by Terry Morgan
"Yes, I know. So we need a devilish plan and I thought of one on the plane down here. Do you have a copy of one of the letters from Freeway Consultants?"
"Yes."
"Who signed it?"
"It's an electronic signature and says Richard Muller—it means nothing. I checked."
"Then there's no harm in trying a bit of Irish skulduggery, subterfuge and jiggery-pokery?"
"What the hell's that?"
"It's how I could and should have been the biggest and shittiest investigative reporter in London. I'll be Richard Muller and you can be the finance director."
Chapter Eighty-Two
EARLY MORNING IN Milan and Guido was again pacing around the warehouse, this time in a pair of red socks but with the phone, as always, tucked inside the fold of his chin.
It was a cold and foggy morning in Milan but sweat drops had formed on his brow. He pushed strands of straight, black hair that had fallen over his forehead back into place.
"I am not panicking, Toni. Do not say that. But we need a plan. Mr. E is very mad. His angry voice yesterday—oh mio dio—I dreamed about it last night. It is that asshole, that bastard, that faccia di merda. I hate him, Toni. I never liked him. He has a comportomento sospetto. I told Mr. E he was a suspicious son of a bitch. But what can we do? Mr. E thinks he is hiding somewhere, maybe to tell stories…yah, what is it?…OK, OK, I am talking about that fucking Dutch bastard Kerkman, Toni. Who the hell else?…Yah, that's him. I trained him on Puff and Slush and he has run away. Yah—run away, gone…I do not know where."
Guido scuffed his way around the office, kicking at a screwed up scrap of paper that had missed the trash bin.
"My dream of Mr. E was a nightmare, Toni. This Kerkman came to the warehouse and he shot me, Toni. Shot me with a gun. But it is impossible. No one knows about us, Toni. It is Mr. E who is nervous. But Mr. E needs a plan to find him…yah, yah, find Kerkman, not Eischmann…I am not nervous, Toni. But what can we do?"
Guido was starting to panic.
Chapter Eighty-Three
MID MORNING IN England and Cole Harding's phone call to Jonathan provided another lead.
"Freeways Freight Forwarding, Jonathan."
"Yes, did you speak to Sierra Leone?"
"Not just Sierra Leone. I also spoke to Schools Aid Africa, an English charity that renovates old laptop computers and sends them to Africa. In Sierra Leone their contact is an organization called Daisy Children's Charity, but things get stolen and taken to Liberia and Nigeria. The shipper that Schools Aid are told to use is Freeways Freight Forwarding, Milan. So I'm faxing you a copy of shipping documents for you to check details.”
Jonathan scanned the fax, emailed it to Jim and Jan and then went straight to his car.
His next appointment was with the Financial Investigation Bureau. The FIB, a specialized office within the International Chamber of Commerce Crime Service, conducts enquiries and investigations into matters associated with money laundering, fraud and suspect documents. Walton Associates, at Jim's suggestion, had become a member. Membership meant joining a club of international banks, financial institutions, National Financial Intelligence Units, regulatory bodies and, most importantly, law enforcement agencies.
As Jim had said weeks before, the FIB had status. It listened. And the FIB talked to the UK Government, the Home Office and could call on bodies like Interpol. And being a commercial body, it especially liked listening to suggestions of fraud and corruption within government circles.
That meeting over and Jonathan immediately phoned Jim from his car with an update.
"They listened, Jim, and I've still not mentioned names. It was just me providing evidence of tampering with bids, throwing in a few examples and saying I can't divulge much more due to the risks posed for a whistleblower. Cole Harding had given me permission to mention his involvement with us and that went down very well as Cole was known to them from past fraud cases. At the end I said I needed guarantees of total confidentiality before going further and they want to meet again. But the dots are starting to join up, Jim. Do you want to tell Scott Evora or shall I?"
"You do it, Jonathan. And, while you're at it, tell him to hurry up dealing with the list of names I gave him."
Chapter Eighty-Four
THE COPY OF the letter from Freeway Consultants showed their office on Bahnhofplatz an easy walking distance from Tom and Jan's hotel on Zahringerstrasse in Zurich Old Town.
A quick internet check also showed it being promoted as a "most prestigious business address in the heart of the central business area." Most importantly, there was a phone number for anyone wishing to rent space. Tom made the call.
"Ah, yes, my name is Richard Muller. My company Freeway Consultants rent office space at Bahnhofplatz…"
"Ah yes, Mr. Muller. Freeway Consultants, of course. How are you? Is everything to your satisfaction?"
"Yes, good, thank you. So good, in fact, we are looking to rent more space."
"Ah. We have some offices still available. You will be familiar with the facilities— meeting and interview rooms, the business lounge, the video-conferencing suite, the high-speed internet, all supported by our multilingual team of on-site professionals…"
"Yes, thank you. Could we call to have another look?"
"Are you in Zurich?"
"Yes, we could be there in ten minutes. Is someone available to show us?"
"Of course. Shall we say midday? Do you have the entry security codes?"
"No, sorry, they're with my staff in Holland."
"No problem, someone will meet you outside."
It was now midday and as Tom and Jan stood on the pavement outside, the glass door opened and a young woman wearing a gray suit and with blonde hair came out. Jan immediately thought of Katrine.
"Mr. Muller? My name is Sophie. You speak English or German?"
"English would be fine," said Tom trying to conceal his Irish accent. "This is John Gardener from our Dutch office." They shook hands.
"I think you already rent an office here?"
"Yes, Freeway Consultants."
"Ah yes, on the second floor," she said and led the way to a lift. No one spoke as the lift ascended. When the door slid open they walked out onto a carpeted corridor. "Do you have access to our current office?" asked Tom.
"Yes, it is an emergency code only but we can go in."
On the door outside it said Freeway Consultants S.A. but, as expected, it was empty inside except for a desk, two chairs and a small table.
"But it's empty," Tom said with forced surprise. "Where are the computers, the filing cabinets?" He started opening the drawers of the desk.
Sophie stared at them both. "But we have never seen anyone here."
"Then we need to report this," Tom said, "Our work is confidential. There were sensitive files here. Who is in charge of security?"
Sophie looked shocked. "It is the management company—Commercial Office Services—the company you spoke to earlier."
Tom took out his mobile phone. Jan and Sophie watched.
"Yes," he said. "It's Richard Muller again. I am now in the office at Bahnhofplatz. There has clearly been a security failure here. The office is empty—no computers, no files, nothing. "
The voice on the other end was clearly apologetic.
"Yes, I am also sorry," Tom said. "My staff only worked from here for short periods—perhaps for two weeks or so—before returning to our Dutch office, but we have had no one here for two months. We've had a few issues with our local partners. Can you say if the rent has been paid?…Yes, please check before I make other enquiries."
Tom waited, staring out of the window onto the street below. Jan sat in the chair looking and smiling at Sophie. Sophie looked down at her shoes then up at Jan. Then:
"Good. Well that's a relief. Can you tell me which of the companies paid the rent?…Freeway Consultants? Yes, of course, that's us. From which account was it paid?… Milan, you say?"
Tom, still looking out
of the window, was thinking quickly.
"Would that be our Banco de Crédito de Milano account? Yes. That bank is not in Milan, Italy, it is our Panama account but are there any more details on the bank transfer—the payee's name, perhaps?… P.U Eischmann… Yes, that's OK. I understand now."
Tom turned, looked at Jan, then at Sophie. He was still holding the phone so that the person on the other end could hear. "Well, that's a relief," he said. "Mr. Eischmann has been paying, but I'm still worried about our computers and files."
He turned back to the phone and continued. "Who am I talking to?…Olga. Listen, Olga, could you check something else for me? The rental agreement with Freeway. Who signed it? Was it our Milan office?…Thank you, yes, of course, I'll wait."
Tom glanced at Jan. Jan was stroking his chin and smiling at Sophie who still reminded him of Katrine.
Tom again: "Yes, that would be it…Antonia Goretti…Antonia—yes, we call her Toni. And the address?…Yes, thank you, Olga. That's very helpful… No, no, there is no need to call the police. Everything is fine. Goodbye"
Tom switched off the phone, glanced at Jan and then at Sophie. "I'm sorry, Sophie, but I don't think we'll need a new office now. One will be enough."
Three minutes later, as Tom and Jan began the walk along Bahnoffstrasse towards their hotel, Jan grabbed Tom's coat sleeve. "So, are you going to tell me the address?"
"Via Como, Civesio," Tom said, smiling. "Milan. Did you like my English accent, Jan?"
"Very good. Do you think that's Guido's address?"
"Well, I don't know, but it's another lead don't you think?"
"And do you think we've now got a real name for Toni?"
"Well," Tom said, resuming his English accent. "If not it's a jolly fine coincidence. Let's report this to Jim and then head on down to Milan."
Chapter Eighty-Five
KATRINE RECEIVED THE phone call from Dirk Eischmann at her morning coffee break.
"I have been called for another meeting. Please give my apologies and chair the EAWA steering group meeting this afternoon."
He had made the phone call from his office but left immediately and headed to Brussels Airport and the Sheraton Hotel. Once inside, he walked direct to a corner. Already sitting on a sofa beneath a large, contemporary print with white cups of coffee on the glass-topped table in front of them, was a smart, graying, middle-aged man in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. Alongside him sat a much younger woman with long, blonde hair, red lipstick, a white blouse and a short, flower-printed skirt. Around her neck was a gold necklace and, on her fingers, rings with several large stones. As she leaned towards the man, talked quietly and straightened his already immaculate tie, her skirt rose up to expose long, tanned legs and thighs.
As Eischmann approached the man placed a finger to his lips to put an end to the woman's attentions and stood up. The woman straightened her skirt, uncurled her legs and stayed sitting down, looking at her red nails. There was no handshake. Instead Eischmann beckoned him return to the sofa and then nodded at the woman who smiled. He then took the black, patterned upright chair opposite and leaned forward. But whatever their meeting was to be about, it was immediately interrupted.
Eischmann had barely opened his mouth when two men, both wearing dark suits and ties walked towards their corner. The woman saw them coming first, her partner then looked up and Eischmann turned around.
"Sorry to interrupt your meeting," said one of the suits. "Inspector Hendrickx, Belgian Federal Police. This is Inspector Verstraeten."
Eischmann stood up. "What is this?" The other man also stood.
"Sorry, sir, but we're just checking identities. Could I have your names, please? Are you staying at the hotel?"
"No. Why? What is this?" Eischmann asked again, his face turning red. "What is the problem?"
"No need to worry, sir. Do you have any ID? A passport? A driving license?"
Eischmann just stood.
"You sir? You madam? Do you have any ID?"
The woman crossed her legs once again and fumbled in a tiny, brown leather handbag. Her partner touched her hand. "There is no need, mi amor. What do you want? This is my wife. We arrived here this morning from Nice," he said. The accent was Spanish.
"So you will have your passports with you," said Inspector Hendrickx and he nodded to Verstraeten. Verstraeten moved forward, his hand outstretched. Eischmann moved back behind his chair, his hands rubbing his face nervously.
"I am Dirk Eischmann," he announced. "I am Director General at the Commission. There is no need for this fuss."
Hendrickx raised an eyebrow. "You have some proof of ID, sir?" he asked. "Just your driving license will do. We're just doing our duty."
Eischmann fumbled in an inside pocket, removed a wallet then a credit card sized driving license and handed it over. Hendrickx glanced at it. "Thank you. No problem, sir." He handed it back.
"You sir?" he looked at the one with the Spanish accent.
"My passport." He handed it to Verstraeten. Verstraeten glanced at it. "Mr. Daniel Acosta—Spanish passport. Thank you." He handed it back. "You madam?"
The woman fumbled in her bag once more, handed over a maroon passport. "Thank you. Anne Acosta—British passport. Thank you."
Both Verstraeten and Hendrickx stood back.
"Thank you Messieurs, madam. That is all. Sorry to interrupt your meeting. Have a nice day."
It was Eischmann who spoke next. "I don't see you asking other guests for their ID. Why us?"
"Instructions, sir. We obey instructions," Hendrickx replied. He saluted casually and started to walk away with Verstraeten, but Eischmann followed.
"Instructions from where? In my position I have a right to know."
Hendrickx turned, looked at him straight in the eye. "In your position, sir, then you can know that it is part of a cross-border, international fraud investigation. Money laundering, that sort of thing, sir." Then he walked away.
***
In London, Scott Evora got the message that three more names on his list had been found and a small dent made in their normally untouchable self-confidence. Jim's stone was being lifted.
***
In Milan, Guido was standing naked in front of one of the four mirrors in the bathroom when he heard the phone vibrating on the shelf beside a vase of purple orchids. With white foam around his mouth and running down his arms, he continued brushing his teeth with one hand and picked the phone up.
"Ya. Toni?" he gurgled through the foam. Then he stopped brushing, ran to the white sink, rinsed his mouth from a glass of mineral water, gargled, spat, sat on the stool beside the bath and put his hand to his mouth. His eyes widened.
"It's that asshole, that piece of shit, that faccia di merda, Toni," he shouted, the shrill sound enhanced by the mirrors and white ceramic floor and walls. "How do you know this?"
There was a pause.
"Two people?…Who was the second one? How do you know it was the asshole?… Who said he was tall and handsome?…A girl in the office?…And the other man?…Big? Red hair? What man can have such a color?…There is no one called Richard Muller. It is only a name…he is the impostore. And what did the crazy people in the office tell him?…A bank? The Milan address? Mio Dio!"
The scream was almost enough to shatter the bathroom mirrors.
Chapter Eighty-Six
SCOTT EVORA PHONED Jonathan and Jonathan then phoned Jim.
Jim had been sitting cross-legged in his underwear on the bed in his room at the Windsor hotel for almost two hours. It had starting with his routine meditation—thinking, imagining he was sitting high on the rocks of the hill behind his house and watching the sun rise but Margaret had been on his mind again. Was it all his fault as she had claimed? Probably. Had she survived to make the best of the situation? Definitely. Jim had wondered if he should tell Tom. Tom would, he felt, understand. But Tom was in Zurich or on his way to Milan. It had to wait.
And Jim's chest hurt. Not constantly, but intermittently
. It had hurt when, after his meager breakfast, he had taken the hotel stairs rather than the lift. That's why he had decided to sit and calm himself. But, unlike at home in Thailand, a lot was happening. He wanted to paint again. Painting was, he now realized, not just a hobby but a release, a treatment for loneliness and probably his heart problem. But he had no materials and Tom, Jan and Jonathan were all out there busily dealing with the matter that was his responsibility. In a way he was beginning to feel superfluous.
The night before, he had spoken to Hugh McAlister about the exhibition. The venue, a hotel in the West End had been booked and Hugh and Melissa were busy framing selected pictures to show. Hugh still needed to know about the promotional side—who to invite et cetera—the exhibition was, after all, for only one single day, but Jim was still very uncertain about what to do.
He opened his eyes, realized where he was, heard the phone ringing and leaned over to grab it.
"Jim. Scott wants to meet again—urgently. There's some movement. The UK Government—the Home Office especially—are sitting up. Nothing's been said publicly but European and other police forces have been briefed about possible joint action if enough evidence can be provided. The pressure's mounting, Jim. Senator Stafford has also been busy. He's in Brussels this morning. And they've arrested Silvester Mendes in New York initially on charges of money laundering."
Jonathan paused, waiting. "Jim? Are you there?"
"Yes," said Jim. "Sorry. I was miles away when you phoned. Good news. When does he want to meet?"
"This afternoon. The three of us. Alfredo's."
"OK," said Jim. "Anything from Tom or Jan?"
"They'd phone you first, Jim, not me. Where are they now?"
"They should be arriving in Milan soon." Jim paused. "I've been thinking, Jonathan. I think it's time to come clean with Scott about Jan and Tom. They now need us as much as we need them. We could certainly use their Legal Attache offices and if we are to get Interpol involved then the FBI will be crucial.