Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Did you go anywhere nice?” Caslin asked.

  Walsh exhaled heavily, “Copenhagen.”

  “Beautiful,” Caslin stated.

  “It is,” Walsh agreed, “but I flew in and out. I was only there for a couple of hours.”

  “Your phone didn’t work?” Caslin said, mildly hostile. Despite accepting there could be justifiable reasons for his failure to show, Caslin still didn’t appreciate being stood up. Walsh grinned. Caslin figured it was forced.

  “I am genuinely sorry,” Walsh said. He eyed the side of Caslin’s face, taking in the bruising that was now a deeper shade of purple. “It would appear your time, since we last met, has been… eventful?” Caslin finished his pint, placing the empty glass on the table.

  “Someone followed me the other night. When we were supposed to meet,” he said, seeing no reason to keep it a secret, figuring Walsh knew more than he was letting on. He always seemed to be at least one step ahead. “But that’s not news to you is it?”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that, Nathaniel. If you weren’t already under some form of surveillance, covert or otherwise, I’m certain you would’ve been soon enough,” Walsh stated, with a brief shake of the head.

  “Were they following me or looking for you?”

  Walsh inclined his head slightly, appreciating the logic, “That, I couldn’t say.”

  “Is that why you bailed on our meeting?” Caslin challenged. Walsh met his eye.

  “I was in Copenhagen. Like I said,” he replied, adopting a defensive posture. Walsh’s associate arrived with two scotches, placing them on the table, one before each man. He then stepped aside to Caslin’s left, keeping his back to the wall and facing the open bar. His eyes never ceased scanning the room.

  “Who is following me?” Caslin asked.

  “It could be any number of people or agencies…” Walsh said with a brief shrug of his shoulders, picking up his glass. “Good health,” he said, before sipping at the contents.

  “Even yours?” Caslin asked, leaving his own drink where it had been placed. Walsh laughed. Caslin was sure it was genuine on this occasion.

  “You think I would have you followed to our own meeting and then fail to show?” he said with a smile, shaking his head in a dismissive gesture. “And people accuse me of being paranoid.” Caslin flicked his eyebrows at the absurdity of his own suggestion, sweeping up his glass and tilting it in Walsh’s direction.

  “Cheers,” he said, tasting the scotch. “If someone is following me in order to get to you, you’re taking a risk in coming here tonight.”

  “I take precautions, Nathaniel. It has become something of a habit… a very necessary one, in fact. I trust you received my little package?”

  Caslin nodded, “Yes, thank you. I guessed it came from you. Well, you’ve certainly got my attention. Care to fill in the blanks?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Your connection to Farzaad Amin. How about starting there and we’ll see how we go,” Caslin said, sitting back and stretching one arm out, resting it on the back of the seat. “You said you didn’t know him but that’s not true.”

  “We go back a way,” Walsh said, sucking air through his teeth, “and that’s not an easy question to answer.”

  “I have time,” Caslin said, revisiting his scotch.

  “I’m sure you’ve done your homework on me by now?” Walsh asked, peering over the rim of his glass as he raised it. Caslin inclined his head.

  “Naturally.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  “You’re a businessman. A very successful one by anyone’s measure,” Caslin added, “who’s turned his hand to political lobbying.”

  “Is that what they say now?” Walsh queried. “For a time, I was considered more of a revolutionary… an activist. Then I was downgraded to the more vanilla term of a campaigner. It loses some of its edge, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve also heard of a one-man crusade. How about that?” Caslin asked.

  “I do like that. It has a certain ring to it,” Walsh said, grinning. He finished his scotch. Turning to his minder, he requested a refill. Caslin followed suit, finishing his scotch in one fluid motion. Walsh indicated another for him as well.

  “Amin?” Caslin pressed.

  “Amin was one of you,” Walsh said, but before Caslin could respond, he continued, “in law enforcement, at least. Do you know how I made my fortune, the first time around?”

  “No, I didn’t get that far.”

  “You remember the Cold War and how we know now what life was like behind the Iron Curtain?” Walsh asked. Caslin indicated he did. “Well, when that period came to an abrupt, undignified end and the former Soviet States began to open up politically, for a time at least, so did the world of commerce. Out of the ruins of a failed system new markets arose like a phoenix from the flames. Prime opportunities for those who had the capital, along with the courage, to embrace them. The likes of me were welcomed with open arms. We had the expertise. We had the knowledge.”

  “A lot of people got rich,” Caslin said.

  “Very,” Walsh agreed, “almost overnight in many cases. I was one of those who started wealthy and enriched myself even further. Celebrated in Forbes, lauded by investment analysts the world over. I must admit, I thought I was a king.”

  “It didn’t last?”

  “On the contrary, the returns lasted for well over a decade… and then things began to change. A little at first, incremental changes below the surface that slipped by largely unnoticed.”

  “What kind of changes? What are we talking about here?” Caslin asked, interested.

  “The wealth began to coalesce around the few, perhaps two to three-hundred individuals, give or take. I mean personal wealth on a scale that most people just can’t comprehend. Obviously, there were many others sitting below at different levels of the food chain and still are. But these few, in particular, began to soak up not only most of the money but all of the power. So much so that they began looking beyond the confines of their relatively young business empires and seeking out new challenges. New ways to exert their influence on the world. Money, in of itself, just wasn’t enough anymore.”

  “For some people there will never be enough,” Caslin offered.

  “True.”

  “Are you talking about politics?”

  “Very astute, Nathaniel,” Walsh commended him. “These men knew how they’d come across their fortunes. They were often former members of the Politburo, high-ranking officers of the KGB or its successor, the FSB. They had the contacts, the training, as well as the skills to manipulate and succeed, particularly with a weakened government operating largely in chaos. It’s no great secret that after the fall of the Communist system organised crime within Russia and her satellite states exploded into life with rapid expansion into the same areas I’ve been talking about.”

  “Russian gangs have operated for years, some for centuries,” Caslin countered.

  “Of course, you are right. But now, they were doing so with the aid of those who once sought to stunt them. The foxes were taking charge of the hen house, so to speak. They were awash with cash.”

  “Are you saying all of the money was dirty?”

  “After a fashion,” Walsh confirmed. “Assets were open to access like never before. Infrastructure, gas and oil reserves - state assets owned and operated by a failing system. Without a strong government, businessmen could purchase these assets at knockdown prices, as little as a few dollars in some cases. Overnight, their true value was listed on the markets and you have billionaires made from absolutely nothing!” he snapped his fingers as if to dramatise the point.

  “How was that even legal?” Caslin asked, incredulous.

  “Technically, it wasn’t but it was a new world for these guys,” Walsh confirmed. “Greasing the right wheels allowed these deals to go through with precious little oversight.”

  “They paid off the authorities?”

/>   “Absolutely. You have to remember the state of these places at the time. The governments were largely bankrupt. Many of these officials hadn’t been paid in months. An approach, offering what equated to several years’ worth of pay for what, signing over something that meant nothing to you personally? That was a no brainer.”

  “And this is how you were making your money?” Caslin said, as their second round of drinks arrived. Walsh sat back, the enthusiasm for his story visually draining from him, momentarily.

  “There were no losers,” he argued, although Caslin sensed he said so with little conviction. “At least, for a while.”

  “Go on,” Caslin said.

  “As I said, the power began to centre on a few and they, in turn, were jockeying for position. Whoever held the strongest list of contacts in their phonebook tended to win out. On occasion, the same people were being paid off by competing groups. Anyway, I digress,” he waved his hands in a circular motion, “as the governments reorganised and reasserted some control, so the questions began to be asked. That is where Amin comes into it. Although, that’s not his real name.”

  “What is his real name?”

  “Kadyrov. Marat Kadyrov is how I knew him,” Walsh said, his tone shifting from one of confident explanation to sadness, remembering a lost friend. “He was ideological. Perhaps naïve in his views of how things should be, but a very decent man. When I came across him we were on opposing sides. He was tasked with investigating organised crime and ascertaining how far their operations had penetrated the state apparatus.

  Substantially, I would say but that’s another story. Well before I ever met him, he’d been deployed by the intelligence services to infiltrate a Muscovite criminal organisation with links to other gangs throughout the Caucasus. His ethnic Kazakh background gave him the credibility that many of the other agencies just didn’t possess. That experience made him an outstanding candidate for this new role.”

  “Hence why he could be passed off as an Afghan asylum-seeker here in the UK?” Caslin said rhetorically.

  “It would appear so.”

  Caslin raised his glass, “Did he investigate you?”

  Walsh inclined his head, “In a way, yes. He was following the money trail and I chanced across his radar.”

  “How did Kay… Kad…?”

  “Kadyrov,” Walsh confirmed.

  “How did he wind up here in the UK, living under a false name?” Caslin asked, leaving out the more obvious question of why he couldn’t find any record of it?

  “He was a tenacious investigator, Nathaniel. You would have liked him. The two of you have much in common. To my knowledge, he’d uncovered a scandal involving the sale of construction contracts across several Moscow Oblasts.”

  “Oblasts?” Caslin sought to clarify the title.

  “I’m sorry. They are administrative centres or zones,” Walsh explained. Caslin bid him to continue. “Marat’s belief was that these contracts were granted off the back of multiple bribes, paid to various levels of government officials. The last I spoke with him, he was due to take his findings to his superiors with an expectation they would sanction more funds to enable him to widen his investigation.”

  “I guess it didn’t go down that way?”

  “I’m afraid that what followed I am not a party to,” Walsh said. “However, suffice it to say, I didn’t hear from Marat again. It was as if he disappeared. Apparently, it looks very much like he did so with the aid of your intelligence services.”

  “He turned to us?”

  “My belief is that he offered up everything he had on his investigation to your agencies in exchange for safe passage to the UK.”

  “But you don’t know?” Caslin asked, leaning forward. Walsh shook his head.

  “When Marat vanished, he was helping me.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a way of doing things in Russia, Nathaniel. What you have you may not necessarily get to keep. Do you understand? Why do you think your country is awash with wealthy oligarchs, buying up houses, football clubs, expensive cars and any other material goods that catch their eye? Here, they can keep what they have.”

  “Someone explained that to me once. They came after you, didn’t they?” Caslin suggested. “Or at least, your money.”

  “As I said, you are very astute, Nathaniel,” Walsh confirmed, his tone tinged with regret. For the first time, Caslin noted a real change in demeanour of the man sitting opposite him. Up until now, his confidence appeared unshakeable. A self-belief, no doubt garnered from his success in the business world appeared to be creaking under the weight of reality. “I found money was missing from my investments in Russia. Somewhere along the line funds were being syphoned off at an alarming rate. I couldn’t trust my internal staff to recover it. I had no idea where the seals had been breached.”

  “So, you approached Kadyrov?”

  Walsh nodded, “I figured that he was already moving in the right circles. He was different to others I’d come across over there – honest, perhaps? A man of integrity, certainly.”

  “And?”

  “Shortly after was when he vanished,” Walsh said, deflated. “I tried to contact him but he didn’t return my calls. A little time passed and I approached members of his circle only to find that they too had been lifted from the street. I went to his family and it was only then that it dawned on me.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were detained. I never found out why.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took the only sensible course of action. I left, as quickly as possible,” Walsh said, picking up his glass and seeing off the contents.

  “The country?”

  “My home, the country, my business. Everything,” Walsh stated evenly. “Once I was clear I set about liquidating my holdings. I did so as quickly and as quietly as I could. I figured that if they knew what Marat knew, all that I had told him, then they’d be coming for me and everything that I had. My fears proved to be extremely accurate as it turned out.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Initially, a little over $200 million was unaccounted for,” Walsh said, without skipping a beat. “I transferred out the remaining funds in the course of the following weeks and months. That isn’t easy by the way. There are tight controls on moving that kind of money. Shifting it without triggering any alarms was no mean feat.”

  “And Kadyrov, how did you find him in the UK?”

  “I didn’t,” Walsh said. “He contacted me several days before his death. He caught me completely off guard.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought he was dead,” Walsh stated, “or rotting in a Siberian labour camp.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To meet,” Walsh said, glancing around nervously. No one was within earshot apart from his minder.

  “And?”

  Walsh shook his head, “I was abroad with commitments I couldn’t shake. By the time I was able to get back to the UK – it was the day he died, Nathaniel. The meeting never took place.”

  Caslin thought about it for a moment, “And his murder… who are you putting that down to?”

  Walsh looked him square in the eye, “I’m a numbers man, Nathaniel. An analyst. I approach everything through the prism of the percentages. If I had to judge I would suggest someone is covering their tracks. Everyone knows what I am about these days. Marat certainly did. Why else would he contact me? Find out who had the most to lose from Marat’s voice being heard and you will have your answer. I wouldn’t rule out an agenda closer to home, though.”

  “Rather than one Russian based?” Caslin queried.

  “It must be considered,” Walsh said with a shrug. “If he was here at the convenience of your authorities, they might not appreciate my presence either.”

  “You have a high opinion of yourself,” Caslin said, only partly in jest.

  “If you have a strong belief in coincidence you may discount the suggestion, by all means.
”

  “You steered me towards Alexander Nairn and his suicide,” Caslin said, shifting the subject. “What do you know of him?”

  “I know he racked up significant frequent-flyer miles between the UK and Moscow. Marat had him down as aiding the flow of money in and out of the city.”

  “Whose money?”

  “Only a dead man could tell you that, Nathaniel. Not me.”

  “Thomas Grey. Nairn’s business partner. What do you know about him?”

  Walsh shrugged, “Not a name I’m familiar with. I’m sorry.”

  “Have you heard of a civil servant by the name of Finlay Michaelson or Project Obmen? Those names also appear in the files you sent me,” Caslin asked.

  “If I had all the answers, Nathaniel, I wouldn’t need you, would I?” Walsh said as he stood up. He picked up his scarf and wrapped it loosely around his neck before pulling on his overcoat.

  “Is there somewhere you need to be?” Caslin asked, silently considering what had provoked the all-to-sudden departure.

  “We’re both searching for answers to the same questions.”

  “But is it for the same reasons?” Caslin countered, fixing Walsh with a stern gaze.

  “Only time will tell,” he replied, with a smile. Glancing to his minder who signalled they were good to go, he set off towards the upper bar and the exit. Pausing as he placed his foot on the first step, he turned to Caslin, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you for your company, Nathaniel. I’m sure you’ll be in touch.”

  Caslin replied with a brief nod of the head, raising his glass and tilting it in Walsh’s direction. Digesting the new information, Caslin couldn’t help but wonder if the developing case was a little above the level of a detective inspector from North Yorkshire police. He felt his phone vibrate. Reaching for it, he found the call had disconnected before he could answer. The signal had been lost. Being underground in a brick cellar, he was impressed he’d managed to obtain a signal at all.

  Sliding out from his seat in the booth, he picked up his coat and climbed the steps. Casually acknowledging the bar staff with a wave, he crossed the lower bar and mounted the next flight of stairs whilst reading the missed call alert. No sooner had he reacquired service upon reaching the street outside, the phone began to ring. It was Hunter. He answered.