by Powell, Mark
Nuru’s only responsibility was to ensure that the clean money that Aziz had painstakingly laundered through a series of property purchases found its way to the correct holding accounts, held with a number of banks across the US and Asia. Unfortunately, Nuru had decided to try and siphon a few hundred thousand dollars off into his own account and Aziz had spotted it whilst reconciling the transfers.
Knowing his boss would not be a happy man, and not wanting to be associated with such a stupid deed, Aziz had informed Surat. The timing was somewhat poor, given Surat had just lost his brother, killed in Myanmar; as far as Aziz could remember, in a drugs raid by British Special Forces.
As a result, the next day Aziz had to observe his assistant writhing quantum breach 290709.indd 155
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around in a chair, his hands and feet tied, a polythene bag pulled over his head. It took 20 minutes for him to fi nally die, his breath, at least what he had left in his lungs, steaming up the inside of the bag, before his lungs desperately tried to suck it back in again. With the polythene bag drawn tight against his now white face, his eyes were popping out of his skull.
Aziz couldn’t forget the image of that face gasping for air, like a goldfi sh suffocating in its fi sh bowl. He recalled how Surat had sat in the room laughing, thinking it more fun to see such a stupid man suffocate to death than to give him a quick end. Aziz was quite aware that Surat wanted him present so that he could see for himself what happened to all those who cheated or double-crossed the cartel.
Whilst Surat had an unpleasant side, he did at least reward loyalty and hard work: he gave Aziz US$3 million in cold hard cash for his efforts. Why couldn’t his latest boss, heartless bitch though she was, be as generous?
It was then that he realised he actually had no idea who the big boss was. He knew he took orders from this woman, but he also understood she was just another foot soldier; she wasn’t the organisation head. Aziz then made a mental note to fi nd out. He wanted to know whom he should be talking to about getting paid.
Ying was sitting at her desk, her eyes intently focused on her computer screen. The steady stream of deals from Aziz was keeping her very busy. Each deal was just like the last, but interchanged between buying individually, and one company selling to another because they had bought too many oil contracts at too high a price. As Ying sat back in her chair, she felt a tap on the shoulder; Aziz stood over her. Startled by his sudden appearance, Ying immediately sat forward.
‘Hi, Ying. How are you?’ Aziz seemed polite, almost friendly.
‘Aziz. I’m fi ne. How are you?’ Ying replied, the look of shock on her face clearly evident.
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Seeing this, he said, ‘Relax. I’m very happy with your work. But I need to go to India. The client has a special need for me there and I can set up a deal for them out of our Mumbai offi ce. Can you come?’
Ying almost choked. ‘You want me to come?’
‘Yes, you are the only trader I trust enough to book and execute my big deals.’
‘I will have to check with my boss. Uh, let me get back to you.’
Aziz smiled at that. ‘Sure. But soon, yes?’ He then walked off.
Not wasting a second, Ying called McCabe.
‘He did what?’ McCabe spat. He then calmed down slightly. ‘Okay, we will discuss this later with Stowe. I don’t like the sound of this. Not one bit.’
Ying packed up for the day, turned off her computer then walked towards Aziz, still ensconced at his desk, and said, ‘Mr Aziz, I will see my boss in the morning. So I’ll have a reply for you then. Is that okay?’
She was hoping to seem normal, knowing that he knew she was working for McCabe. But why he had not stopped or bolted was a mystery. Knowing they were on to him, how come he was still here, acting so cool? He must know the bank would be tracking him, she thought. I guess it all comes down to proof, and whilst his deals seem odd, they’re not illegal.
‘Yes, okay. Thank you, Ying,’ he replied before turning back to his work.
Just as she was about to turn and walk away, she noticed a data CD
on his desk. His hand rested on it; it seemed important to him, given his hand was so intent on covering it up.
Ying took a deep breath. ‘Oh, is that music? I’m a music lover myself. What group?’ she asked, trying to sound cool. Aziz turned and looked at her.
‘What?’ Aziz seemed confused by her question.
‘The disk. A CD, is it?’
‘No, it’s just data,’ he replied bluntly, his hand sliding the disk away from her sight and into his top drawer which he then closed sharply.
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‘Oh, okay. Sorry.’ She then turned and hurried off.
As Ying stepped out of the lift, McCabe greeted her. ‘Come on, the car is waiting. Let’s go.’ He grabbed Ying by the arm and led her out and towards the waiting car.
As Ying settled in, she turned to McCabe, the request Aziz had given her still buzzing around in her head. ‘So what do you think about me going to India with Aziz?’
McCabe turned, his face showing clear concern. ‘I don’t like it one bit. But it seems we have little choice at this point. We need to stay close to him and prove your suspicions. The bank is now on alert via London. They have given us one week to obtain proof.’
‘Okay, so I will plan to go. But I need you and Brian with me,’ Ying said with an air of nervousness in her voice.
McCabe knew that this would be high risk, but if Aziz was moving his operation, they had to follow.
Later that night, McCabe and Stowe made plans; they would go with Ying to Mumbai. The BCB offi ce there was in the heart of the business district. Stowe had also been granted approval to have two MI6
offi cers dispatched. This would provide ground cover in a city neither he nor McCabe knew well. They would base their operations out of the British High Commission, providing them the communications and safe environment they needed.
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NINETEEN
Christopher Fleming was seated in his offi ce when the group head of audit, Paul Jones, walked in. Fleming’s chief of staff, Tony Morris, a small weasel of a man who looked like he had been with Banning since the doors opened 60 years ago, was seated to his right. He would scribble down any notes he thought necessary. Fleming liked everything he said on record.
‘We have a situation brewing. It appears we have a rogue salesman by the name of Aziz in our midst. He has a dirty past, I am told. So shady, in fact, the British Secret Service is on to him.’ Fleming then paused and took a sip of tea.
‘How do you know this, sir?’ Jones interjected
‘Two reasons, man. The fi rst being a golf and Oxford alumni buddy of mine is the head of MI5. The other is, it appears we have an ex-Special Forces chap inside, McCabe I think his name is, who is now working with MI6 to investigate this chap. All very troublesome.’
‘I see, sir.’ Jones shut up at that point.
Fleming then stood up and started to pace around his offi ce, a large spacious offi ce with views across the City of London. ‘The thing is, we do not have any tangible proof yet that this chap has breached any rules.
These fellows in Dubai and Singapore are trying to sort it out. Now I have a large rights issue to worry about, can’t be doing with this fuss, so be a good chap and keep an eye, will you? Make it go away.’ Fleming then sat back down.
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‘That’s all, thank you. On your way,’ Fleming concluded. With that, Jones scurried off.
The next day, Aziz smiled as Ying b
roke the good news to him.
Once she had walked off back to her desk, Aziz picked up the phone. ‘It is Aziz. I will, as planned, fl y this evening to Mumbai. The girl is going too, so once I have completed the transaction, you can have her.’ His voice was now more confi dent, even disrespectful.
‘I do not like your tone, Aziz. Be very careful.’
‘I will do my job. You just make sure you deliver my money, as I requested. If you cannot, then please tell me whom I should speak to.’
This time it was Aziz who rang off fi rst. Immediately after the call had ended, the lady, who was sitting comfortably by a swimming pool at her rented villa enjoying some sun, pondered what Aziz had just said.
He was almost complete, his work done, she thought. She then called an international number; a man answered.
‘It’s me.’ The man on the other end of the phone knew exactly who she was.
‘I want a cell mobilised and in full operation in Mumbai, no later than tomorrow night. Logistics and attack resources.’ She paused. ‘I also want a man by the name of Hajj in place. You can fi nd him in a bar called Jemar Lebanon. Make it happen. I will fl y out myself tomorrow.’
She hung up.
The second call she made was far more polite. ‘Mr Surat? Yes, we are almost ready to execute the fi nal deal. You may wish to fi nalise your offer to buy stock now.’ She now had a smile on her face.
‘Okay, good. I will have my lawyers confi rm the deal. Good work,’
responded Surat. The Rain Angel then hung up and settled back on her sun lounger and closed her eyes. She was now thinking about how best to settle a very personal matter with Aziz.
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Aziz was sitting at his desk. He was now certain his latest deal structure would provide the results he needed. He would structure the two-sided oil contract between Al Safad and TJ Cargo for $100 million each. He would also ensure that Al Safad lost big-time on the oil price and FX fl uctuation. This time, however, he would structure the deal to incorporate a hedge: his bank would offer the hedge on the basis that the oil and FX prices would not fall. Aziz smiled to himself, knowing that the oil and FX prices would be skewed and very much go against both companies and create a massive profi t and loss exposure for the bank, forcing them into a capital crisis. Aziz had sleepers in the credit risk department, ready to do what they needed to cover things up.
Perfect, he thought, knowing that tomorrow the bank would launch a rights issue and be thirsty for capital. What Christopher Fleming would not realise is the amount of capital he would actually need. Aziz closed his fi le, having saved it to his CD. He now had everything he needed, and it was time to prepare for the Mumbai trip, knowing he would not be back. He even knew that Surat his old boss was the Tai Investments CEO. Now he had the power over this bitch, he thought.
As McCabe and Stowe sat around the kitchen table, going over the fi nal plans, they both felt prepared. Stowe was his normal blow-in-and-chuck-in-a-few-hand grenades self. Despite all his spook training, he actually hated planning; he was much more a man of instincts.
McCabe, on the other hand, was more interested in the fi ner details of planning. McCabe knew that planning was a necessary part of any operation. Even if things never, in fact, went to plan, it forced a discipline on you to consider and prepare for all the risks. In essence, planning was a method by which he could run through the various aspects of the operation. In a strange way, they both complemented each other’s weaknesses: McCabe the deep thinker and the more sensitive, Stowe the no-hesitation killer who would execute with ruthless vigour.
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The plan was to follow Ying to Mumbai, where she would continue to work with Aziz. This, they hoped, would provide the fi nal evidence they needed to trap him. The bank had been placed on full alert and was told to allow his trades to pass through the system. British Intelligence worldwide had been informed and the two shipping companies were being tracked. The one remaining fact they needed to close was who else within the Moon Star corporation was involved. MI5 in London were busy looking into the organisation to uncover who was really in charge there.
Whilst the two Wolves pondered over their plans, Ying was busy packing up her stuff. She had found time to call her mother, who as always was delighted to hear from her. She was also worried about Ying going to India; the food, she said, would make her ill. A number of friends and family members had told her the food there was not healthy.
Happy they had prepared, Stowe got up and sat down on the sofa, stretching himself out and grabbing a few minutes’ shuteye. McCabe, on the other hand, remained seated at the table. He was still not satisfi ed that he had acquainted himself enough with the Mumbai street map; typical of him, he wanted to know every detail. In particular, McCabe liked to know the main streets and where the main landmarks were, just in case he found himself in a car chase; no blind alleys for this man.
As Stowe lay on the sofa, he thought of Ying in her room. He would love to walk in there right now, but he knew McCabe would not take kindly to it. At least that was his excuse. In reality, he felt too old, a bit cheap going after such a young ‘babe’. God, am I going soft?
he thought.
His mind started to think about his past loves and acquaintances; true love had, to date, evaded him. Ying was only the second woman to have such a serious effect on him. Stowe had locked his heart away, the action of a man who had been deeply hurt. And hurt he had been.
It was August 1990. He had taken some leave, the aim being to surprise his then girlfriend, Joanne Lane. He had met her in a pub one quantum breach 290709.indd 162
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evening in Hereford. The attraction was instant: she was blonde, slim, toned, topped off with a smile that made him melt. To her, Stowe was hard, rugged and arrogant, and it seemed she liked those traits. He also recalled how McCabe didn’t like her: something about her face, he said, her lips being too big for the rest of the face.
The moments they shared over the course of a year were special; she allowed him enough freedom to be himself, his missions not bothering her in the slightest. But she was there when he needed her. Stowe had been bitten. The 1.5 carat diamond ring he had paid a month’s salary for was a big statement. Stowe was never one for splashing out money for no reason.
When Stowe let himself into his fl at, he was excited at the thought of surprising her. Joanne had moved in two months earlier, another giant step in the relationship direction for Stowe.
As Stowe walked into the front room on that day, he was greeted by Joanne. But not as he had expected, with open arms and a big smile, but with her face deep down in between another woman’s legs. That alone was too much for Stowe to bear: his women were real women, not lesbian dykes. He never let on; to have done so would have caused him untold grief. Not even McCabe knew.
As he now refocused, he decided to do what he wanted, and with that, he got up and walked off in the direction of Ying’s room. McCabe, seeing this, just tut-tutted and went back to his street maps.
The next day as the team, which they now felt they were, headed for the airport, there was an uneasy calm in the car. Ying sat listening to her music, the slow steady beat being just audible to the others in the car.
McCabe sat in the front with the driver, a large local man employed by the British Embassy. Stowe was sitting in the back seat with Ying, his face showing the signs of a happy man.
‘You okay in the back?’ McCabe enquired, his eyes looking for a reaction in the rear-view mirror. Only Stowe returned the gaze; it was a gaze that said, ‘Yes, fi ne.’
Knowing the next few days might be hectic, McCabe took out his quantum breach 290709.indd 163
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phone. The one voice he wanted to hear now belonged to an eight-year-old girl, the only female McCabe would put fi rst above anything else.
He was greeted by ‘Hi, dad.’ Those words alone were enough to relax him. The next hour McCabe was lost in a world which he protected with his life.
As McCabe and the group headed for the airport, British Home Secretary Jeremy Haden was sitting at his oak desk in London. He had just gotten off the phone from speaking with Malcolm Trent at Thames House. The conversation had not been a pleasant one. Trent had urged him to try and leverage his relationship with Mr Elias Chamat, a Lebanese diplomat stationed in London.
Mr Chamat had a number of political connections in high places and was very much a generous supporter of effective diplomatic relations. Their relationship was perhaps all the more sensitive given that Mr Chamat’s brother was married to Haden’s wife’s sister Mary, a marriage that had caused some concern in government circles. Added to this was the fact that Mr Chamat’s wife, alias the Rain Angel, was an active MI6 informer—which was exactly why Haden now needed Mr Chamat’s help. Trent wanted more information on Afzal Jihad, and any possible connection with Aziz. Madam Chamat’s actions and extensive network of contacts had led to a number of arrests in the UK
over the past few years. Subsequently, her tips had averted a number of terror attacks planned for London. As such, she was seen by a few top government offi cials as a heroic fi gure.
However, there were a few within the halls of Thames House that suspected she was not completely clean. It was said she often got involved in her own less-than-ethical transactions, drugs and extortion being amongst them. British Intelligence tended to turn a blind eye to these sidelines on account of her other uses. But given this rumoured dark side to her character, a connection with the Home Secretary, if she ever turned rogue, would be of the uppermost embarrassment to the quantum breach 290709.indd 164
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Cabinet. Trent had almost ordered his own boss to cut ties given the suspicions, but his warnings had to date gone unheeded.