“A drink? It’s breakfast over there.”
“Yeah, now I’m gonna have a Jamieson’s for breakfast. See what you did there, baby? Man, why did you have to mention Ed Snowden?”
“I didn’t. You did,” Juliet laughed.
“Whatever.”
“You mentioned a hedge fund. Which one? I’ve got City clients. Maybe I need to pass on the warning.”
“Yeah, fuck his shit up. Fucking mini-Snowden. Let me see,” Fabio replied. I heard the click-clacking of a keyboard in the background. “Here it is, De Soto Augur. It’s a small fund, y’know, under-the-radar wealth.”
“Hey, that’s great Fabio. If you’ve got any alternative candidates, email them me?”
“I’ll do that, baby. I’m in London on the twenty-third. You free for dinner? It’d be great to catch up.”
“I can always make time for you, Fabio,” Juliet smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll book us a table at Rules.”
“Hey, Rules. I just love me some English food,” he chuckled. “Ciao bella.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
“Fabio Sebastiani, ex-National Security Agency. He heads up recruitment for Palmer-Locke.”
“You never leave the NSA,” I replied, “he sounds like a creep.”
Oz guffawed.
“We’re going for dinner on the twenty-third,” Juliet smiled. “If you’re not dead by then, feel free to join us. He’ll be bringing his husband, a guy called Greg.”
I looked at my feet. “We were talking about Kris Pilbeam and De Soto Augur.”
Hugh tapped furiously at his laptop. “De Soto appears to be a boutique hedge fund in The City of London.”
“Did you say boutique?” said Oz. “They sell bloody ladies’ fashion?”
Hugh ignored him. “According to this profile, they specialise in global macroeconomic investment modelling.”
“Huh?” said Oz and I simultaneously.
Juliet peered at me over her coffee cup, eyebrow raised. “They’ll long or short their investments, based on geopolitical strategic developments.”
“Exactly so,” Hugh replied. “Half the fund is off-shored in Grand Cayman, the rest in Luxembourg. The last available projection suggests they’re worth seven-hundred and fifty million dollars.”
Oz whistled. “That’s a lot of dough.”
“Actually, it isn’t in hedge fund terms,” Juliet shrugged, “but if they box clever, outfits that size can return a higher investment yield than the bigger players.”
I stood up and stretched. I needed to feel the sun on my face. “It might be linked to The Firm, either as an asset or a target. We need a sit-down with Pilbeam.”
“You can’t run around London kidnapping people,” said Juliet.
“That’s a shame,” Oz dead-panned. “We’re really good at it.”
I headed for the door. “Hugh, where is De Soto Augur’s office?”
The technician’s face was screwed up in concentration. “It’s a backwater off Wormwood Street, not far from Liverpool Street station. You’re looking for 11 Brokenlance Path.”
“Let’s check it out,” said Oz, heading for the door.
Juliet nodded curtly. “Take care. If you need me I’ll be at the office. Hugh, are you happy to stay and help?”
The Yorkshireman gulped coffee, eyes fixed on the screen. “Yes please. I’m just putting together a pivot table of De Soto’s key investments, I’m going to cross-reference them with the details of known intelligence agency covert assets…”
“Quite,” she smiled. “I’ll see you later.”
“Hugh, I need to know who owns their office. Business records, title deeds, rental agreements… anything you can pull.”
“Perhaps when you get back from the field, you’ll treat me to the deluxe egg-sucking display,” he replied.
Leaving Hugh delving the internet, Oz and I set off. It was safer taking a taxi to The City than driving. London’s financial district has the sort of automatic number plate recognition you read about in Sci-Fi stories. I didn’t want the BMW clocked. We took a black cab to Liverpool Street and bought coffee. I opened my day sack and we shrugged on yellow jackets and hard hats.
“It really is like Harry Potter’s cloak,” said Oz, stuffing his feet into a pair of scuffed workman’s boots.
Brokenlance Path stood in the shadow of soaring office blocks, incongruous next to a tiny medieval church. Stepping off the busy main road, it was suddenly quiet. The roar of traffic became a hum, as if we’d stepped into a strange acoustic maze. One side of the street was bathed in afternoon sunlight, the other chilly in the shadow of skyscrapers.
De Soto Augur’s office was a ‘70s-vintage building. Dark grey concrete. Brownish-framed windows, narrow and glass-frosted. A cluster of satellite dishes were visible on the roof, neatly arranged along a scaffolding gantry. There was a fire escape at the side of the building, but no visible rear access. It overlooked a small strip of lawn, dotted with shrubs and benches. Not quite a park. Office workers sat on the grass, chatting over cigarettes and coffee. A tramp dozed in a sunny corner.
“Not very Wolf of Wall Street is it?” said Oz.
“Quite. Take a look at the security,” I replied.
“Very Gucci.”
The CCTV infrastructure was expertly sited, thermal imaging cameras covering all angles of approach. That included skywards, aimed at the roofs of neighbouring office buildings. The doors were the sort you’d find on a Swiss bank vault. Motion-sensitive lights were set at regular intervals along the front and side walls. All it was missing were electric fences and machinegun nests.
We sat on a low wall, next to the narrow apron of grass out of the CCTVs arc. The door to De Soto Augur remained shut. No movement at the windows. Oz wiped cappuccino froth from his top lip, “The place looks empty.”
“Nah, there’s someone home. Look at the deck.” A row of thick glass studs were set into the pavement, either side of the front door. They reflected light from below. “All the action is downstairs.”
“So we break in from the roof?”
“Maybe. Let’s test the physical security.”
I checked out the homeless guy snoozing in the park. He woke up, yawning and stretching. In his twenties, he was rangy and fit-looking, lounging on a length of cardboard. He began making a roll-up cigarette. His broad, flat face and narrow eyes looked Slavic. I walked over and offered my hand. “Hello mate. I wondered if you wanted to make a hundred quid?”
“There is no such thing as free lunch,” he grunted in heavily-accented English. “Do you have light?”
I flipped open my Zippo. “That’s true. See that building over there? I work for the company that put the alarms in. We’re testing response times. I’ll give you a hundred, just to bang on the doors until they open.”
He looked me up and down, lip curled. “Your story is bullshit. But I take money for banging on door, if that is what you want.”
“Smart and pragmatic. I knew you were the man for the job.” I handed him the money in used tenners. He counted it carefully before putting it in his pocket.
We watched him fold up his piece of cardboard and slide it in a shopping bag. Extinguishing his roll-up, he tucked it behind his ear, nodded at me and strolled across the grass. He stopped and examined the grimly-appointed offices of De Soto Augur. He approached the door. Balling his fist, he went to bang on it. A Hispanic guy in a dark suit emerged from the alleyway at the side of the building. He was built like a runner, sinewy and lithe. Cobra-fast, he grabbed the homeless man’s wrist and steered him into the shadows. They were joined by another suit wearing shades. He was white, with high-and-tight hair and a quarterback’s shoulders.
“Fuck me, that was quick,” said Oz.
The white guy pressed two fingers to his ear. I saw the translucent spiral of an earpiece as he studied the street. The Hispanic security operative spoke quietly to the homeless man. The homeless guy was angry, shouting in Polish. White guy s
queezed the homeless man’s upper arm. He winced in pain and shut up. The three of them moved out of sight. They’d appeared, intercepted and withdrawn in seconds. Like trap-door spiders.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“No,” said Oz. “There could be more of them. Probably armed.”
“I put that bloke in harm’s way. We go.” I wanted to test the security response, not get some poor bastard beaten up.
Shaking his head, Oz followed me, “since when were you a knight in rusty armour?”
“Since now.”
The alleyway was a dark, angular crease between buildings. It smelt of disinfectant, a fire door ajar at the far end. The security men had the homeless man pushed up against the wall. One spoke quietly, the other counting the money I’d just handed over.
“Is there a problem?” I said easily.
“Things are cool, sir,” said the Hispanic guy. He had that firm, no-bullshit style Yanks call ‘Command Presence.’ His accent was American, eyes deep-set in a pock-marked face. Smartly-suited, his spit-polished shoes were sensible lace-ups with a rubber sole.
I got close enough to take a good look at them, Oz at my shoulder. White security guy was similarly dressed. A green para-cord survival bracelet peeped from his cuff, next to a Marathon GSAR dive watch. He had a shrapnel scar on his temple, pale white against a weather-beaten face. These men were ex-military, veterans. You could dress them up in clown costumes and they’d look dangerous. From their eyes, I saw they’d made a similar assessment of us. I felt a spurt of adrenaline. Fight or flight.
White security guy stuffed the money back in the homeless man’s pocket. He looked us up and down, taking in our yellow safety jackets and hard hats. “This is private property, sir. We’re gonna escort this trespasser off-site. Then we’re done here.” The American was softly-spoken but firm, a man used to being obeyed. “You will follow him.”
“It looked funny, that’s all,” said Oz. “We thought maybe…”
“Perfectly understandable. We’re simply protecting this building. You appreciate the security situation in the UK at the moment.”
Hispanic guy nodded. “Sorry if we appeared heavy-handed.” He made a show of dusting off the homeless man’s shoulders. “There you go, my friend. No hard feelings.”
“Sorry if I got the wrong impression,” I replied, making eye contact with the homeless man. Follow me now.
“No problem,” said the American, reaching for his gel earpiece.
The three of us strode away, across the park and away from Brokenlance Path. The homeless man trailed us, muttering under his breath.
“We’re proper compromised,” said Oz, “expect surveillance.”
“It’s already here,” I replied. A woman with a green jacket broke the building line as we walked away. Flustered. She was too fast around the corner, but too slow at correcting the mistake. A taxi headed towards us. I hailed it, ducking into cover behind a red London bus. Momentarily lost from sight from the woman in green, I bundled the homeless man inside.
Oz hopped in after me. “Canary Wharf,” he said. He hit the privacy switch so the driver couldn’t hear us.
“What’s your name?” I said to the homeless man.
“Adam,” he grunted. “What was that shit all about?”
“I’m sorry, Adam. I didn’t know that would happen.”
He rummaged through his shopping bag, checking his stuff. “I thought those men would beat me up.”
“Let us drop you somewhere. I’ll pay you another hundred for your trouble.”
Adam’s eyes lit up. “Hey, no problem. I go to Acton? I have friend there.”
I handed him another hundred and peeled off fifty extra for the taxi driver. “Change of plan, we’ll get off here,” I said. “Take this guy to Acton, please.”
The driver nodded and pulled over. We were near a busy street market. I looked around for watchers. I saw nothing.
“Hey, before you go,” said Adam, hand snaking into the pocket of his grubby jacket. “This is for you.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“While they roughed me up, I stole the Mexican-looking guy’s wallet.” Adam peeled a wad of twenties from a leather billfold. He took the money and tossed me the wallet. “Now I have more money, and you have clues. We all win, yes?”
Oz smiled.
“You are like private detectives, I think. Or maybe spies,” said Adam quietly. His eyes, dark and red-rimmed, glittered. “And once upon a time I was a thief. It’s all the same shit, when you think about it, this life.”
“I make you right,” I said.
“When you’re ready, gents,” grumbled the driver through the intercom.
I shook hands with the Pole. He laughed. “Good luck, Mister-whoever-you-are.”
“We’ll need it,” said Oz.
Eyes about for watchers, we melted into the backstreets.
Chapter eleven
We passed Bangladeshi restaurants, in the shadow of a crescent-domed mosque. The aroma of exhaust fumes and spice filled my nose, women in black veils avoiding eye contact. A shoal of kids on bicycles circled slowly, hoods pulled over their heads despite the sun. They sniffed us out, looking for targets. They smelt something they didn’t like and cycled away.
Walking south, we hit Commercial Street. “We’re clean,” said Oz. “If we’re being followed they’re too good for me.”
We found a pub on the edge of a council estate. It was mid-afternoon quiet inside, a couple of builders nursing pints and vaping. I ordered cold beers from the tattooed lady behind the bar and found a corner table.
“How many Americans do you see working security in London?” said Oz.
I downed my pint in two gulps. Iced nectar. “None. Yanks don’t work static security, even in the City. Those were the type you see doing hard-core contracting, not gate-watching.”
“What’s in the wallet?”
I pulled the stolen billfold out of my pocket. There was a California driver’s licence, a pre-pay money card and the usual wallet litter. The driving licence was in the name of Mike Fernandez. San Diego address. That’s a military town, full of Navy and Marines. I pulled out receipts and business cards, which I expected to be carefully policed. No clues. That’s the way we were trained, too.
Oz sipped his pint. “What now?”
“Another beer.”
Oz pulled a face. “A solid plan, Captain Winter, except you’re a raging alcoholic.”
“It’s just beer. I’ve been dry six months.”
Shaking his head, Oz ambled to the bar.
I re-checked the wallet litter. There were receipts for sandwiches at cafes near De Soto’s office, along with a week-old London Underground travel card. A slip told me he’d changed two thousand dollars into pounds sterling at Heathrow. I made one last check of the wallet.
Then I found it.
Most men have a weakness. I’ve met those who didn’t, men with personalities like machines. They’re nasty bastards, people without vices. The clue was tucked inside a slit in the billfold’s silk lining, well-thumbed and carefully folded. In London, we’d call it a Tom Card. They were plastered over West End telephone boxes, advertising sexual services. They’d feature a picture of a generic porn actress and a contact number. Most of the trade had moved online, but for those careful punters who didn’t want to surrender their IP address to a pimp, the cards were a safe alternative.
This one showed a picture of a Japanese geisha. The dark-haired girl looked shyly away from the camera, kimono open to display cleavage you’d lose more than your wallet in. Her white-powdered skin contrasted with scarlet, bee-stung lips.
MISTRESS NATSUMI – COME AND PLAY
The card had a telephone number and the name LUCY scrawled on the back.
“What’s that?” said Oz, sitting down with two more pints.
“A Tom Card,” I replied.
Oz examined it. “Who’s Lucy?”
“My guess is it’s ‘Mistress Natsumi’s
’ real name. That’ll be her off-duty number. Our man has a thing for the girl, and she’s offered up her genuine details. So maybe she’s got a thing for him too.”
Oz sat down. “You seem very sure of yourself. Gone out with many prostitutes?”
I raised an eyebrow, “one or two.” I’d known Oz for years, but we seldom discussed relationships.
“How did that work out?” he asked.
“Toms are people, just like you and me,” I said. “Fucking hell, it’s cleaner work than ours.”
Oz nodded sadly. He traced a finger down the condensation on his beer glass. “I ain’t gonna argue.”
“Rule number one is they don’t date punters, except when they do. Which is why when you fall for a working girl, you can fall badly. Forbidden fruit, to the power of ten.”
Oz shook his head. “Maybe I’m just a simple country boy from the fens, but it’s a sad business.”
“You did eighteen years in the Royal Marines and never…”
Oz took a gulp of beer and shrugged. “It ain’t my thing. What do we do now?”
I tapped the number from my card into the phone. “I book an appointment for some afternoon delight with Miss Natsumi. Tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”
Oz rolled his eyes.
The phone rang for what seemed like an age. “Hi there, can I help?” said a young woman’s voice. She didn’t sound very Japanese, unless Osaka was a suburb of Croydon.
I replied in my fruitiest Officer’s Mess drawl. “Miss Natsumi?”
“Yes, babe, that’s me.”
“I’d like to make an appointment. Full-girlfriend experience. Oh, and wear the kimono. That looks great on the card.”
“I like a man who gets to the point,” she replied smoothly. “Girlfriend is what I do. Hotel visit?”
I glanced at my watch. Fifteen hundred, “no, your place at six?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Okay, but it’s three hundred and fifty for the hour.”
“No problem, where are you?”
The girl reeled off an address. Pimlico, off Vauxhall Bridge Road.
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 8