Quantum Breach
Page 1
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Powell was born in Sevenoaks, Kent, UK, in 1963. His life—
one of international assignments that make him an extremely covert individual—provides the ideal context for any action thriller.
In this fi rst novel, Powell combines his fi rst-hand knowledge and research of the fi nancial services industry, military manoeuvres and counter-terrorist operations to create a pulse-racing action thriller that blends the uncertainties of the current fi nancial world with terrorism and organised crime.
Powell lives in Singapore and has a second home in Southern France.
He is working on The Rain Angel, his second novel in the McCabe series.
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QUANTUM
BREACH
MARK POWELL
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© 2009 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Pte Ltd Published by Marshall Cavendish Editions An imprint of Marshall Cavendish International 1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Request for permission should be addressed to the Publisher, Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited, 1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196. Tel: (65) 6213 9300, fax: (65) 6285
4871. E-mail: genrefsales@sg.marshallcavendish.com. Website: www.marshallcavendish.
com/genref
The publisher makes no representation or warranties with respect to the contents of this book, and specifi cally disclaims any implied warranties or merchantability or fi tness for any particular purpose, and shall in no events be liable for any loss of profi t or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.
All characters in this book are fi ctitious. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental
Other Marshall Cavendish Offi ces
Marshall Cavendish Ltd. 5th Floor, 32–38 Saffron Hill, London RC1N 8FH, UK •
Marshall Cavendish Corporation. 99 White Plains Road, Tarrytown NY 10591-9001, USA • Marshall Cavendish International (Thailand) Co Ltd. 253 Asoke, 12th Flr, Sukhumvit 21 Road, Klongtoey Nua, Wattana, Bangkok 10110, Thailand • Marshall Cavendish (Malaysia) Sdn Bhd, Times Subang, Lot 46, Subang Hi-Tech Industrial Park, Batu Tiga, 40000 Shah Alam, Selangor Darul Ehsan, Malaysia Marshall Cavendish is a trademark of Times Publishing Limited National Library Board Singapore Cataloguing in Publication Data Powell, Mark, 1963 May–
Quantum breach / Mark Powell. – Singapore : Marshall Cavendish Editions, c2009.
p. cm.
ISBN–13 : 978-981-4276-38-2
1. Intrigue – Fiction. 2. Financial crises – Fiction. I. Title.
PR6116
823.92 —dc22
OCN42896705
Printed in Singapore by Craft Print
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To
Eric and Pattie, forever in my heart Denise and Freya
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Acknowledgements placed at the beginning of a book are often seen as a list of names that refl ect perceived debts of gratitude. I for one would like to respect this custom and declare that I did not do this all on my own; I indeed needed help.
Therefore my heartfelt thanks, respect and gratitude for the teachings, kindness, push-backs, ideas, support, advice and deliverables are given to the following people:
To my editor Richard Lord, the team at Sycamore Consulting, Albert Tan at Olive Tree Studios, Richard Mathews and the team at DPI International for the awesome book cover art and design—
Jamie Donovan and Iris Wong for the cover shot images—Angel See who inspired the character traits of Ying, David Lim at FHM
and, most importantly, to Marshall Cavendish International (Asia), my publisher.
To friends Chris Knight, Andy Drake, Chris Claridge, Terry O’Connor, Ian Mullane, Jean Danker, Nick Walker, Kimarie Cheang, Julian and Anita Pearson, Maddy Ng, Gavin Rogers and Lina Teh for your valued support: you are all true and dear friends; and of course to Chris Pearson for her world beating sherry trifl es that kept me going.
Special thanks are given to Keith Pearson: you are a gentleman, ambassador of truth and dear friend. To Jeffrey Archer, for your much appreciated advice and wishes that in fact fi nally got me across the line.
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PROLOGUE
Myanmar, May 1993
The strong moonlight penetrated the thick jungle foliage from which the camoufl aged fi gure emerged dripping with sweat. The ten-mile trek from the drop zone within the renowned Golden Triangle, just north of the Ruak River shaving the borders of Thailand and Myanmar as it twisted through dense jungle and hidden patches of opium, hadn’t helped. The 50 pounds of equipment, now burning into his shoulders hadn’t helped either. His body was steaming like a kitchen kettle in the cooling night air.
The solitary guard posted as a lookout was no longer a threat.
Lazily pacing around the clearing that surrounded the hut, he had been dropped with barely a sound just after he had lit a cigarette. The seven-inch steel blade of an old style F-S fi ghting knife had been slammed upwards at a 45-degree angle through the indent at the base of his skull, resulting in his medulla oblongata being scrambled like the assassin’s morning eggs, his motor senses now completely neutralised.
As the camoufl aged man peered through the dirty glass, he began to methodically count the number of players standing in the room. Five; just as he had been informed. All members of the infamous Mong Tai drug cartel, their backs conveniently turned to the window. He only had to count one live hostage. The other was now still, his limp body slumped in the corner; his throat had been cut.
The tallest of the fi ve men was a Thai national, unlike the others quantum breach 290709.indd 7
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8
Quantum Breach
in the room who were Burmese. The Thai brutally brought down the butt of his pistol on the shoulder of his hostage, making him grimace with pain. Another blow followed, this time from a clenched gloved hand delivered to his already swollen face, sending his head violently backwards. But the hostage lifted his head defi antly and spat the blood that had run into his mouth from his now shattered nose, peppering the man’s shirt.
Just before ducking down out of sight, the camoufl aged fi gure made direct eye contact with the hostage, who was looking rebelliously up at the tall man. Barely able to focus through the swelling around his eyes, the hostage at fi rst thought he had glimpsed a shadow at the window and dismissed the thought.
Now in position, the four-man SAS team codenamed ‘Viper’ began their countdown. The kill point had arrived; each man knew exactly what to do and where to breach. The team leader had now given them the formation of the men inside. Their main objective: to extract the half-conscious hostage whose bloodied and limp body was tied to a chair in the centre of the room. The team also knew that plans were just that, plans; nothing was ever certain. Things could turn to ‘rat shit’
unexpectedly—and shockingly fast.
As the second hand of each man’s watch struck midnight, the four-man team burst in, announced by a bright white fl ash and the debilitating, thundering bang of their stun grenades. Ea
ch burst of fi re was carefully placed, targeted in by the tell-tale red dots that now peppered the room. A few seconds too late, the team leader witnessed the hostage jerking backwards. A single shot, fi red from the pistol of the taller man, had struck him in the right shoulder. It took just three seconds for the team leader to make amends: a deadly burst from his MP5 took care of that. Not only did this example of masterful German engineering eliminate whatever it targeted at close range, it delivered shredded fl esh and bone into the bargain.
The team leader was always primed to kill, to do so effectively and without error. His training was amongst the best in the world, and he quantum breach 290709.indd 8
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Mark Powell
9
knew never to hesitate. This kill would join the other 35 ghosts that already haunted the dark corners of his mind. There would be times when he was reminded of every face in fevered bouts of bad dreams. As the gun smoke and whiff of cordite cleared, the camoufl aged man knelt down beside the hostage and pressed down hard on his wound with a medi-pack.
‘That’s okay, mate, no need for thanks. I was just saving these poor bastards from your boring company. Now don’t go and bleed to death on me.’
His quip went unheard as Brian Stowe had faded away into a state of unconsciousness. The other man, 25-year-old Chris Trent, was carefully placed into a body bag; he would at least be taken back home. His funeral would be a quiet affair, family and close friends only, no salutes or placements of fl ags defended. For this was a ‘Black Op’; as such it never happened.
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ONE
Singapore, September 2008
Shafts of sunlight began to work their way through the white morning clouds and cast warmth across the island state. The distant shores of Sumatra were just visible through the morning mist for those who lived in the luxury high-rise condominiums that lined the East Coast shore. Cars full of commuters started to stream onto the East Coast Parkway, tailgating each other whilst skirting the long narrow beaches lined with palm trees and long winding pathways now swarming with early morning joggers and cyclists. For many, their destination would be the Central Business District, an area of towering blue-glass skyscrapers that surround the area known as Marina Bay. It seemed to be the beginning of another typical hot and humid day in this modern yet deeply proud metropolis.
On the edge of the Singapore River, only a few yards away from the luxurious Fullerton Hotel, towered number 8 Battery Road, a modern glass and steel building housing the Asian headquarters of Banning Capital Bank. On this particular day, BCB, as it was known in the industry, was very much open for business. Its staff began to arrive, fl owing through the large glass doors and into the opulent atrium of marble, festooned with fresh tropical fl owers, clutching their takeaway cups of bland fat-free, no-frills coffee and the morning papers.
The newly refurbished Dealing Room, located on the eighth fl oor of the building (as suggested by a local feng shui master of some repute) quantum breach 290709.indd 10
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sported wide windows and open views across the river. The smart new trading desks were now populated with computer screens and row upon row of busy salesmen and traders, all gripping their phones. The room was already beginning to buzz, which for any Dealing Room was very typical. But today, the noise that began to escalate in intensity was very far from sounding typical.
Mark McCabe sat somewhat uncomfortably at his desk, the tension inside him building. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, as opposed to his more normal reclined posture, his eyes staring intently at one of his two computer screens. As he watched the world’s fi nancial markets crashing around him, a state of fi nancial meltdown, he thought, ‘a toxic storm’, fi nancially at least, was in progress. And it was only 7:30 a.m.
The smell of sweat permeated the air that morning rather than the usual hip-sounding expensive cologne worn by most traders. Phones were ringing non-stop, a chorus of doom, as shouts of amazement and panic were echoing around the walls of the Dealing Room. No amount of feng shui, Zen or yin-and-yang-like karma would help today. Equity Yield curves had become inverted, which for the investor screamed loss.
The rows of high-tech plasma TV screens which hung down from the ceiling around the room normally displayed a few green arrows all pointing to the heavens and trumpeting profi t. But not today; they had merged into a fi reball of red, red arrows pointing as if towards hell itself.
Falling prices, tumbling revenues and despair was the message of the day. The news bites running across the bottom of news screens gave the toll: a deadly pandemic by the name of Volatility was on the rampage and it was taking down thousands of people. The only vaccination available had to come from the aggressively guarded reserve coffers of the world’s governments.
Tony, a tall, sallow-looking American trader, his face etched with panic, suddenly stood bolt upright from his chair, as if someone had sent a shot of electricity through it.
‘Christ, I can’t read this fucking market, it’s through the bloody quantum breach 290709.indd 11
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fl oor,’ he bellowed whilst holding his head fi rmly in his bony hands.
Tony had inherited his more colourful British slang from his two-year stint in the London offi ce, his blunt Boston tones now soured with South London accents.
‘Like I’m pissing blind, you jerk? I’ve just lost US$40 million off my book!’ immediately screamed Stan, one of the FX exotics traders. On a good day, Stan looked like he had just crawled through the laundry basket and come out with last week’s clothes on. Today, one of Wall Street’s oldest institutions, Lehman Brothers, had collapsed under a pile of political shame and crushing fi nancial losses, and Stan resembled a sweating heap of fl esh that had not seen a shower or a bed for at least 72 hours. The armpits of his shirt showed big patches of damp sweat.
Being Australian, he simply didn’t give a shit.
In amongst the panic of the crashing markets and stress-ridden traders, Stan sat perched high up on a large red rubber ball, the type fl abby expatriate wives used for yoga and fi tness. He was simply too fat to sit in a normal chair and found this the best way to park himself. As he rocked his amply proportioned buttocks, the ball rolled from side to side, his legs gripping it like a cheap prostitute. His desk resembled a rubbish tip; rising up out of it was his computer screen, the blinking red downward pointing arrows caused Stan to ingest another cup of hideously strong coffee. His keyboard was swamped under a sea of used fast-food wrappers.
Despite his less than polished exterior and gypsy camp surroundings, Stan was a 20-year veteran of the banking industry. He knew his craft inside out, but he had never seen such a toxic storm as this in his lifetime. More, he hated cocky young traders with big egos; he thought they took too many stupid, uncalculated risks. A dozen or so of these types were running around him like scalded cats. It was like a World War II battlefi eld with young recruits not knowing which way to run as the artillery shells came raining in; shells in the form of e-mails, cancelled trade instructions and claims of mis-selling that spelled l-o-s-s to any trader.
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A constant volley of shouts—‘I’m down two yards!’ and ‘Jesus!’—
kept ringing out across the fl oor. Stan just sat there perched on his ball like a big bullfrog, sipping his morning coffee and muttering ‘bloody idiot’ under his breath every time someone stated the obvious.
In the midst of this feverish environment, McCabe turned his attention to an email that had just come in. It was from the bank’s CEO. It read:
None of us has ever seen quite the scale of dislocation and disruption in our fi nancial markets that we have experienced this
year. To put things in a clear perspective, there has been more volatility in the US equity market in the last three months than we have seen in the previous 50 years.
Isn’t that the truth, McCabe thought to himself. He glanced up from his screen to the large plasma TV suspended precariously from a pillar directly in front of him. He could see the image of a rather well-poised, cute blonde newscaster dressed in a black suit with a string of pearls around her neck, her bright-red, pouting lips accentuating her every word. She was reading out the daily Wall Street sound bites, which gave the impression banking was fast becoming the ‘dirty bomb’ of the new world order, the fallout contaminating everyone. She was talking about how the US dollar would weaken in 2009, and how the overall outlook for the next two years was extremely bleak.
‘Bleak? A Siberian snow storm would be more appealing,’ groaned McCabe.
As she casually shuffl ed the papers in front of her, the blonde changed the story to the second most talked-about subject of the week.
The good old USA was about to elect a new president: not just any old ex-actor, peanut farmer or warmonger, but the fi rst African-American nominee ever was looking like he was going to assume the Oval Offi ce.
‘Would you have ever considered that possible?’ McCabe conjectured.
As he reclined back hard in his chair, he whispered to himself, ‘All quantum breach 290709.indd 13
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this in the midst of a global meltdown. We are entering a Banking Fucking Ice Age!’
Having taken in the news, it was clear to McCabe that the general public were fast beginning to hate bankers. In fact, it was not a profession most bankers were now ready to admit to anymore at parties and social events. This was serious shit and the bankers of the world were looking like the culprits. People were defaulting on their homes and now losing their jobs. Old ladies and retired teachers had lost their entire life savings on the word of a young salesman, who, perhaps, had been momentarily blinded by the expectation of a handsome commission. In hindsight, perhaps all parties should have read the small print with more care and attention; only the lawyers could afford to smile now.