“Do you want me to stay and help?” asked Johnson. “I’d be happy to.”
“No thanks, Adrian. I’m happy doing this alone. I’d prefer you to concentrate on helping the other partners finish reviewing their own deal files. We can’t afford not to be ready on all fronts once the FSA team arrives. We don’t know where they’ll choose to start their work.”
“Okay. That sounds sensible to me.”
Kent spent the remainder of the day leafing through the files. He knew exactly what to look for: any direct evidence linking the investments made by CBC back to Tritona via the multitude of SPVs arranged by Oakham Fiduciary Services. By six that evening, his briefcase was as full as it could be without drawing attention, crammed with original signed documents.
He sent a special text message to the agreed number and then locked his office door, left the building and jumped into the BMW. Thirty minutes later, he pulled into a large service station on the dual carriageway about a mile from the exit for USAF Alconbury. He filled his car up and took his briefcase with him to the cashier’s desk to pay for the fuel. There were a couple of people in the line in front of him. Everyone looked suspicious to him. He looked around the forecourt shop. CCTV cameras were positioned in every corner of the room. The sign for the toilets pointed to the back of the building, away from the fuel pumps.
He paid for his fuel and walked into the toilet block. He went to the end one of six cubicles and closed the door behind him. The place smelled badly. He didn’t want to touch anything; it was filthy. He listened for movement and occasionally glanced at his watch. Come on.
There was a tap on the small outside window. He slid it open, and Special Agent Whitlock appeared at the opening. He was hidden from the forecourt and the main road by a thick bank of bushes and trees.
As Kent opened his briefcase, he heard someone else walking into the toilets. The footsteps grew louder. Whoever it was chose the cubicle next to Kent’s and closed the door. Kent’s heart was pounding in his chest. He froze. Why has he chosen that cubicle when all of the others are empty? Have I been followed? Am I about to be discovered red-handed passing over evidence?
Kent kept absolutely still while Whitlock tapped his watch furiously. Wait a minute, will you? The person in the adjacent cubicle made no noise. What’s going on? Kent waited a few seconds before carefully removing the documents from his briefcase and handing them to Whitlock. As he did so, Kent dropped a handful of papers onto the wet floor. He bent down to pick them up. It turned his stomach to think of what was now soaking into the papers. Whitlock looked furious as he grabbed the wet documents, shaking his head and pursing his lips.
By the time Kent had closed his briefcase, Whitlock was gone. Kent slid open the door bolt, left his cubicle, and ran past the one still occupied. He was about ten feet from the exit, when someone shouted, “John.” He gripped the briefcase hard, lowered his head in a charging motion, and raced for the door handle. Someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. Kent braced himself for an attack, swinging the briefcase round as a weapon.
“John. It’s me, Michael.” The man held his hands up to protect his head from being struck by the briefcase.
Immediately, Kent recognized one of his neighbors from their village in Rutland. “Michael, I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice when you called out.”
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Yes, I’m fine. I was just surprised to hear my name called out in here. That’s all.”
“You don’t look okay. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Kent turned. “Great to see you, Michael. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I’m already late for an appointment.” He walked quickly to his car and sped out of the forecourt.
He looked at his watch as he drove away. The whole thing had taken less than ten minutes, but it had felt like an hour. His heart was still racing, and sweat was running down his face, as he checked his rearview mirror again. While it had been a terrifying experience, some part of him felt a sense of exhilaration and excitement, which he found difficult to rationalize.
Two days later, Kent made the same stop on the way home. This time, as well as handing over a thick bunch of new papers to Whitlock, he collected the fake substitute documents. The forgeries would be placed onto the original files the next morning. They were good-quality copies, and Kent found it difficult to tell them apart from the originals.
It took him a week and a half to complete the extraction and substitution of the key CBC documents. The process was completed without a hitch, and Kent’s confidence was slowly increasing. The plan was working. The hardest steps had been taken. He was on the way to getting his life back.
Chapter Forty-Three
One week before the scheduled start of the CBC investigation, Doug Wright arrived for work at the FSA’s Canary Wharf offices. He walked past the front desk and momentarily flashed his ID to the security guard, without stopping. He didn’t acknowledge any of the staff as he made his way to the fast elevator for the executive suite. Wright had no time for the little people. He was not paid to be liked; he had an important job to do.
In the short time since joining the FSA as head of the high-profile investigations unit, Wright had rapidly become the public face of the new proactive FSA. He’d been on the BBC and several cable channels and had appeared in many of the newspapers, setting out how he was going to be using his position to keep the financial services sector in check. He’d make sure they didn’t break the rules.
He walked by the lines of employees waiting for the staff elevators, an arrogant smirk across his face. Their elevators stopped at every floor, but the executive one was much faster. It served only the executive suite so there was no line. He pressed the call button, and the doors opened immediately. He walked in and hit the only button: twenty-second floor. Nothing happened. He punched the button several times, but still there was no response. Shaking his head and cursing, he walked over to join the lines for the other elevators. No one let him jump the line; he could wait his turn like everyone else. Everyone was looking at him. Heads will roll for this.
He had to suffer the indignity of stopping on every floor. As he was travelling to the top of the building, he was last one to leave. He barked an order at his PA to “get someone to fix that bloody elevator and fast” as he walked into his corner office, slamming the door behind him.
At ten o’clock, Wright welcomed a journalist from the Sunday Post into his office. In previous interviews, he’d set out what his priorities were going to be and what style he would adopt in carrying out the new investigations. Today’s interview was an in-depth session to get to know the man who was Doug Wright. The article allowed him to remind the world how he’d built one of the world’s powerhouse accounting firms almost single-handedly. Of course, he chose not to dwell on the fact that Henderson Wright was almost brought to its knees by his aggressive deal-making, or the fact that he was fired as a condition of the rescue financing deal. According to Wright he had finished what he set out to achieve at Henderson Wright and was looking for his next challenge. He’d received many offers, but had only accepted the FSA executive position so far.
The journalist asked what appealed about the new role at the FSA.
Wright thought carefully. “When you’ve reached the top, it can be hard to find another challenge commensurate with one’s skills. The FSA role offered me the opportunity to give something back to the financial services market. After all, the market has been good to me,” he said in his most patronizing manner. He spoke slowly so the journalist could capture every pearl of wisdom in his stock answer.
The journalist didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she made a few scribbles on her pad. He waited until he judged she’d captured his all sage pronouncements before he continued.
“Too many financial services firms made a killing in the boom markets without properly recognizing the risks they were building up. My role will be to
use my considerable experience and skills to investigate firms before they run into trouble, before it’s too late. My aim will be to ensure financial services firms properly recognize and address risk. This will be achieved through a series of proactive and intense investigations before things go wrong,” he said.
During the rest of the interview, he didn’t once mention his team of fifty staff. He acted like this was a one-man investigations department. A modern day Eliot Ness.
He power-posed for a couple of photos before escorting the journalist to the elevator lobby. Ordinarily, his visitors would be left to find their own way out, but Wright always found time for journalists. They were useful to him. They helped maintain his high profile and so had something he wanted. As they approached, a sign in front of the executive elevator doors read: Out of Order. He apologized and called one of the others. He didn’t wait for it to arrive; he was too important to waste valuable time standing in the corridor.
When he returned to his office, he instructed his PA to call the offices of CBC and put Mr. Kent on to him.
“John Kent speaking.”
“This is Doug Wright.” Wright left an awkward pause. He’d once been on the other end of Kent’s silent pauses. It felt good to be giving some back.
Kent wasn’t going to play the game and quickly filled the silence. “How can I help you, Mr. Wright?”
“I wanted to make sure you’re going to be ready for our visit next week.”
“Yes. We’ll be ready. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing for the moment, but you ought to allow plenty of time for our investigation. It will be thorough and unrelenting.” A self-satisfied grin spread across Wright’s face.
“We’re always happy to make time for visits from the regulator, Mr. Wright. We’ve nothing to fear from administrators and bureaucrats. Cheerio.” Kent terminated the call.
Wright stared at the handset then slammed down the phone. He’d just been getting started, but it would look weak to call back, as much as he wanted to. He’d extract his pound of flesh the following week. He’d make sure Kent would forever regret removing him from Henderson Wright. He’d not be satisfied until he had ruined CBC one way or another.
By twelve thirty Wright wanted some fresh air. He’d got into a habit of taking a short walk at lunchtime before having a lavish, full-service meal in the executive dining room. He walked toward the executive elevator. An engineer in blue overalls was just removing the Out of Order sign as he approached.
“I assume that bloody thing’s fixed?” he barked at the engineer. “I can’t believe it has taken you so long.”
“Yes, sir. It’s now working perfectly. Sorry for the inconvenience. Let me call it for you.” The engineer punched the switch.
Wright didn’t bother to acknowledge him. He stepped forward when the bell rang to indicate the arrival of the elevator. The doors opened, and before he realized the elevator was not there, it was too late. He felt a lunge in his back as the engineer thrust him forward and he fell twenty-two floors down the shaft.
The engineer closed the doors and positioned the Out of Order sign back in place. By the time Wright’s dead body was discovered, the engineer was long gone.
Chapter Forty-Four
Kent caught the seven thirty train to London. The extraction of key documents from CBC’s deal and compliance files had gone better than he could have hoped; there’d been no awkward questions and the fake substitute documents looked convincing. But he was less confident about the plan working as well at Oakham Fiduciary Services. He’d hardly spent more than an hour at their offices during his previous visits. They were bound to be curious about his inquiries. He’d used the same cover story — he needed to ensure the files were in good shape ahead of the FSA’s visit the following week. Jonathan Gateley, Oakham’s CEO, hadn’t questioned the arrangements when Kent called him to set up his visit. He accepted the reason Kent gave him and appeared to understand the rationale behind it. Kent had emphasized that he was subjecting his own firm’s files to the same high-level review, which seemed to go down well. But the fact that Kent was not going to be working in his own office environment made him nervous. Something could easily go wrong.
Twenty minutes into the train journey, the steward came along the first class carriage pouring out hot drinks and handing out complimentary newspapers. Kent ordered a coffee and took the Financial Daily. He’d just settled back into his seat to read the paper when his mobile phone rang.
“John. It’s Joanna.”
“Hi, Joanna. I can’t talk much as I’m on a train, and the mobile reception isn’t great.”
“Okay. I’ll keep it brief,” said Kirkland. “We’ve just completed the HS1 rail deal. Tritona’s winning bid was seventy-six billion pounds. Can you believe that?”
“Well done. Geneva will be pleased. That’s a hell of a price. I’m just glad it’s not in our fund.”
“It’s a wacky price, but it’s not my money. I did tell you it would take a very high bid to win the auction. There was a lot of interest in it.”
“So it seems. If they intend to keep the asset for the very long term and just collect the yield, then the price is more credible. That’s what they say they’ll do. It certainly won’t sell on at a profit after our usual five-year holding period, that’s for sure.”
“By the way, I’ve put you and me down as CBC’s directors on the board of the SPV that was used for the acquisition. I hope that’s okay?”
“No problem. Thanks, for letting me know about the deal. See you back at the office in a few days.” Kent finished the call. He could only fake his excitement for so long. The High Speed 1 deal was another potential nail in his coffin if his and Merriman’s plans went horribly wrong. He’d just knowingly assisted a criminal organization launder seventy-six billion pounds. The UK authorities would throw the book at him if they ever found out. He’d never be able to explain it away.
He picked up his hot coffee with one hand and the newspaper with the other and scanned the front page.
“Christ!” he shouted, spilling coffee down the front of his shirt and tie. The hot liquid burned his skin. One of the train stewards rushed over to help him mop up the mess.
“It’s okay, I’ll do it,” said Kent. The steward continued to wipe up the coffee. “Really, I’m okay. I’ll take care of it.”
Kent ignored the onlookers and picked up his paper. A photograph of Doug Wright was in the middle of the front page. The headline read: “FSA Investigations Head Dies in Freak Accident.” The article started by describing the circumstances of Wright’s death. Apparently, he’d stepped into the elevator on the twenty-second floor of the FSA’s building only to find that the elevator was not there. His badly mangled body had fallen the full height of the tower. He wasn’t discovered for two hours as he’d gone missing over lunchtime. Expert commentators were quoted, postulating that Mr. Wright would have died instantly. No doubt about it. The article went on to describe how the police were treating the circumstances of his death as highly suspicious; there was early evidence to suggest the elevator control unit had been tampered with. The remainder of the piece gave a summary of Wright’s recent appointment as the head of the FSA’s new investigations team following a successful career building up Henderson Wright as a major global firm of accountants.
Evidence of tampering. Suspicious death. The chilling thought hit him like a punch to the head. Had the CBC partners’ meeting led to Wright’s death? At that meeting, the partners had discussed Wright’s imminent visit. If, as he suspected, CBC’s offices were being bugged, then Tritona and/or the cartel would know Wright was a threat to them. His death was not an accident at all.
The more Kent thought about the circumstances of Wright’s death, the more he was certain he’d been murdered. The cartel wouldn’t hesitate to wipe out any perceived threat. Anton was murdered on his way to work and now Wright. I’m lucky to be alive. If they find out about Merriman, the slightest hint, then I’m a dead man.
Kent was still in a world of his own when the train arrived at King’s Cross station. He remained in his seat as the other passengers left the train. Can I really go on with this?
He needed space and time to think this through. He rang Gateley to say his train had been delayed by a power failure on the electric rail line, and he was still stuck on it. He’d be there as soon as he could, but it might be some time.
He collected his things off the table in front of him and folded the newspaper under his arm. He walked out of the front entrance of the station and turned right along Euston road. Where could he find a quiet space to sit and think? As he headed west along Euston Road, he kept looking around to see if anyone was following him. A few minutes later, he reached the British Library. There must be somewhere in there I can sit.
He found a quiet reading area on the second floor, where he read the Financial Daily article again and again. His hands were shaking and he felt cold. The risk of continuing with Merriman’s plan is too high. I can’t do it. Need to find a toilet and quick.
On the ground floor, at the rear of the building, was a row of payphones. Kent retrieved Merriman’s card from his wallet and punched in the number.
A very drowsy Merriman answered the call. “This had better be good,” he growled.
“It’s Kent. We need to talk.”
“Do you know what time it is over here? Can’t it wait?”
Kent was risking his life, and the man he was risking it for couldn’t be bothered to speak to him because it was in the middle of the night. “Fuck you. I’m not going through with the plan.” Someone stood at another phone gave Kent a look as if to say: don’t you know this is a library? Kent no longer cared. “You can find some other idiot to help you. I’ve had enough of all this. I’m out.”
“I’m sorry. Relax, okay? I was woken up by your call,” said Merriman.
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