‘Love one.’
Dave led me through a couple of miles of corridor to a huge lounge, with picture windows overlooking a large lawn and a swimming pool. Now Dave was about my age. And this place had cost a packet.
‘Nice place, innit?’ he said, following my eyes. ‘Shame it’s not mine.’
‘Oh, you mean the building society own it?’
‘Worse. Dekker. If I can’t meet next month’s mortgage payment, which I can’t, they’ll repossess. I’m desperate to sell it before then.’
‘Don’t you have any savings?’
‘All tied up in the employee trusts, aren’t they? I can’t get hold of them if I’m dismissed for bad faith. So, you could say I’m up shit creek.’
‘Have you tried to get another job?’
‘Yeah. I tried. No chance. I don’t know how Ricardo did it, but you’d think I was Nick Leeson, the way they treat me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Teresa came in with two mugs of tea. ‘Thanks, love,’ said Dave, taking his. He sipped it and then answered my question. ‘Sell this place. I’ve got some old mates from my forex days who’ll back me to buy a pub. Then Teresa and I’ll run it. Quite honestly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ve had enough of the City.’
‘So have I,’ said Teresa.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said.
‘So you got the boot too?’ Dave asked.
‘Not quite. I jumped.’
‘Why?’
I told him about my reservations about Dekker, and about Isabel’s kidnapping. He was shocked.
‘She’s a nice chick. Bright, too. So, they don’t know whether she’s still alive?’
‘No.’
‘Nor who the kidnappers are?’
‘No, again. Kidnapping is an industry in Brazil. This kind of thing happens all the time.’
‘Like bankers getting topped for their wallets?’
I looked at him sharply. ‘You told IFR you were suspicious about that. Why?’
‘It was no more than that, a suspicion. But a strong one. There are all those numbered accounts at Dekker Trust, supposedly overseen by Eduardo. Ricardo says he knows where all that money comes from, but I’m not convinced he does. And you know Eduardo. He’d happily turn a blind eye.’
‘OK, so there might be some dodgy money there. But that’s not proof, really, is it?’
‘No. But there’s talk in the market.’
‘Talk?’
‘Yeah. Everyone knows Chalmet handles dodgy money, and they own twenty-nine per cent of Dekker Ward. Now they’re beginning to talk about us, too. Ricardo doesn’t hear that stuff, of course, no one would dare to say that kind of thing to his face. But I’ve heard stuff down the pub over a few pints.’
‘And you think it’s true?’
‘I wasn’t sure at first. I ignored it. But I thought it was interesting when that bloke Martin Beldecos started rooting around. He was asking difficult questions, and waiting till he got answers that made sense. Then he was conveniently murdered. And when you got yourself stabbed, it was too much of a coincidence.’
‘So you talked to someone at IFR?’
‘Yeah. Big mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he wrote about “sources inside Dekker Ward”, didn’t he? Then he spoke to me on the phone here. I reckon Eduardo was tapping it somehow. That’s how they caught me.’
‘But why did you talk to him? You knew Ricardo wouldn’t like it if he found out.’
Dave sipped his tea, and glanced at Teresa. ‘I dunno. It just seemed wrong. A bloke murdered, another guy attacked, everyone wringing their hands, no one asking the right questions. I’d been thinking a lot about it, and it didn’t make sense. I’d probably have kept my trap shut but we’d had a few beers, and I thought, What the hell? It just sort of slipped out. I didn’t think it’d blow up in my face like that.’
I nodded. Maybe I should have asked more questions.
‘I went to the police, you know,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. After they fired me. I was so pissed off I wanted to get back at them somehow.’
‘And what did the police say?’
‘It was a complete waste of time.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, a murder in Venezuela is hardly their jurisdiction, is it? And Martin Beldecos was an American citizen, technically resident in the Cayman Islands. I mean, it was a total non-starter.’
‘What about the money-laundering? Weren’t they interested in that?’
‘They was. Sort of. But Ricardo’s clever. You see, most of his activities are not really regulated by anyone.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, to start with, Dekker Ward, the stockbroker, is regulated by the Securities and Futures Authority, not the Bank of England. The SFA is less worried about money-laundering. Then Ricardo’s biz is all run from Canary Wharf, and the SFA deals mostly with head office in the City. Most emerging-markets trading is unregulated anyway, it’s not like trading on the London Stock Exchange. They keep a close eye on that. Anyway, many of Ricardo’s trades are booked through Dekker Trust in the Caymans, which is a legally unrelated company, so it’s outside the UK authorities’ control.’
‘I see.’ Ricardo had woven a compliance web that it was nobody’s job to untangle.
‘So, they keep a watching brief. As long as money isn’t being laundered in London, which it isn’t strictly speaking, there’s not much more they’ll do.’
‘And what about the police?’
‘Not much better. If I can come up with a “suspicious transaction”, they’ll bung it on a computer somewhere. Apparently they have banks reporting hundreds of dodgy transactions all the time.’
I thought all this over. ‘Last month I came across a fax for Martin Beldecos from the United Bank of Canada. It said that the US DEA are investigating Francisco Aragão and that they’d traced a payment from him to Dekker Trust. Maybe they’ll tie him in with Dekker. He is Ricardo’s brother-in-law, after all.’
‘Francisco Aragão, eh?’ Dave rubbed his chin. ‘Well, that would make sense. He sounds very dodgy.’ He sighed. ‘You could try telling them, I suppose, but don’t hold your breath.’ Dave saw my frown. ‘The best thing to do is to forget it, Nick. There’s nothing you or I can do to get back at Dekker. Look, when I get my pub, will you come in for a drink?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If you let me know where it is.’
‘I’ll do that.’
I stood up to leave. Dave gave me a lift to the station. As I was getting out of the car, he called to me. ‘Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Be careful. When Dekker Ward have it in for you, they can get nasty.’
‘I will.’ I smiled grimly, shut the door, and turned into the station.
Despite Dave’s scepticism about the DEA, I thought it worth trying them. Now I had left Dekker there was nothing to lose. So, doing my best to ignore the damage it would do to my phone bill, I asked International Directory Enquiries for the number of United Bank of Canada in the Bahamas, and dialled it. I soon got through to Donald Winters.
‘Good morning. It’s Nick Elliot here, from Dekker Ward in London. I’m a colleague of Martin Beldecos’s.’
‘Oh, yes. What can I do to help you, Mr Elliot?’
Luckily, it seemed that Winters hadn’t heard about Martin’s death.
‘You sent a fax to Martin last month mentioning that you had linked a payment to our Caymans affiliate with Francisco Aragão.’
‘That’s right. That was something to do with a lawyer called Tony Hempel, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so. You said something about Francisco Aragão being under investigation by the US Drugs Enforcement Agency?’
‘Yeah. I’m not sure what became of that. We haven’t heard anything more from them. But I can give you the number of my contact there if you’re interested.’
I wrote down the name and number, thanked W
inters, and hung up.
I dialled the new number. It was somewhere in the United States, but I wasn’t familiar with the city code so I didn’t know exactly where.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. ‘Donnelly.’
‘Good morning. This is Nicholas Elliot from Dekker Ward in London. Donald Winters at United Bank of Canada gave me your name.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘I have some information relating to Francisco Aragão, who I believe you’re investigating.’
‘Shoot.’
So I told him about Martin’s fax, Martin’s death, and my own attack. I could hear the scribbling on the other end of the line.
‘Do you have a copy of this fax?’ Donnelly asked.
‘No, but you can get the information from Donald Winters if you need it.’
‘OK.’ More scribbling. ‘Have you reported your suspicions about this Martin Beldecos’s murder, or the assault on you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure who to talk to about it.’
‘I understand. Well, thank you very much for the information Mr, ah, Elliot. Can you give me a number where I can reach you?’
I gave him my home number. But I didn’t want him to disappear without telling me what he was going to do.
‘Are you going to investigate this?’ I asked.
There was a moment’s pause, a pause of impatience.
‘This may be useful intelligence, Mr Elliot. We are pursuing a number of investigations at the present time, and this might help us.’
‘But will you investigate Dekker?’ I asked, unable to keep the exasperation from my voice.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t disclose who or what we’re investigating. But thank you for the information, Mr Elliot, and we know where we can reach you. Now, goodbye.’
I put down the phone. I was disappointed. I supposed I had hoped that squads of agents would fly out to London immediately to question Ricardo and Eduardo. But that obviously wasn’t going to happen.
I tried to think of it from the DEA’s point of view. They probably had a target in mind. Perhaps it was Francisco Aragão. Presumably they would use any information they could to help them nail that target, but they wouldn’t necessarily allow themselves to be sidetracked by suspicions that were, I had to admit, unsubstantiated.
In some ways I felt better, though. I had done my duty, I had reported what I knew to the proper authority. Maybe now I could forget Dekker.
But I couldn’t forget Isabel.
‘Well, you have caused a stir, haven’t you?’
We were in my local, the Pembroke Castle. Jamie had dropped by for a quick pint, as he had promised.
‘Tell me.’
‘There’s the story in the Rio papers. But you know about that, presumably.’
‘I knew it was coming. What did it say?’
‘It said that last month’s finance scandal involving Humberto Alves and narco-traffickers in the favelas was entirely fabricated by Dekker Ward. That Oswaldo Bocci agreed to publish the story in return for finance to expand his empire.’
‘Sounds accurate to me,’ I said.
‘Well, it certainly touched a nerve. Ricardo is disturbed. Seriously disturbed. And Eduardo is positively raving. He’s not a happy bunny.’
I smiled. I liked the idea of niggling Eduardo.
‘You’ve got to watch it, Nick,’ Jamie went on. ‘These are powerful enemies you’re making.’
‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘The way Ricardo torpedoed the favela deal was outrageous, you know that. All Luís is doing is setting the record straight.’
‘Well, Ricardo holds you responsible.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘You tell him that.’
I sipped my pint. ‘I saw Dave today,’ I said.
‘How is he?’
‘Pissed off. Ricardo has dumped on him. He hasn’t been able to get another job in the City.’
‘So what’s he going to do?’
‘He’s got some mates of his to buy a pub somewhere. He plans to manage it with Teresa.’
‘Not a bad job for him.’
‘Yes.’ I paused a moment. ‘You know, he thinks there’s something going on at Dekker. That Martin Beldecos was murdered because he stumbled across something at Dekker Trust.’
‘Does he have any proof?’ asked Jamie.
‘No. He spoke to the police, but they weren’t interested. And I spoke to the DEA in America today.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. They took down the details, but they didn’t seem that interested either.’
‘Ricardo doesn’t know you’ve been talking to Dave and the DEA, does he?’
I shook my head. Then I thought about Dave’s suspicion that Eduardo was tapping his phone. Oh, no.
‘Well, make sure he doesn’t find out,’ Jamie said. ‘I don’t know whether there is anything in this money-laundering stuff. And I don’t want to know. But I do know that Ricardo is angrier than I’ve ever seen him. It’s scary.’
‘Can you keep your eye out for anything suspicious?’
‘No, Nick, I can not. I will keep my head well down on this one. Here, let me get you another beer.’
23
I was woken by the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering. I sat up in bed, and tried to get my bearings. There was loud banging from the sitting room. I threw myself out of bed, and lurched through the door, still wearing only my underpants.
There were three of them, big, hard men dressed in T-shirts and jeans. I threw myself at the nearest one, sending him crashing into a bookshelf.
‘Get him!’
Strong hands pulled at my arms. I clung on to the man underneath me, trying to force my arm round his throat. He bucked and kicked. The two others broke my grip free, and hauled me to my feet. The man I had jumped on, staggered upright and kicked me hard in the balls. I cried out, and felt sick. Then there was a blow to my back that just missed my kidney, and a knee came smashing up into my face. My cheek stung and I tasted blood, but it was my groin that still hurt most. I tried to double up but they wouldn’t let me. Then something hard hit me on the side of the head and it all went black.
‘Ambulance! Quick!’
The crackle of a police radio. Someone kneeling down next to me. ‘He’s breathing. Hit on the head. Check the bedroom!’
I lay there, playing dead. I didn’t have the energy to move, even to open my eyes. My body hurt all over. There was the continued sound of movement around me, the gentle weight of a blanket laid over my semi-naked body and then the wail of a siren. Strong arms lifted me on to a stretcher. I felt cold air against my face. I opened my eyes.
I was in the street outside my flat. Although it was night, there seemed to be lights everywhere, orange from the street lamps, flashing blue from the ambulance.
A man dressed in bright green overalls leaned over me. ‘Hang on. You’ll be all right, son.’
They slotted me into the back of the ambulance. The pain screamed throughout my body. I was enormously tired. Everything went black again.
My second visit to hospital was briefer than my first. I was let out late the next morning with instructions to come back if my headache got worse. There was a sore spot on my skull, but my head felt fuzzy rather than in pain. I had bruises all over me; one in my back and one in my thigh really hurt.
I took the taxi home with trepidation. The flat was a mess. They had stolen a couple of things, some gold cuff-links my parents had given me for my eighteenth birthday, and the video recorder. And my Apple Mac.
Oh, shit! There was three years’ worth of unfinished thesis on that. I fell into the sofa and stared at the space on the desk where it had sat. Now, think. It can’t be that bad. Under the desk were three cardboard boxes. My notes. Please God, let me have kept the rough printouts!
I rushed to the boxes and tore them open. My notes were all there and drafts of three of the chapters. But the rest? All gone. I put my head in my hands. It would take mo
nths just to re-create what I had written.
I sat on the floor, surrounded by the debris of the attack. Books were everywhere, drawers were opened. My body hurt, my head was befuddled. I had no job. I had months of boring rewriting ahead of me. And Isabel was either dead or shut up in some flea-pit thousands of miles away.
The phone rang. I crawled over to the patch of floor where it lay, and picked it up.
‘Hallo.’
‘Nick?’
I felt cold. I recognized the deep voice. It was Eduardo.
‘Yes?’
‘How are you getting on?’
‘You know damn well how I’m getting on. You just had me beaten up and my flat wrecked!’
‘You’ve been attacked? Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Eduardo made no attempt to hide the mockery in his voice. ‘There was a very unfortunate piece in the Brazilian press yesterday. Very unfortunate. Now, remember, I’m watching you. And I want you to keep quiet, do you understand me?’
‘Fuck you!’ I shouted, and slammed down the phone.
Tidying up took me a long time. I was dispirited, stiff and slow. I was interrupted by a police constable, who came round to take details of what was missing. I told him. I also told him about Eduardo’s phone call. Why the hell not? I doubted very much that they would be able to find any evidence to link him to the attack, but it might make his life a bit difficult. The constable treated me a bit like a paranoid ex-employee, which of course I was, but he promised to look into it further.
I finally finished clearing up and rang Russell Church, the head of my old department at the School of Russian Studies.
‘Nick, how are you? I was just about to phone you to thank you.’
‘Oh, really?’ What the hell was he talking about?
‘Yes. For the Dekker Ward sponsorship.’
My heart sank. Bloody hell! ‘What sponsorship?’
‘I’ve just been on the phone with a man called Ross. He says that Dekker Ward would like to provide substantial commercial sponsorship to SRS. They’ll start with a trial period of a year, and then see how it goes from there.’
‘In return for what?’
‘Well, they will want access to some of our people and our contacts. They say they’re planning to do more business in Russia. But they’re willing to pay good commercial rates for any consulting work they commission. It’s perfect. It’s just the sort of external funding we need! Well done.’
The Marketmaker Page 23