The silence was interrupted by Bob. ‘What do you want us to do? The impossible? Or should we man the printing presses, print money out of thin air and then wave our magic wands?’
‘Not quite,’ Rafi replied. ‘What we need is a plan that can be put in place to calm the markets.’
‘Boy, that would be pulling a rabbit and a half out of a hat,’ said Alex.
Aidan cut in. ‘Rafi has a plan, which we believe you and your colleagues can make a reality. We believe there is the possibility to create listed Government property vehicles – REITs – and use share issues to mop up the liabilities that the Government may face, and to finance gilts buy-backs.’
At that moment a flustered Donald Hollingsworth appeared through the door. Rafi got up and walked over to greet him.
‘Bloody hell, Rafi, you look truly awful!’
‘Yes, thank you Donald. Sorry to have ruined your weekend away. Let me introduce you to the other members of the team who beat you here. In the next fifteen minutes you’ll be joined by Matthew Wilson – who I believe you know – and by a Dr Saara Khan, who you won’t.’
Aidan stood up. ‘In straightforward terms, gentlemen, your mission, should you wish to accept it, is to come up with a credible strategy that the Bank of England and Treasury can adopt to avert a financial meltdown. Coffee is on its way. I will bring you up to speed with the minutiae as soon as the others arrive. In a moment Detective Constable Emma Jessop will join us and help us turn this room into our office.’
Rafi could sense that they were hooked – their body language had visibly relaxed and there was determination in their eyes.
‘If you’ll excuse us, Kate and I have a number of things to attend to. Thank you for helping,’ said Rafi. ‘In case you are worried about the attacks, there is a team upstairs planning how the SAS can neutralise them.’
Back in the office there was a quiet knock at the door. Standing outside was Rafi’s sister. She broke into a run and flung her arms around him.
‘I’ve been so worried.’
‘Thanks Sis. Me too! Meet Kate, who I’m working with.’
‘You’re not under arrest?’
‘No,’ said Kate, ‘your brother is working with us – he’s a godsend.’
Rafi looked at his little sister. She smiled a smile that he wouldn’t forget in a long time – its intensity was wonderful. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from home, but we need someone with a clear, logical mind who can act as an independent thinker amongst a team of financial experts.’
‘But finance is a blank in my book.’
‘Yes, but you know how to structure a hypothesis and set up tests to prove or disprove it. Come and get a cup of coffee and let me introduce you to the team,’ said Rafi.
They entered the interview room; it was buzzing and exuded a sense of teamwork and urgency. The conversation paused and Rafi introduced his sister to Aidan’s team. ‘Saara is here to be your devil’s advocate. Forgive her if she asks any naive questions on the finance front; I promise you she’ll be worth her weight in gold by the time you finish. Aidan here will explain what’s going on.’
Bob enquired, ‘What are the chances of nipping back to the office to collect some papers and download some files?’
‘No problem,’ replied Kate. We’ll assign you Constable Peter Ashby to act as your chauffeur. Is the gravity of the position understood? No one outside this building other that MI5 and the SAS have a clue what’s going on. Absolutely no talking to anyone! Got that?’
‘Of course,’ said Bob.
‘When Bob gets back could I borrow Constable Ashby?’ asked Alex.
‘Me too,’ said Matthew.
‘Emma will make the arrangements for you.’
‘Aidan, whilst the others are out could you bring Donald and Saara up to speed, please?’ asked Rafi.
‘Will do.’
Rafi left to rejoin Kate. He re-entered the office that had become his home.
She looked across at him. ‘You look bloody awful,’ she said with a soft smile.
‘You don’t look too good yourself,’ Rafi replied gently. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘Time to ring Rick Feldon in Manchester,’ said Kate.
After a long wait Kate was put through.
‘Sorry to keep you. I was about to phone you. Wesson, the valuer, is one sandwich short of a picnic; he’s really messed up. It’s like walking on eggshells. When our word search on the PCs came up with nothing, I spoke to the MI5 suits and they have gone through the secretaries’ paper files. The good news is they have just found the letter. No wonder the word search revealed zilch – the letter was never saved on the computer. It’s being faxed to you as we speak. The good news is that it gives you two more properties.’
Kate smiled. ‘Good work Rick; it’s just what we needed. Thanks.’
Rafi sat on the edge of his chair; he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the fax.
‘Oh, by the way, Rick, we think that we’re missing one more property,’ said Kate. ‘One in the South East or London area. It might be worth trying to chat to your man about it.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Rick, ‘and sorry again for not finding the letter sooner.’
‘We’ve got it and that’s what matters,’ said Kate.
Moments later the fax arrived. Rafi read it. It was very straightforward. It confirmed that the value of two properties exceeded their book cost of £7.4 million. Rafi looked at the addresses: development land at Park Avenue, Wasdale Road, Gosforth, and Marfleet Lane, Kingston-upon-Hull.
Rafi went back to his desk and pulled up Google Maps on the screen. He typed in Gosforth and was given the option of Gosforth NE3 or Gosforth CA20. Rafi clicked on the CA20 link and a large scale map appeared on the screen. Rafi reduced the scale by a couple of clicks so he could scan the surrounding area. Oh hell! He recognised the location; it was close to Sellafield nuclear reprocessing plant.
‘Kate,’ he called across, ‘do you have a spare moment?’ He showed her the map. ‘We’ve found another location. The terrorists have a property within a couple of miles of Sellafield,’
‘Oh shit,’ said Kate. ‘This isn’t what we wanted.’
‘But at least now we know where to look,’ added John.
Rafi typed in the address of the Hull property and looked at the map.
Kate, standing over his shoulder, said, ‘Go east a bit. Thought so – it’s just down the road from Easington, where there is the vast gas terminal and storage facility.’ She looked pleased. ‘So, by my calculations, seven down, three to go! As long as none of the missing three are nuclear installations, I reckon we’re in with a chance.’
‘Or seven down and one to go, if we can get confirmation that the fifth missile launcher is on board Golden Sundancer. That would leave only one more to find.’ Rafi looked apprehensive.
‘Now we’ve got this new information under our belt, could you help me with a bit of photocopying?’ Kate asked Rafi. ‘I’m putting together corroborating evidence to support what we believe is going on – in case we get a frosty reception upstairs.’
Upstairs, Giles and David were preparing for the 8 o’clock meeting.
Air Chief Marshal Sir Nigel Hawser and the head of MI5, Ewan Thorn, were booked to come; however, it was proving more difficult to get the Government ministers to the meeting without telling them why.
Giles had phoned the Defence Secretary. He introduced himself and immediately cut to the chase. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting for 8 o’clock this evening. It is of vital importance; can you attend please?’
‘What’s it about?’ answered a frosty voice. ‘I have a social engagement – Covent Garden with the wife. The tickets are like gold dust.’
‘I can’t talk over the phone, but we would value your input alongside that of the head of the armed forces and the head of MI5.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, I’ll be there.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Giles gave the minister the details of the venue a
nd put the phone down. He looked relieved; the Defence Secretary, though new to the department, was a level-headed man and a renowned stickler for the minutiae. Once brought on side, he would be an invaluable asset to the team.
His next phone call, Giles mused, was likely to be interesting. The stand-in Home Secretary was a different ball game altogether. He phoned the Home Office, asked to speak to the minister covering for the Home Secretary and was put through to the minister’s personal assistant.
‘The minister is in a strategy meeting and has left instructions not to be disturbed.’
‘This is extremely important; I would have spoken to the Home Secretary but he’s out of the country,’ said Giles.
‘Let me have a word with the minister,’ said the secretary.
What seemed like ages later, the minister’s voice came on the phone. He sounded peeved.
‘What, may I ask, is the purpose of this call?’ he asked bluntly.
‘When we met at the Bishopsgate bomb location you mentioned you would be available to help 24/7. I have arranged a meeting for 8 o’clock this evening; it is of vital importance. Can you attend please?’
‘I’m sorry but I’m busy. I could send my assistant, or we could have the meeting tomorrow morning, say, at 11 a.m.,’ said the Minister.
‘Sir, under normal circumstances I would have asked the Home Secretary,’ said Giles politely, hoping the minister would get the point that the meeting was crucial.
‘If I am to consider rearranging my diary, I’d have to know why it’s so important I attend. I’m booked to give a keynote speech. I’m spearheading the launch of our new data collection unit on immigration statistics. The press will be there. I’ve prepared an excellent speech and it’s already been distributed for tomorrow’s papers. Unfortunately, I’ll have to decline your offer of a meeting.’
‘Sir, this is sufficiently sensitive that I can’t tell you about it until we meet, but it is of utmost importance.’
‘No. I’ve made my mind up; you can have my assistant or you can see me at my office tomorrow morning,’ added the minister uncompromisingly.
Giles raised his eyebrows, perplexed. ‘But it is important.’
The Minister wasn’t pleased. ‘Damn it! You won’t be getting me to your meeting at this short notice. Do you know who you’re speaking to? My press conference is far too important an opportunity to miss, particularly as our newly formatted statistics look excellent. Good evening to you.’ The phone line went dead.
The commissioner didn’t rise to the provocation; it was as if he was dealing with a petulant teenager. He dialled the 10 Downing Street hotline, got straight through to the PM office and asked to speak to the Prime Minister regarding the recent bombing. Within a minute the PM came on the phone.
‘How may I help you?’
‘Prime Minister, we have a situation developing. It would be helpful if we had your or the Home Secretary’s input, alongside that of the Defence Secretary, the head of the armed forces and the head of MI5. I have spoken to the minister covering for the Home Secretary and have been informed that his prior engagement means he’s unavailable. I was hoping . . .’
‘When do you want to see me?’ came the businesslike reply.
‘8 o’clock this evening at Wood Street, please.’
‘I will have to put you on hold – bear with me; I need to speak to my secretary.’
Giles waited, fingers crossed. The recent General Election meant the Prime Minister was working with a wafer-thin majority and had a lot to contend with.
The PM’s voice came back on the line. ‘My secretary has rescheduled my diary. Traffic permitting, I shouldn’t be more than five minutes late.’
Giles was grinning when he put the phone down. ‘There are times when a politician can restore one’s faith in the system.’
‘You couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to pitch our problems to,’ said David, who was also smiling.
A couple of minutes later the phone rang: it was a very disgruntled Home Office minister. ‘Regarding your recent phone call . . . For the record, I wish to repeat that I am unwilling to drop this press briefing, unless you explain to me in detail why it is so important I attend.’
David sensed that Giles wanted to get him off the line as quickly as possible, in case the topic of the PM was brought up.
Giles said very politely, ‘I’ve been considering your offer of a meeting tomorrow morning; perhaps I could come over and brief you. Would 11 o’clock at your office be acceptable?’
‘Er . . . yes, that should be fine. Do phone my personal assistant first thing to check the time and venue and that my diary is still free, though,’ came the reply.
‘Thank you, Minister.’
Giles couldn’t put the phone down quickly enough. ‘Don’t repeat me, but that man is a self-obsessed pillock of the first order. Heaven help the country if he ever gets a department to run. Can you see if Kate has made any progress with the missing information? Thanks. I’m going to pay Greg a visit, implement our emergency plans and get a command centre set up.’
Kate and Rafi were collating their supporting information for the 8 o’clock meeting.
Down the corridor Aidan and the economics team had transformed the interview room into their base. Beyond them, the rooms that had been the offices of Chief Superintendent David Pryke and his team had been cleared. Greg and his team were working on turning them into an operations room. A group of desks had been put back-to-back in the centre of the room, with a row of phones and networked PCs with flat screens down the middle. Video conferencing and LCD screens were being mounted on the walls and secure phone and video links to the SAS command centre, the HQ of the paratroopers and the army’s command centre in Wiltshire were being set up. The PM’s hotlines were being installed in an adjoining office.
Greg was looking concerned – his assistant was having problems getting two video links and the large LCD touch screen up and running. It seemed that one of their big video screens had developed an electrical gremlin, whereas the other simply didn’t want to work and the touch screen was playing up intermittently.
Aidan and Emma came down the corridor to chat to Greg about their PC and printer needs. As they walked through the door, they saw it was a bad moment.
Greg turned Aidan. ‘Could I ask you a question, please?’
‘Of course,’ said Aidan. ‘What’s up?’
‘Bloody wiring . . .’ came the reply. ‘We are a large video screen, a video conferencing unit and a touch screen down.’
‘Can I have a look?’ asked Aidan.
Greg waved him across and asked Emma quietly, ‘Don’t tell me he has a degree in electrical engineering as well?’ which Aidan overheard.
‘No, I’m afraid not – just as I thought: the same leads in and out. What you have here is an older version of what we have in the office. Emma, see if you can find Rafi; he’ll know.’
Moments later Emma reappeared with Rafi in tow.
‘Rafi, what do you think? It’s similar to the stuff we’ve got in our conference rooms, isn’t it? The leads look the same; it’s just the screen and the kit that’s older.’
‘Rafi looked at the leads. ‘You’re right.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Aidan. He turned and spoke to Greg. ‘I just need to make a quick call.’
Aidan spoke briefly to his boss, a main board director of Maine Leadbetter.
‘Hi, Russell, it’s your erstwhile colleague Aidan here . . . Yes, I’ve been working hard . . . No, I’m not off somewhere with a bit of fluff . . . Yes, I aim to be back in the office tomorrow, probably by 10.30 a.m.; sorry, I’ll miss the morning meeting and the early trading. Don’t worry, if I get what I’m doing right, it’ll be excellent news for the firm.’ Aidan paused. ‘This brings me to the reason for my call: I’ve a pitch to some wealthy players first thing tomorrow and I need to knock the socks off them. I’ve got a favour to ask. Would you ring the security guards on reception and authorise my borr
owing the screen in the small conference room and a little bit of associated kit?’
Silence – Greg and Rafi could tell from Aidan’s face that his boss wasn’t keen.
‘OK, let’s say that if it’s not back in time, I’ll buy a new one. You do trust me, don’t you? Oh, good. Thanks. Yes, I know I take liberties! See you tomorrow.’ Aidan put down the phone. ‘I hope he won’t mind the small white lie. There’s no bloody way that what I’m planning to borrow will be back in time. As the markets will be closed, they won’t be much good to him anyway! Greg, if you could find a van, would you and one of your assistants like to pay my office a visit?’
Greg’s face changed from a scowl to a beaming smile. ‘Give me a couple of minutes to draw up a list of what I need and I’ll meet you in the rear car park.’
Rafi looked at Aidan, ‘Good move! I hope you’ve got what he needs.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that there should be too much of a problem. We have a basement storeroom full of last year’s kit which makes this lot look steam age in comparison. This should be fun. I’m willing to bet Greg will think he’s visiting Santa’s Grotto!’
Kate put her head around the corner of the door.
‘So this is where you are! Rafi I thought you might like to listen in; we’ve got the captain of the Nimrod, tracking Golden Sundancer, on the blower and he has some news for us.’
As they scurried back to the office, Kate brought Rafi up to speed. ‘Twenty minutes ago the captain of the Nimrod radioed in and spoke to John to report that Golden Sundancer was on a converging course with a trawler around 250 miles from Iceland, north-west of the Faeroes, in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Any more news from the MI5 agent in Reykjavík?’ asked Rafi
‘No, he’s drawn a blank,’ replied Kate.
The Nimrod captain came back on the phone – his radio had been patched through. ‘Good evening, is that the City of London Police?’
‘Yes,’ replied Kate who introduced herself and sent John’s apologies.
‘Your boat, Golden Sundancer, has hove to in close proximity to a fishing vessel, which we’ve identified as an Estonian trawler. Her name is Anu Riina. The captain of the trawler launched an inflatable dinghy over the stern a couple of minutes ago and fired a line across to the motorboat. There’s a big swell down there and the temperatures are sub-zero. The line has been secured aboard Golden Sundancer and her captain is manoeuvring to get the dinghy into the lee of the wind to make it easier to get it on board. We’ve started to get enhanced images from our high magnification camera . . . Bloody hell! It looks like there are two wooden coffins lashed into the dinghy. The trawler has disengaged, turned south-east and looks as though it’s heading for home. The dinghy and the two boxes are, as we speak, being pulled on board Golden Sundancer.’
Latent Hazard Page 22