by Tomas Black
“Surprise!”
She bent down and kissed him on the cheek, a familiarity he wasn’t expecting. She smelt of citrus and honeysuckle.
“You look amazing,” said Drum.
She beamed at him. “Yeah, well – a girl has got to make an effort once in a while. And it’s not every day I’m in New York.”
They both took a stool at the bar, away from the crowd. The waitress returned with Drum's drink in a tall glass, complete with a slice of cucumber. Perfect.
“What are you drinking?” Fern asked him.
“Gin and tonic.”
“Great! I’ll have the same.” The waitress nodded and disappeared.
“Of all the whisky Bars in New York …” he parodied.
She laughed. “I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Let me guess. Phyllis Delaney.”
“That woman has some serious influence. Next thing I know, I’m transferred over to this DOJ task force. Rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way in London, I can tell you.”
The waitress returned with Fern’s drink. Drum tipped her a few dollars.
“At least that’s one thing Delaney has got right.” He picked up his glass. “Cheers.”
They clinked glasses, and he watched as she sipped her drink, her eyes lifting to meet his over the rim of her glass.
An impish smile spread across her face. “What?”
He returned her smile. He just wanted to sit there and breathe her in and pretend they had nothing better to do. He was content just to let the world roll by and let the alcohol smooth away the tension he had been feeling since leaving the airport.
“I’m sorry about Sunday,” she said. “I was pissed about the case. I felt I’d let you down.”
He shrugged. He didn’t want to get into it right now. The Delaney hatchet would be heading his way soon enough.
“Not your fault.” He gazed into her eyes. “You know, you look seriously hot without your tactical gear.”
She laughed. “This is not the first time you’ve seen me out of uniform.”
He shrugged. Puzzled.
“I saw you ogling me in the van.”
He laughed. “Oh, yes. Guilty as charged.”
She suddenly looked serious. “I’m a little worried about Raj and Alice. Abramov probably knows by now you have the laptops. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to take them. I should have taken back the evidence. At least then you’d be in the clear.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Alice. She now has a Sig Sauer with a full clip and knows how to use it.”
They both burst out laughing.
The mention of the laptops reminded him of McKay. He stared down into his glass, trying not to get angry.
“What’s the matter,” she asked.
He must have a terrible poker face. “I think we may have a bigger problem.”
He recounted McKay’s visit, leaving out his name and rank. The less Fern knew, the better.
“Why would the security services want you off the case?” she asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
He finished off his drink and caught the barman’s eye: same again. “It gets better. They red-flagged me at the airport.”
“What! How did you get in?”
“Delaney pulled some strings.” Drum didn’t mention his association with the M.O.D.
“What does it all mean?”
“I have a theory – but I’m guessing at this stage.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Two more gin and tonics appeared on the bar. He could feel the jet lag kicking in.
“Someone is running some serious interference to stop the investigation – at least the London operation. Your case was closed down, and the security services are threatening to close me down. That can only mean one thing: someone in government or with government contacts is working against us. The answer lies inside the vault of RBI.”
“So what you’re telling me is we’re likely to pick up some serious heat down the road.”
He nodded.
“Oh, well. And here’s me thinking all I had to worry about was the Russian Mafia. Cheers.”
They clinked glasses. Drum could tell she was beginning to flag.
She noticed him staring and smiled. She reached out and placed a hand at the back of his head. Her fingers moved through his hair, caressing the nape of his neck. She drew him in, her eyes half closing. They kissed, her lips were full and sensuous.
“I have a suite,” she whispered.
“Your suite it is.”
She froze, her hand clenching the back of his hair. “Oh, fuck!”
He pulled back, surprised. “What is it?”
“I don’t believe it. Molotok!”
~~~
It took a while for Drum’s brain to register the name. He turned towards the stairs. Misha spotted him and nodded in recognition. He was smartly dressed in dark-grey suit, white shirt and tie. His thick blond hair, trimmed and neat.
“I don’t suppose you have a gun secreted in that dress?” said Drum with a sigh.
“If we had left a few minutes earlier, you’d have found out,” said Fern.
Misha strode up as if meeting old friends. “Good evening, Benjamin.”
“Misha.”
“Alex, you look …” He struggled for the English word.
“Ravishing, is the word you’re looking for,” replied Drum, with a hint of irritation in his voice.
“Yes, very beautiful.” He bent down, took her hand and drew it towards his lips. “Ravishing.”
Drum rolled his eyes. If anyone other than the Russian had just kissed a woman’s hand, he would have said it was corny, but Misha did it so gracefully that he could tell that even Fern was impressed.
The bastard.
“What are you drinking?” inquired Misha.
“Gin and tonics,” replied Fern.
Misha caught the bartender’s eye and indicated a new round of drinks.
Drum turned to Misha. “Can I make a suggestion?” He gestured to the bartender and lent over and whispered in his ear. The bartender nodded and went to complete the order. Misha looked at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”
Fern turned so her back was to the bar, facing both men. “Why are you here, Misha, if that’s your name.”
The Russian lent against the bar so he was face to face with Fern. He looked as if he was going to eat her. “Vlad sent me. He is very unhappy you left London, Benjamin.”
Drum stood up. “Tell Vlad –” Fern placed a restraining hand on Drum’s shoulder.
“Why is Vlad unhappy?” asked Fern. “Drum – Benjamin told him no.”
Misha stood up. “He knows you have Pinkman’s laptop. He thinks you and Victor are working together. He wanted me to have – words with you, Benjamin.”
“And what do you think,” asked Fern.
The Russian turned to face her. “I think Vlad is a fool.”
The barman returned with their drinks. Two gin and tonics, and what looked like a highball glass of orange juice.
The Russian picked up his glass and looked at it. “What is this?”
Drum smiled. “Orange juice and vodka over ice.”
The Russian sipped his drink. “It is good. What do they call it.”
Drum’s face broke into a broad grin. “A Screwdriver.”
Fern started to giggle uncontrollably. “I’m sorry …”
The Russian looked puzzled at first, then understanding spread across his face. “I think you are a smart ass, Benjamin.”
“Ok, that was below the belt.”
Fern took a tissue from her purse and wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes. “Ok, sorry - no really. I’m better now. I think I’m pissed …”
The Russian grinned and took a slug of his drink. “These are not the words I was supposed to have with you, Benjamin.”
Drum said, “Listen, Misha. I don’t know what Abramov is thinking or why you’re here, but it’s likely you’re was
ting your time.”
“How so?”
“The investigation,” said Fern, now a little calmer, “it’s closed.”
Misha paused and drained the rest of his drink. He raised his glass to the barman. “So, what about Pinkman’s laptop? You still have it, yes?”
Drum downed his drink. He was dead beat. He tried to think clearly. “Yes – and no.”
Misha sighed. “Don’t be smart ass.”
“It’s encrypted. We can’t break it – at least not before the authorities confiscate it.” Drum neglected to tell him that MI5 may well have their hands on Pinkman’s laptop by now and that GCHQ would eventually break it.
Misha ran his hand through his hair. “Vlad will not be happy.”
“Oh, fuck Vlad,” said Fern, her face screwing up into a comical sneer.
“Tell me, Misha. Were those your guys following me from the airport tonight?”
Fern looked at him and frowned. “What guys?”
“Yes. Complete amateurs. They tell me they lost you. I tell them, don’t be stupid. He’ll be staying at the Carlton. I bribe the doorman. He tell me where you go. No big deal. They want to send two others with me. I laugh …”
Fern looked at Misha with a serious look on her face. “But I may be armed.”
The Russian looked at her, his gaze raking the full length of her body as she slouched against the bar. “I don’t think so – not in that dress.”
It was Drum’s turn to laugh, but he quickly stopped when he saw the scowl on Fern’s face. Misha was smiling.
Drum saw them first. Solomon was standing by the stairs with two suits. They didn’t look as if they’d come for drinks.
“Misha, are you carrying?”
“Of course. Why?”
Fern looked at him, her eyes half closed. “What’s up?”
“Just keep your hands on the bar where they can be seen.”
Misha turned towards the stairs and saw the three agents. He picked up his drink and placed his free hand on the bar.
Solomon strode over. The other two agents kept back, their hands resting on their guns.
“Drummond. Making friends, man?”
“Solomon.”
Misha drained his drink and slammed the empty glass down. He then placed both hands back on the bar and bowed his head.
Solomon frisked him and retrieved a heavy looking handgun. He handed the gun to one of the agents then pulled the Russian’s hands behind his back and cuffed him. Misha glanced back one last time before he was led down the stairs.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Roderick Olivier and Delaney
Drum woke early and alone. Misha’s arrest the previous evening had killed the moment between him and Fern. It was probably for the best. They had to work together.
He still didn’t know why Misha was here. He seemed very relaxed for an enforcer. He sensed the big Russian had another agenda but he didn’t know what. Vlad is a fool.
He dragged himself to the shower and let the hot water pound his body. He closed his eyes and waited for the fog of alcohol and bad dreams to fade. The meeting wasn’t until 9:00 am, but he needed time alone with Phyllis to mend some of the bridges he had burned the last time he was here.
He put on a clean white shirt and his best charcoal-grey suit; he polished his oxford brogues to a shine that his Sergeant Major would have been proud of, and left for the office across from the hotel by 8:00 am. Phyllis was always at her desk by 7:00 am, but he didn’t want to face her until she’d had at least two cups of coffee. It was always hard getting to see Phyllis and he might just end up kicking his heels until the start of the scheduled meeting.
He entered the marble lobby of the black monolith on 46th Street and made his way over to reception. A familiar face was manning the desk.
“Maurice, how are you doing?”
Maurice - which is what everyone called him, but which Drum guessed wasn’t his real name - had been with the company from the very start. He was built like a tank and looked formidable in his black suit, crisply starched white shirt and small black tie. He was responsible for ROD internal security and took responsibility for driving Delaney, acting as her personal bodyguard. He was a man of few words.
“Fine, Benjamin. She’s expecting you.”
“I’m a little early.”
“Yes, she said you would be. Floor forty-four. You know the way.” Maurice handed Drum a security pass.
He made his way over to an area marked private and entered an elevator designated for ROD employees. He held his pass over the security panel and hit the button. The elevator accelerated upwards only stopping at his floor. Penny Martin, Delaney’s PA, was waiting for him.
“Ben! It’s good to see you again.” She stood on tip-toe and kissed him on both cheeks. Penny liked to watch European films, but it was nice to be greeted so warmly.
“Hi, Penny. I’m a little early. I thought I might grab some time with Phyllis before the meeting.”
Penny looked at him in mock seriousness. “She told me to bring you straight in as soon as you arrived. I hope you haven’t been a bad boy?”
Let’s see. Since arriving at JFK, he’d been red-flagged by his own security service, warned to stay out of trouble by the head of the DOJ task force and caught by the FBI drinking with a known member of the Russian Mafia.
“Oh, you know. Quiet night.”
She raised an eyebrow and smiled. She led Drum through the reception area and into the main office space. Several ROD investigators were already at their desks, hard at work on their various assignments. A few hands went up in recognition of his arrival; he waved back. They passed Harriet Seymour-Jones’ empty desk before arriving at Phyllis Delaney’s corner office.
Penny stopped at the door.
“She’s with Sir Henry Minton, the RBI chairman. She wanted you to meet him.”
Drum couldn’t think of a reason not too and shrugged. Penny knocked lightly on the door before striding in.
Phyllis Delaney, the managing partner of Roderick, Olivier and Delaney, had chosen her place of power well. Her office was in a spacious corner of the building with views of the Chrysler Building to the West and the Empire State Building to the North; an expensive Persian carpet covered the floor in front of her large desk, and two black couches lined the walls on either side of the door.
“Ah, Benjamin,” said Phyllis Delaney, rising from behind her desk. “Come in. I’d like you to meet Sir Henry Minton. Sir Henry, this is Benjamin Drummond, our lead investigator.”
For someone with so much power and influence, Phyllis Delaney cut a diminutive figure. Drum always thought of her as being in her early sixties, but it was difficult to tell. She had a youthful, animated face. Her platinum blond hair was cut stylishly short. She was dressed for the New York weather with a cream cashmere sweater and a mid-length, grey wool skirt.
Sir Henry Minton rose from the couch and shook his hand.
“Glad to meet you, Drummond. I’ve heard lots about you.”
“Take a seat,” said Phyllis, indicating the other couch.
Drum sank down and thought he might never get up. He wondered what Phyllis had been saying about him. He really wasn’t up to speed on the investigation and thought the less he said, the better.
“Ms Delaney tells me you’re based in London,” said Sir Henry, all smiles. “Glad to have a local man on the job.”
Phyllis turned to Drum, “Sir Henry has been meeting with the DOJ, and he knows they have certain questions that need answering.”
“Quite right,” nodded Sir Henry, emphatically. “The board and I will give you our utmost co-operation.”
Drum had met a dozen Sir Henry’s in his corporate career. They were well-meaning but generally clueless on the day-to-day operation of the business. He knew that Sir Henry would be no help once he confronted the real power brokers and gatekeepers back in London.
“Thank you, Sir Henry,” said Drum. “That’s a great help. I’d just like to reiterate what
you’ve probably been told: that this is an investigation and I’ll expect full access to material back in London. That’s full access.”
Sir Henry looked a little shocked by Drum’s direct approach. He looked at Phyllis who smiled.
“Why yes … yes, of course. I’ll make sure all senior managers are made aware.” He paused and looked pained at having to mention the next topic. “And of course, there’s the question of the vault.”
Drum looked at Phyllis. “The vault?” He was intrigued and a little surprised that Sir Henry had brought it up.
“Apparently,” said Phyllis, leaning back in her chair, “there is an issue with the bullion inventory.”
“You mean gold from the vault has gone missing?” said Drum, thinking of his Russian problem.
“Good Lord, no. Nothing like that,” retorted Sir Henry, sitting forward on the couch. He looked like he was about to bolt out of the starting gate. “Simply a discrepancy with our inventory system not being updated – at least that is what our MD assures me.”
“That would be Damian Rhodes,” added Phyllis. “He runs the Precious Metals division of the bank.”
“Quite so, excellent chap. Full confidence in him.”
“But you would like us to perform an audit of the physical inventory.”
“Bang on”, replied Sir Henry, looking Drum straight in the eye. “Every bar - every ounce.” He gave Drum a conspiratorial smile.
Drum reappraised his opinion of Sir Henry. Not as clueless as he makes out to be.
“Rest assured, Sir Henry. Benjamin will leave no stone unturned,” said Phyllis standing.
Both Drum and Sir Henry rose from their respective couches. Phyllis had decided the meeting was over.
“Well, I think that’s everything,” said Sir Henry, buttoning his jacket. He walked over to Drum and held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Drummond.” He shook Drum’s hand with some enthusiasm. “Just one last thing.”
Drum hesitated. “What would that be.”
“Do you have any experience of gold bullion?”
Drum looked at Phyllis. She offered no clue to what Sir Henry might be getting at.
“I’m familiar with aspects of its security. Bank vaults – that sort of thing. Why do you ask?”