opened his eyes only one sentiment remained. Forgiveness.
BREAKING POINT
Henry Crowne Paying the Price Book 2
SAMPLE CHAPTER
The room erupted into applause. Nancy joined in as she crossed the stage, then she clasped Edwina’s hand warmly. She grinned at her friend. Edwina had delivered a trailblazing speech that had provoked a robust Q&A session. She could soon be joining the most powerful women in the world, tipped to become the next Governor of the Bank of England. Edwina had discussed the offer with Nancy in confidence.
The Women In Enterprise conference had become the highlight in the calendar of professional women striving to make their marks, not only in international investment banking, but now in the whole of UK industry. The conference theme was the reworking of an old chestnut “How women can break the glass ceiling” But the developing financial crisis had given it a new twist … Would all this have happened had women been at the helm? To give the debate more bite, some high-profile men had also been invited. The panel was well constructed, a mi
x of captains of industry and bankers. Nancy, the newly appointed Chair of the WIE, had accepted the invitation to act as moderator. The atmosphere had been electric as senior ladies in the audience had taken a gloves-off approach and the gentlemen were having none of it.
“One final question … one.”
A sea of hands shot up, waving, snapping, eager to attract Nancy’s attention.
“The FT will have a last say tonight … Pauline, go ahead please.”
“A question for Edwina. Christine Lagarde is the Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund. Janet Yellen is almost certainly going to be appointed by Obama as head of the FED. Is the Bank of England ready for a woman at the helm?”
Edwina stood up again, moving back to the lectern with slow deliberate pace.
“Any institution, private or public, must consider how to deliver the best outcome. Talent will be found in a pool of diverse people and the most forward-looking organisations will not shy away from it.” A roar of approvals interrupted. “I know what you are asking me Pauline … indirectly. I have only this answer: may the best of us win.”
How clever, Nancy thought. An answer that will inspire the women, appease the men and say nothing about herself. Quite simply brilliant.
Nancy had been a high-profile barrister practicing criminal law, then became the youngest ever appointed QC at just thirty-five. For a very long time she thought talent would prevail. But the latest report on the lack of progress had pushed her to advocate for set quotas for female employment at all level of the corporate structure.
Edwina had concluded the debate with a masterly final intervention. The voice of a woman who could inspire by her exemplary career. The standing ovation was still going on.
“Thank you,” Nancy said. “Thank you for the extraordinary show of support.” She was broadly smiling to them and turned to Edwina with a nod. “It has been an exceptional event. I must again thank the participants for the quality of their intervention, and for the quality of the audience input.”
The room erupted once more.
“I know, I know,” said Nancy whilst trying to appease the crowd with a gesture of both hands. “Please, you know it is not completely over. We still have drinks – much-needed – waiting for us next door. You can strike up a conversation with our guests. Do be gentle with some of them!”
The room broke into laughter and the men in the audience took it in good humour. The protagonists were giving back their clip-microphones to the staff. Edwina approached Nancy.
“I think it’s in the bag.”
“It certainly is. Did Gabriel work with you on this? I detected a forceful yet compromising approach in your speech.”
“Yes, Gabs helped me. But I was talking about the appointment. Osborne spoke to me.”
Nancy grinned. “Oh, I see. We must catch up. I am excited for you.”
“We must but agreed, not the place. Let’s do lunch.”
“Do let’s. Utterly delighted for you Eddie.”
Nancy moved away and started circulating amongst a crowd of women gathered on the roof terrace of One Poultry. She was mobbed by a group of enthusiastic young lawyers eager to speak about her experience as QC. She finally moved on and was about to join one of the panellists, CEO of a notorious airline, when someone grabbed her arm.
“Do you really believe in that bullshit of yours?” a voice slurred. The large man was standing too close for comfort. He swayed slightly, moved backward. His small beady eyes narrowed in a vengeful squint.
“And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” replied Nancy whilst slowly removing his hand from her arm.
“Gary Cook, former head of trading at GL. Courtesy of one of your females.”
“I doubt any of these females are ‘mine’, as you put it.” replied Nancy.
“Yeah right, but you … you and your little friends are not whiter than white. You lot are trying to say you are better than blokes on the trading floor. That’s bullocks and I can prove it.” Gary’s heavy jaws had clenched so hard the muscle of his neck had leaped out. He had not finished yet.
“I say, how clever of you. Not ‘whiter than white’. With my Chinese ancestry that is going to be rather certain.”
“Gary Cook,” exclaimed a voice that came from behind Nancy. “Great to see you again!”
Gary stopped in his tracks. The unexpected welcome confused him, then again the person who had greeted him was another man. The well-groomed young man interposed himself effortlessly between Gary and Nancy who slowly retreated. There was no point in making a scene. Gary was a loser who should not be humoured. Nancy could hear the smooth Gabriel holding the man’s anger, absorbing it until it had subsided completely. Edwina had chosen well; Gabriel Duchamp was an impressive right-hand man. He manoeuvred Gary towards a more secluded part of the roof terrace, called for more drinks. Nancy was not sure Gary needed more champagne but no doubt Gabriel would move him gradually towards the exit and Gary would eventually take the hint. A small tremor of revulsion had run through Nancy’s body. She had not recognised Gary’s old, bitter face. She wiped her hand against her dress but felt she needed to do more than that to wash away the stickiness of Gary’s feel.
She entered the Ladies’ briskly, lathered her hands with sandalwood scented soap and ran cold water over them, watching the foam disappear down the plughole. An apt image of where Garry ought to end up one day. She retraced her steps but before she had time to turn into the corridor someone grabbed her shoulder. Edwina was standing close to her.
“Just had an email from George Osborne’s PA. Final meeting in a couple of days’ time.” Edwina whispered. “Perhaps a little coaching may be warranted?”
“I somehow feel the student has surpassed the master,” Nancy murmured, smiling. “But of course, I am here for you if you feel the need.”
“Very much so.” Edwina squeezed Nancy’s shoulder gently, but let go on hearing the sound of voices coming their way.
Both women emerged from the corridor separately and as she reappeared Nancy found herself mobbed once more by a group of enthusiastic ladies. The banking industry had to change its ways. One of the young women mentioned the name Henry Crowne. She must have done her homework as to who Nancy was. Nancy returned the question with a frosty look. She would not be discussing Henry at this conference or anywhere else for that matter. Then a whirlpool of questions swept her away, away from Gary and Henry.
There was only a small group of people left by now, and Nancy was about to say her goodbyes when two uniformed officers walked through the left doors, alighting directly onto the terrace.
One of the officers bent his head towards his shoulder radio set.
“Yes, I’m on the roof now. There are a few people still up here.”
Nancy thought she heard the instructions keep them there.
“Sorry ladies, I am PC Barrett and this is PC Leonard. We have a jumper.”
The women looked at each other incredulous.
“I mean someone has jumped from the roof terrace. Dead, I’m afraid.” PC Barrett asked to see the guestlist and the young security guard who had checked names at the door produced it in an instant. PC Barrett turned away from the crowd and towards his shoulder radio, sheltering his voice.
“Yep, got it there. Yep … Gary Cook.”
Nancy had turned away, still all ears. She shuddered. Gary … impossible.
* * *
“One hundred and ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, two hundred. Shit!” puffed Henry as he rolled back onto the mat. He was nearly at the end of his routine in HMP Belmarsh gym. He needed to start stretching, but he lay there for another minute. A small luxury in a place devoid of the comfort he once knew. He closed his eyes and a face appeared out of nowhere. He sat up slowly, eyes still closed. Was Liam also exercising in the prison in which he was incarcerated? Northern Ireland’s Maghaberry was a tough place, a tough place for a tough boy. Liam would survive it, but what of Bobby? Anger gripped Henry again. He
stood up abruptly and started stretching.
“Let go. Just let go,” he said softly, applying pressure to release the pain. His muscles screamed. He eased off the stretch a little.
The question had haunted Henry for months. Could Liam have done anything differently? Could he have chosen Henry rather than his brother Bobby? The police in Belfast would never have spared the life of Bobby, a faction IRA operative, a man for whom decommissioning had no meaning. There had to be a deal and Henry was that deal. And what a deal he was, a financial super star, a City banker organising and contributing to the IRA finances. Henry’s stellar financial career masking his terrorist’s activities, how clever and daring. But how wrong.
“No … no choice,” Henry murmured, wiping his face with a towel. He ran it over his hair. The standard prison cut had left very little of what had been a dense mane.
Yet, Henry had wanted to be chosen, always wanted to be the one. And this yearning had cost him everything. Beyond the sacrifice of his own career and hopes, he had also sacrificed lives, many lives, and for that he would pay.
Henry threw the towel over his shoulder, got into the changing rooms, stripped down and started showering. He had been apprehensive to start with. Would he find a fate in prison only reserved for the bastard of a banker he was? Would he be molested, beaten up and humiliated? But the fear had not materialised and eventually it had faded away. He had learned to become unnoticeable amongst the Category A prisoners of Belmarsh. Henry was high-risk and on Nancy’s advice he had played that card fully. He had been moved to a block in which cons shared the same Cat A profile except … no bankers. Or at least not yet.
“Hey, good set of press ups, man.”
“Thanks, Big K. I plan to get really fit over the next twenty-five years.”
“Man, you got good muscle tone there. Respect.”
Henry nodded, grabbed his towel and got dressed quickly. He still did not like to linger in the changing rooms. Another inmate had moved out of the showers too. Henry felt he was being observed, but when he looked up the man was facing the other way, going about his business. Henry noticed a face tattooed on his back. Big K had already left but he would know who this was. Big K had been allocated the cell next to Henry’s and he had shown interest in him straightaway. Drugs were his domain, and the words ‘money laundering’ had caught his undivided attention. Big K was someone who knew what it meant to survive prison life, so it was worth swapping a few snippets of info with him.
Collapse Page 27