by Tomas Black
“Er, George. Just started. Hang on …” he fumbled for the visitor’s book and started to flip the pages.
“Where’s Giles?” demanded Rhodes, put out that he had been denied the courtesy usually afforded him by the old man.
“Don’t really know. Just started, like I said … Ah yes, here you are. Go straight through.”
Rhodes stomped off towards the dining room. A group of cleaners were furiously scrubbing at the marble flooring as he passed the patio doors that led to the garden. He found Sir Rupert sitting alone, the dining room deserted.
“Sir Rupert? Damian Rhodes.”
Sir Rupert Mayhew didn’t rise, simply indicated to Rhodes to be seated. “Drink, Rhodes?” he waved over a waiter.
“Thank you. whisky Soda.” The waiter hurried off.
Rhodes waited as his host studied the menu. He looked around and wondered why the dining room was empty. It was one o’clock and by the now the place was usually buzzing.
“Where is everyone?”
Sir Rupert looked up. “Some trouble at the club last night. Too much free champagne – things got a little out of hand …”
“Right,” said Rhodes. He picked up the menu and browsed the mains. It hadn’t changed since the last time he was here.
“I can recommend the turbot,” said Sir Rupert.
“I see, yes. Good idea. The turbot then.”
The waiter returned with his drink and waited to take their lunch order. Rhodes took a good swig. Sir Rupert was making him nervous. The man had the power to make or break a bank, and the fact that he wanted to see him wasn’t a good omen.
Sir Rupert snapped his menu shut. “Two turbot.” He dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand. He removed his glasses and placed them on the table. “You have a problem at the vault, I hear.”
Rhodes wondered how Sir Rupert had come by that information. Then he remembered that Victor Renkov had mentioned that Sir Henry Minton was also a club member.
“I can assure you, Sir Rupert, that things are tidy our end …”
“Complete bollocks and you know it. You’re missing a Vault Manager – this Pinkman – and one of your key traders turns up dead. And to top it all, you now have two ROD agents sifting through your underwear.”
“Well, we do have a regulatory audit in progress, but it’s routine and I’ve taken steps –”
“What do you take me for? You have two ROD agents investigating your operation, for Christ’s sake. Have you any idea what that means?”
Rhodes shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well …”
“No, you bloody well don’t, that’s for sure. You don’t think the FCA called in ROD, do you?”
“Well, I assumed it was another regulatory audit. We have so many. And anyway, I can assure you I’ve tidied up the loose ends.”
Sir Rupert laughed. “Another regulatory audit. Dear God, man. When the shit hits the fan, they call in Roderick Olivier and Delaney. And when I say ‘they’, it usually means the Fed.”
“Why is the Fed interested in our operation?” asked Rhodes.
Sir Rupert raised his empty glass and beckoned over a nearby waiter. He waved his hand around the table. Same again.
“RBI - their money laundering controls haven’t been as effective as they could have been – especially when comes to our Russian friends,” said Sir Rupert. “Then, of course, there’s the whistle blower …”
Rhodes thought of Fabio DeLuca, his body found floating face down in the Thames. “But DeLuca –”
“I’m talking about the Auditor, Rhodes. The one present when the vault was opened. It’s likely she was also a ROD investigator, working undercover.”
“Harriet Seymour-Jones,” confirmed Rhodes.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Rhodes smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Let’s just say I have that under control,” replied Rhodes.
“Really!”
“She’s my insurance. A hedge, if you like.”
“A hedge against what?” inquired Sir Rupert.
“When you, Sir Henry or whoever decide I’m no longer of any use,” replied Rhodes.
Sir Rupert smiled grimly. “I see …” He paused as their drinks arrived. He picked up his heavy, crystal tumbler and swirled the clinking ice around. “There are people looking for her – Ben Drummond for one.”
Rhodes frowned. “The ROD auditor?”
Sir Rupert shook his head in dismay. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Rhodes, getting irritated.
“Captain Benjamin Drummond is a highly decorated officer. Fought in two wars and served with some of this country’s most effective killers. He was part of a unit so classified that his file is sealed, even to me.”
“So what’s his connection to Jones?”
“Not much of a team player, are you, Rhodes?”
Rhodes shrugged.
“She’s a fellow ROD investigator. Someone like Drummond is not in the habit of leaving his people in the shit.”
Waiters appeared with plates of food which they served to each man.
“Ah, lunch,” said Sir Rupert. “I’m starving.”
Rhodes looked down at the steaming pile of white fish. He suddenly wasn’t hungry. He sat back and studied the Mandarin. “So what’s the worst that could happen? He writes me up in his audit report.”
Sir Rupert paused, his fork midway to his mouth. “Good Lord, no,” replied Sir Rupert. “He’s going to kill you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Under the Vault
Harry was cold and tired. She sat atop an old packing crate in the gloom and shivered. A single wall lamp cast a pitiful orange light over the crumbling Victorian brickwork of the damp cellar. The River Thames was rising, bringing dirty water trickling down the old brick tunnels that led to her make-shift prison beneath the main floor of the vault.
And with the rising of the river came the rats. They scurried past the rusty iron bars that enclosed the alcove where she sat, stopping, sniffing and staring at her presence in their domain.
An old porcelain toilet sat in one corner, thick with grime. It was now beginning to smell. She had been using it on and off for a few days now, but with every rising tide, water gurgled up and spilt over the bowl followed silently by the rats.
Her once pristine white blouse was covered in grime and her pencil skirt was torn and tattered. She longed for a wash and something to eat. Her stomach growled. Those bastards hadn’t fed her in over twenty-four hours.
She wanted to pee. Harry cautiously peered into the toilet bowl. There was a splash and a large, grey rat raised its whiskered snout and then swam back down the u-bend. She would hold on just a little longer.
She left the sanctuary of the packing case and splashed through the cold, black water to the iron gate of her prison. She’d lost her shoes in the struggle when they took her. That was four days ago. One shoe was lost between the legs of the Russian who tried to grab her by her hair. He’d returned the favour by smacking her across the face and busting her lip. She’d lost the other when they dragged her down here.
Her mistake had been returning to the apartment. They were waiting for her. After the fiasco of the empty vault, the trail of smuggled gold that led to London had gone cold. She’d quit and left for Zurich. She needed to speak to Mueller who was still working on hacking Hoschstrasser & Bührer. She needed another lead. But Mueller was dead. She still had the original cache of documents from the first hack. There might be something in there that she had missed. She reasoned they hadn’t found it. It was the reason she was still alive.
She gripped the rusty bars and rattled the locked gate. “Hey, I’m hungry you bastards.”
She pressed the side of her head against the bars and peered to her left. A wide brick tunnel disappeared into the blackness. She knew that way led to the river. Days earlier, the tunnel had been brightly lit and busy with men pulling small carts loa
ded with gold bricks. They were returning gold to the vault. Why? She had no idea. They had ignored her shouts and curses.
She heard the splash of water, and a guard appeared down the tunnel off to her right. He was one of the Russians that had dragged her down here. He was a large man, unshaven and in the grey of the bank’s security personnel. One of Victor’s men. He put his finger to his lips. Quiet.
“I’m hungry you bastard. Get me some food.” She rattled the gate in her frustration.
The guard simply laughed. He looked down and noticed the water flowing into the tunnel. It was getting deeper. He looked up and mimed the water rising above his head.
“Go fuck yourself. Bloody idiot.”
“Now, now Ms Jones.” There was more splashing and Rhodes appeared, dapper in a navy suit and expensive shoes that were at risk of filling with water. “Oh, dear. I see what you mean.”
“Get me out of here, Rhodes,” demanded Harry.
“Patience. Not long now.”
“How long are you going to keep me here?”
“Just one more transaction for our Russian friends then … well, they appear keen to meet you. Apparently, you have something they want – badly.”
“You realise they’re going to kill you after their last shipment of gold is sold,” said Harry.
“That’s why you’re still here,” he replied. “You’re my insurance policy. They can have you after I’m long gone.”
“ROD will find me. They don’t leave their people in the shit.”
“And yet here you are,” sneered Rhodes, looking around him. “In the shit.”
“They’ll figure it out. ROD always does.”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” said Rhodes. “Pinkman lost his mind and emptied the vault. Renkov had the good sense to return the gold. Abramov and ROD are none the wiser. Everything is as it should be.”
It was her turn to sneer. “Think about it, Rhodes. Why would Victor return the gold? It stinks, like the water I’m standing in.”
He laughed. “That’s as may be. I don’t trust Renkov either. All the bullion has been accounted for – every ounce.” He paused. “In fact, one of your ROD colleagues has been carrying out an audit of the vault above you. He’s found nothing. Benjamin Drummond. You may know him?”
She felt a flutter of hope at the mention of the name. “Ben is here?”
“He’s been counting and weighing bars. He’ll finish his audit and tell us the usual crap: our money laundering controls need improving. Then we’ll wave him goodbye.”
Harry watched Rhodes’ smirk slip from his face. He apparently didn’t believe that either. She wondered what he knew about Ben Drummond. She had touched a nerve. Ben would find her. Then Rhodes would be toast. Her stomach growled.
“You forget the whistle blower,” she said. “He’ll have alerted the FCA. It’s only a matter of time before the Bank of England steps in …”
There was a gurgle of water. “I don’t think so,” said Rhodes, stepping back from the encroaching Thames. “The Bank of England is buying the gold.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A Meeting of Minds
Stevie worked the keyboard of Drum’s computer. She looked up from the screen at her assembled audience, her fingers continuing their staccato dance.
“There,” she said, stabbing one last key in triumph. She turned the computer screen around to face them.
Drum stood brooding by the window, watching the heavy rain falling. The inky, black river raged around the piers of Tower Bridge. There was talk of raising the Thames Barrier to protect against a surging tide.
Alice peered at the screen from the end of the couch. “I must get new glasses,” she confessed. “Can’t see a thing.”
Fern slouched in her corner of the couch. She glanced at the screen, bored. “What are we looking at?”
“Geez,” sighed Stevie, “don’t all rush at once.”
Drum dragged himself into the present and turned to examine the screen of data Stevie had brought up. “You’ve been analysing the data from the vault audit?”
“Yes,” confirmed Stevie. “There isn’t much to go on – just 482 data points, each representing a bar of gold.”
“Six tons of gold,” groaned Fern.
“Right,” said Stevie. “The weights and serial numbers of each bar match exactly those recorded in the RBI computer.”
“So, a complete waste of time,” sighed Fern.
“And you recorded the data,” said Stevie, stating the obvious.
“Right,” said Fern. “I watched them weigh every bar and record the serial numbers. I stood and watched the Custody Officer email Drum the spreadsheet at the end of the session so that nothing could be altered.”
“That’s precisely my point,” said Stevie. “It’s a perfect match with the RBI computer.”
“I see what you’re saying,” said Drum. “It shouldn’t be perfect.”
“I don’t understand,” said Fern. “We weighed every bar very accurately.”
“But there should be some slight variation in the weights,” explained Drum.
“Correct,” replied Stevie, feeling pleased with herself. “They simply uploaded the audit data into the RBI computer.”
Fern looked puzzled. “I still don’t get it.”
“Their original data didn’t match the gold in the vault,” said Drum. “Sure, the gross weight is the same – six tons – but this inventory doesn’t match the original.”
“You're saying they moved six tons of gold into the vault from another location?” said Fern.
“It looks that way,” replied Drum. “Although without the original bar list tied to the delivery notes, we have no way of knowing where this gold came from.”
“You mean we’re back to square one?” asked Alice. She looked mournful.
“There’s something else,” continued Stevie. “I also performed some basic analytics – simple stuff really – just to be sure.” She tapped a few keys and another screen appeared.
Drum examined her report. “There are duplicate serial numbers.”
Fern stood up and moved to the screen. “But they should all be unique – at least that’s what Sir Rupert told us.”
“That’s right,” said Drum. He turned to Stevie. “Have you run a Benford’s Law analysis on the data.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what that is.”
Drum moved the screen back around. He leant close to Stevie and tapped a few keys. “Bedford’s Law tells us that certain digits appear more frequently than others in numeric sets.” He tapped a few more keys. “In simple terms, this analysis will tell us if the serial numbers on the bars are forgeries.” Drum stared at the report on his screen.
“Well?” inquired Alice. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Drum looked up. “There’s a high probability that someone simply made up the serial numbers - at least on many of the bars.”
“What does that mean?” asked Fern.
“It means that these bars couldn’t have come from a certified bullion refiner. Certainly not from Zurich,” said Drum.
“But we checked,” said Fern “The bars were all marked with the Zurich refinery stamp.”
Drum stood and moved back to the window. The wharf outside was awash with water. He was at a loss. If the bars didn’t come from Zurich, where else did they come from?
“Well I have something which might cheer us up,” said Alice, moving over to the computer. “Roll em, Stevie.”
Stevie tapped few keys and brought up video footage from the bank. She swivelled the screen to face the couch and moved from behind the desk with the keyboard.
“What are we looking at?” asked Drum.
“That’s the vault reception area,” said Fern.
“This is one minute past eleven, Monday evening,” said Alice. “Please play it, Stevie.”
The video footage began to roll. Two big men, dressed in the dark-grey of RBI guards could be seen dragging a struggling Harry
. One of the guards stopped, turned and struck Harry hard across the face.
“Bastard,” said Fern.
“I recognise one of the guards,” said Drum, bitterly. “He and his mate were at the vault the night of the audit. They were keeping Baxter company.”
“Stevie has patched together more footage,” continued Alice.
The video feed jumped to inside the elevator. Harry was limp between the large arms of the guards. One them reached forward and punched a button.
“Hold it there,” said Drum. The footage froze. “There – he pressed a red button.”
“There must be a level below the vault,” said Fern.
“Yes,” said Drum. “Baxter told me it was disused.”
The video footage continued, but all they saw was Harry being dragged out of the elevator.
“Well, at least we know she’s alive,” said Alice. “At least she was four days ago.”
“And we know where she is,” said Fern. She stood back up and smoothed down her skirt. “We’ll need a warrant.”
Alice looked at Drum and raised an eyebrow.
Drum returned his gaze to the window. Large, black clouds scudded over the City, turning day into night. There was a rumble of thunder.
“Forget the warrant,” he said. “We’re going to need a boat.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sir Rupert and the Russians
Sir Rupert Mayhew hated coming into the City on a Saturday, but the Russians had insisted on a meeting. After the fiasco at the gala, he thought it wise not to meet at the club. Instead, he chose a private room in the Sky Garden restaurant at the top of Twenty Fenchurch Street. City folk called it the Walkie Talkie building.
Vladimir Abramov arrived punctually with just the one bodyguard, a large man with blonde hair who assumed a stoic position by the door.
“We have a problem,” said Sir Rupert.
Vlad downed his vodka. “No, Sir Rupert, you have problem.”
“However you want to slice it, the bank has two ROD investigators putting Rhodes through the wringer.” Sir Rupert poured himself some wine. “And after the debacle at the club … they need to be taken care of.”