Scion

by Murray Mcdonald

  Sam stood back and watched as the man he had come to consider a rock, crumble before him.

  “Just hold on, what the hell are you talking about? And who exactly are they?”

  Max poured himself a scotch from the bar. “Hughes called me this afternoon, said he had come into some very interesting information and wanted to up his fee.”

  “Hughes?”

  “You know Stephen Hughes, the Director of National Intelligence.”

  “Oh yes, weasely little fucker,” nodded Sam.

  “Anyway, it seems the President and National Security Adviser got him in a room with an FBI guy and told him about a huge conspiracy.”

  “Really, what conspiracy?” teased Sam.

  “Ours!” blurted an exasperated Max.

  “They’re fishing, they’ve got fuck all,” declared Sam waving it away with a sweep of his hand. “Mind you, what did you say to him?”

  “Nothing that could come back to me. Also, he called the mobile registered in the name and address of a woman in Brooklyn.”

  “Good,” Sam paused, thinking. “Where is he now?”

  “At home with a big fucking smile on his face, thinking he’s just upped his take from us,” replied Max.

  “Fine, cut him off, tell him his services are no longer required. That’ll wipe the smile right off his face. After I take office, make it permanent. Until then, he doesn’t know enough to hurt us. It may mean some tough questions for Transcon but just put the lawyers on it and they’ll kill it off until I take office at least. Nobody blackmails us.”

  Max calmed down. Sam, as ever, was right.

  The phone began to ring in the suite. Sam looked at it. He had left strict instructions not to be disturbed. It continued to ring. Sam reluctantly picked it up.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “I’m very sorry to disturb you Sir but the caller is insistent that the call is a life or death emergency and will not stop calling.”

  “Who is it?” asked Sam his interest piqued.

  “A Mr Eduardo Ramirez, Sir.”

  Chapter 50

  It was 2 a.m. before they finally checked in and reached the suite which was more spectacular than they had imagined. Located on the top floor, the Royal Suite seemed endless with three bedrooms and a grand lounge, surrounded on every side by large terraces. Despite their no sex pledge, they jumped into the same bed and with more than a little restraint managed to get through the night with little more than an occasional fumble. Meaning both were fresh and ready to leave at 8.50 a.m..

  The hotel’s store had worked its magic and the chauffeur almost failed to recognise the two of them as they walked towards the Rolls Royce, a mark of his professionalism. As the two walked by, the turned as many female heads as male heads. They made an extremely attractive couple and people were certain they had just seen two movie stars but couldn’t quite place them.

  “Where to Sir?” asked the chauffeur.

  “Banque Privée Edmond de Rothschild, 18 rue de Hesse, please.”

  Without another word the chauffeur pulled away and five minutes later, they were deposited in front of a grand building in the heart of Geneva’s business district.

  As the car drew to a stop, the enormity of the situation hit Scott for the first time. He was about to find out about his father, the locket in his hand held the key to whatever it was his father wanted to ensure he and only he would ever see. As the chauffeur held the door open, Scott paused. Ashley sensed the trepidation and took hold of his hand, squeezing it gently. Scott squeezed gently back and smiling at Ashley stepped out of the car. The doors opened at precisely 9.00 a.m. and Scott and Ashley walked past the elegantly dressed doorman into the opulence of the main lobby. A smartly dressed young clerk appeared from thin air.

  “Sir und Frau des guten morgens,” he offered with a smile.

  “Good morning,” replied Ashley.

  “Ah, good morning,” he responded in accentless English. “How can I help?”

  “We need to discuss an account,” said Scott stepping forward.

  “But of course, please come with me.” The clerk led them to an ante-room off the lobby and offered them a seat on one of two sofas in the small room. He left without another word.

  Scott was not in the mood for sitting around and as the clerk left the room, he stood up and began to pace nervously. On his seventh circuit, the door opened and an exceptionally well dressed man in his late forties entered the room. Everything down to the shine of his shoes was impeccable. His hair greying but perfectly coiffed, his suit obviously the finest Saville Row had to offer, his watch discretely Swiss and pen, of course Mont Blanc.

  “Good morning, my name is Herr Krauss and I am one of the managers here at Rothschild.”

  Scott walked towards Herr Krauss and offered him his hand.

  “Hi. I’m Scott and this is Ashley.”

  Herr Krauss shook Scott’s and then Ashley’s hand.

  Good morning “Ashley…” he said as he shook her hand.

  “Jones,” replied Ashley.

  “Ah I think we have spoken previously Miss Jones, have we not?”

  Ashley blushed slightly as she had to admit she did not remember Herr Krauss. However, there was every possibility she had spoken to him. She had tried many times to access the account and in fact had received more than one warning that her interest in an account not in her name was unwelcome and most definitely not legal.

  Herr Krauss, however, was ever the professional and noting Ashley’s slight embarrassment quickly changed the subject. “I’m sorry Scott I did not catch your surname?”

  “It’s just Scott,” replied Scott matter of factly, as though it were perfectly normal.

  Again, Herr Krauss ever the professional let the matter pass.

  “Do you have any details for the account in question?”

  Scott handed over the locket along with a copy of the details they had written on a separate sheet of paper.

  Herr Krauss immediately recognised the number. His mind worked with account numbers in the same way that other people’s worked with faces. Once he saw a number once, he never forgot it. He most definitely had spoken to Ashley previously. He also remembered the account had a number of conditions to be met but only as each were met would the next become apparent.

  “If you’ll just excuse me for a moment,” he said as he exited the room.

  Two minutes later, the door opened and the clerk walked into the room. Scott’s heart immediately sank. After all that, it seemed the account was a dead end.

  “If you’ll just follow me please,” he asked holding the door for Scott and Ashley.

  Ashley could see the disappointment in Scott’s face and put her arm around him as they walked back into the lobby. However, instead of taking them to the front door, the clerk directed them to a nearby elevator. Showing them in, he selected the top floor and the lift slowly ascended five floors. The opulence of the lobby was nothing compared to the grandeur of the executive suite. The plush carpets and exquisitely panelled walls were adorned with what were obviously priceless works of art. The corridor itself would have put most art galleries to shame. The clerk directed them towards the end of the corridor and after a cursory knock on the door, opened the door onto a luxuriously appointed corner office. Herr Krauss sat behind his desk and waved them onwards towards two chairs sitting in front of his desk.

  “Please, sit down. Tea or coffee?” he offered.

  “Coffee please,” replied Ashley.

  “Just water for me thanks,” said Scott.

  “Apologies for the cloak and dagger downstairs but Miss Jones was recognised as a previous visitor. However, your accompanying her did peak our interest. I am not a manager but am in fact the Banks Senior Director of Private Banking. The account Miss Jones has previously tried to access is one of our most secure and as such any reference to it causes some concern.”

  “I apologise for any concern I may have caused but the contents of this account are ve
ry important to both of us and will perhaps explain the death of our parents,” explained Ashley.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your loss, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait just a little longer,” replied Herr Krauss rising from his seat and taking his embroidered handkerchief from his jacket pocket, walked towards Scott. Dipping the end of the handkerchief in a glass of water that sat on the edge of his desk, he asked, “May I?” as he placed the end of the handkerchief on Scott’s temple and his cluster of moles.

  Scott shrugged at the strangeness of the request and sat perfectly still as Herr Krauss rubbed his moles with the handkerchief. Content that they were in fact real he said. “Thank you. Now if you don’t mind waiting, my predecessor Herr Meyer is on his way and will be here shortly.”

  “Why?” asked Ashley confused as to why Herr Krauss could not deal with the matter.

  “A stipulation of the account I’m afraid. Herr Meyer knew the account holder personally.”

  “But what if he were dead?” asked Scott suddenly aware that his fate may rest in the hands of an elderly banker.

  “That eventuality is covered but as Herr Meyer is fighting fit and enjoying his retirement to the full, there is no requirement to go down that route,” explained Krauss.

  The phone rang on his desk and rather than answer it in front of them he excused himself and left the room to take the call elsewhere.

  “I don’t like it!” whispered Scott. ‘We’ve effectively announced that we’re alive and now we’re having to wait for a retired banker to come in from wherever he is. I think it’s a set up.”

  Ashley kicked herself for not having thought the same. She had blindly accepted everything Herr Krauss had said. The reputation of Swiss bankers had certainly worked its magic on her.

  Scott stood up and walked across to the window.

  “I think we should get out of here, we can follow Herr Krauss home after work and interrogate him to find out who he’s working for.”

  Looking down on the lanes of traffic, Scott noticed a car erratically swerving from lane to lane, its final manoeuvre of skidding to a stop in front of the bank’s front doors making Scott’s decision for him.

  He stormed across the room, grabbed Ashley’s hand and dragging her out of her seat said, “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 51

  “Eduardo, my friend, I’m so grateful you didn’t come to my dinner,” said Sam as he took the call.

  “Wrong Eduardo, I’m afraid. This is Eduardo Jnr. Well I was!” spat Eduardo Ramirez’s son.

  Sam was taken aback. He assumed Eduardo was calling back after their earlier call.

  “I’m sorry what do you mean - was?”

  “You know exactly what I mean, you fuck!”

  “I’m sorry I have no idea what you mean. I spoke to your father a few hours ago,” replied an indignant Sam.

  “So you’re trying to tell me after you threaten him to stay away, it’s just fucking coincidence his helicopter crashes and he dies?”

  “Holy shit, I’m sorry I had no idea. I promise you this was nothing to do with me.”

  “Save it for the dumb fucks that believe a word you say, you fuck. You’re a dead man, you hear me, a fucking dead man!!” Eduardo slammed the phone down.

  Max watched and waited as Sam replaced the handset.

  “Eduardo Ramirez is dead,” explained Sam.

  “Who?”

  “A man I knew once. Anyway, it seems his son thinks I did it.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “He’ll calm down. I’m sure he’ll be fine,” reassured Max.

  “No, you don’t know young Eduardo, he’s crazy. His father was the only person who could keep him in check. He wants me dead and won’t rest until it’s done.”

  “Do you want me to deal with it?”

  “Please, but be careful. Don’t underestimate Ramirez. Also he may have papers that could damage me. His father was a sneaky bastard.”

  “I’ll handle it personally.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter 52

  “Where are you going?” protested Herr Krauss as Scott and Ashley stormed out of his office.

  “Do you have a back door to this place?” asked Scott brushing past the banker roughly.

  “But Herr Mayer has just arrived. He got here as fast as he could,” pleaded Krauss.

  Scott paused. He hadn’t waited to see who exited the car, an error in normal circumstances he would never have made. The thoughts of his father, concern for Ashley’s safety and avenging the islanders were all clouding his judgement. He had been trained to detach himself from emotions and act on instinct. However it was only now that he realised how badly they could affect his judgement.

  “OK, we’ll stay but if Herr Meyer isn’t in the office within two minutes we’re leaving.” Even if it weren’t Herr Meyer in the car, Scott could handle a car load of guys.

  Ninety seconds later, a tanned and fit seventy year old bounded into the room, dressed as impeccably as Herr Krauss. Herr Meyer may have been retired but he would never lose the banker look.

  As he caught sight of the two clients, he immediately stopped and gawped at Scott, in a very unbankerly fashion. His mouth literally dropped as he caught sight of Scott’s face.

  “Oh my God, you are the image of your father!” he exclaimed.

  Scott was instantly captivated and walked across to Herr Meyer and taking him by the hand sat him down on the sofa.

  “Herr Krauss, please bring the paperwork.” Meyer said quietly unable to take his eyes off Scott’s face.

  “You knew my father?” asked Scott, desperately wanting to confirm that he had just heard correctly.

  “A wonderful man,” replied Meyer. “A truly wonderful man.”

  Herr Krauss returned quickly with the paperwork for the account and placed it in front of Herr Meyer.

  “Now please, if you don’t mind, can you both wait outside while I discuss this young man’s account.” Meyer looked at Krauss and Ashley, confirming he meant them.

  “I’d rather Ashley stayed,” insisted Scott.

  “Impossible. I will only discuss the account with the account holder,” replied Meyer adamantly.

  Ashley rose from her seat and winked at Scott before following Krauss from the room.

  As the door closed and Meyer was happy they were alone, he turned to Scott.

  “What do you know about your father?” he asked.

  “Absolutely nothing, I don’t even know his name,” said Scott.

  “Well I can certainly tell you that…And a lot more.”

  Chapter 53

  The flight from New York landed twenty minutes early and ensured Mike Hunter would make his early morning meeting with Charles Russell with time to spare. The head of the Unit had decided to take personal charge of the operation; it wasn’t every day they were given the task of assassinating one of the world’s foremost leaders. His car was waiting exactly where it was supposed to be and within forty minutes, he was leaving the greyness of London’s mayhem for the greenery and tranquillity of London’s largest royal park.

  Regent’s Park was an oasis of calm in an otherwise bustling city and covered over 480 acres, it was one of eight royal parks in the greater London area and was the largest within central London. Originally, fifty six villas were planned to be built within the royal grounds but only eight ever were, making them some of the most sought after real estate in the world. One villa, Winfield House, home to the American Ambassador had the largest private gardens outside of Buckingham Palace. Another was home to Charles Russell, the head of Transcon EMEA and had recently been valued in the $150 – 200 million bracket.

  As the car drew up to the grand mansion, Hunter struggled to believe that they were in the middle of a park in the centre of one of the busiest cities in the world. Had he fallen asleep during the trip and woken at the front door, he would have sworn they were deep in the English countryside visiting some grand stately home. B
efore he had a chance to open the door, a butler had opened it for him and taken his small bag for him.

  Refusing to let his bag out of his sight, Hunter quickly followed the butler and was led through the grand hallway into an adjoining library which Hunter reckoned was bigger than his whole apartment. Safely reunited with his bag, Hunter relaxed and took a seat on the sofa in front of the roaring fire, set in the largest fireplace Hunter had ever seen.

  Charles Russell entered the room dressed from head to toe in tweed, looking every bit the English country gent. His accent, however, put to rest to any doubt.

  “Good morning, Mike,” was delivered in a thick Texan accent.

  “Good morning Mr Russell,” replied Hunter somewhat nervously. Despite working for Transcon for many years, Mike Hunter had very little interaction with the bosses. Most of his contact was through Walker who had guarded the secrecy of the Transcon bosses with religious fervour. It was only recently that Hunter had actually put two and two together and with Walker’s retirement and Max Ernst’s involvement, all had become clear.

  “Please call me Charles. Now, how are we progressing?” asked Charles taking the seat facing Hunter.

  “Very well, I have already contacted a number of freelancers who are, as we speak arriving in London. After our meeting, I will be giving them their final instructions and I believe by this time tomorrow, the country should be mourning the tragic loss of its Prime Minister.”

  “Excellent. Any tie back to us?”

  “Absolutely not, Sir. All are freelancers who work for the highest bidder. No member of our staff will be involved. My meeting will be by telephone only, using voice distorters and secure lines. The freelancers will probably assume Al Qaeda is stepping up the war on the West.”

  “Well good luck and let’s hope by tomorrow we’ve got a new Prime Minister.” Charles stood up, as good a signal to Hunter as any that their meeting was over.

  “We will,” assured Hunter as he stood up and walked out of the room, the doors to the library opening for him as though by magic. The butler stood waiting and escorted him back to his waiting car.