No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  The ping of an email interrupted him. He screwed the top of the bottle back on with an irritated gesture.

  An email at this hour, on his hyper-secure MI6 laptop, did not bode well. Brett moved back to the seat he had abandoned to recharge his glass, sat down heavily and opened the message.

  “Massimo Visconti is dead – let’s meet tomorrow, 8am.”

  Brett sagged back into his leather sofa, his throat so tight he could hear the laboured sound of his own breathing. He looked at his glass and pushed it away.

  “Visconti dead,” he murmured several times, forcing himself to hear the words. The Master of Thieves, dead.

  Brett had entered the world of art theft, dealing with terrorists from the Middle-East knowingly, yet his sense of British superiority had convinced him he would always prevail.

  With Visconti’s death, the solid rock on which that certainty was built had just been chipped – a small but noticeable chip.

  Chapter Two

  The shrill sound of a bell interrupted his sleep. He tried to push it away but its persistence told him he could no longer ignore it. The memory of a nightmare surfaced. Henry opened his eyes and for a moment did not know where he was. He gulped in some air.

  Yes, he could breathe.

  The Belmarsh High Security Unit bell kept ringing. Henry moved his arm across his eyes, just one more minute to let the fog of his mind clear. He counted to thirty, turned on his side; just a few more seconds before he was ready to face the routine of washing in the small basin squeezed into the corner of his cell, collecting his breakfast from the prison canteen and starting Day 1,365 of his thirty-year sentence. The countdown had started in 2008 and it was only mid 2012 … Henry ran his hand over his chin, the black stubble that, to his delight, had not yet started turning grey unlike his hair, had also grown rough and uncomfortable. Henry stretched his muscly body. He craned his neck to look at the watch he kept strapped to the head of his bed. No time to dither. Kamal would have been awake for a while, rising for his first morning prayer and now he would already be on his way to breakfast.

  Henry threw back the covers, jumped into his standard prison uniform, a sad-looking tracksuit, tidied his bed and left the cell. He had twenty minutes for the morning meal and would put this time to good use.

  By now Kamal had settled in front of his tray, at the agreed right-angle to the canteen’s door. He barely moved his head when Henry arrived. Fraternising outside allocated times was not encouraged within HSU Belmarsh. It was with good reason that the High Security Unit, a prison within a prison, had the reputation for being the most secure in the UK. Henry moved past Kamal towards a table in the opposite corner of the room. His spoon was balancing precariously over the edge of his tray. One move sideways to avoid colliding into another inmate and it fell to the ground. Henry grumbled. Dumping his tray on the table at which Kamal was sitting, he bent down to retrieve the wayward item of cutlery. Kamal lifted his foot slightly, enough for Henry to place a small piece of paper underneath it. Henry shot up again, dumping the spoon on his tray in a gesture of disgust. The prison officers would be paying him attention by now. He carried his tray to the table he had chosen, cleaned the spoon on the small paper napkin he had collected with his breakfast and started eating his porridge. The guards’ attention moved to Kamal. The young man stood up, his small frame almost childlike, his demeanour reassuring. No one meeting him would have branded him as a terrorist: the strength of his beliefs betrayed only by the intensity of the large brown eyes that observed and never yielded. The officers relaxed. Kamal moved slowly to the conveyor belt on which he placed his tray. It disappeared into a small opening in the wall, beyond which no inmate had access.

  Henry looked at his watch, 8.25am. Another five minutes and he would be returning to his cell. Big K was nowhere to be seen, preferring most mornings to take his food to his cell – a small luxury he seemed to particularly enjoy. Henry’s gym time would be coming up right after bang-up time had ended at 10am. He would catch up with Big K then. Big K’s activities and connections in drug dealing had earned him the privilege of spending time at HSU. He certainly was a flight hazard and Her Majesty’s Prison services were not taking any chances.

  “Man, I’m so dangerous they’ve locked me in here.” A raucous laugh would always follow. But with the kudos HSU brought, also came boredom. In his more truthful moments Big K would sit on one of the benches in the gym, towel slung over his powerful neck. “I tell you friend, I am out of here as soon as I can get parole. I am a reformed bloke.” Henry never failed to nod convincingly but could a leopard, one of the mightiest big cats, ever change his spots?

  Perhaps.

  Henry sought to change. No, he had changed. The terrible anger that had seized him for most of his adult life had started to be channelled differently. The shock of incarceration, of having to face his involvement with the IRA, had almost destroyed him. His brilliant banking career, which had made so many of his colleagues jealous, had been damaged without any possibility of repair. No one in the world of finance ever recovered from money laundering for a terrorist organisation and so it should be. For his part Henry was done with that world of power and excess. He was looking for something different. He needed to prove to himself that he was not the monster he had been made to feel during his trial. He had come to understand his motivations but now this was no longer enough, he wanted more. Forgiveness might never be within his reach, but even so, he could perhaps hope to atone.

  But, within the confines of his prison cell, within the rarefied atmosphere of the most secure prison in the UK, how could he achieve this?

  Henry pushed his empty plate away and took another quick look at his watch – 8.29am. He stood up, following in Kamal’s footsteps, and made his way to Cell 14. He walked past the officers with the same amount of disinterest he had shown them whilst coming in. Would the small piece of paper that was stuck under Kamal’s shoe make it all the way to his cell? A small amount of honey, used to sweeten the tasteless porridge served daily, might do the trick and keep it glued in place. A pang of anxiety ran through Henry, accompanied with the inevitable tinge of excitement.

  So far, so good it seemed. The now familiar bell rang again. Inmates were returning to their cells and when their doors clanged shut the choking silence of HSU Belmarsh fell on them again.

  * * *

  Henry’s letter rested on her desk. Nancy touched the paper with the tip of her fingers. It was not a letter really, more a rushed note, quickly penned in the tight handwriting she knew so well, the inclination of the letters always tilting to the right and the short paragraphs developing ideas with ease.

  But Henry’s note had brought a chill to her heart. Nancy read it again, trying once more to decipher the hidden message within it, not yet certain of its full impact.

  Nancy, dearest friend

  I could not miss this occasion to write a letter that I know will only be read by you and you alone. Writing to you has been my lifeline; thank you for never giving up on me.

  There is not much time and though I feel there is so much I want to say I will have to be brief. I have been restless. Not about my sentence. I deserved it. But it is about going beyond it. If it was right to make me pay for what I did, don’t I somehow deserve to be given the chance to show I can change – that despite everything I am redeemable?

  You will hear or see things in the next few weeks that might make you doubt me; please give me the benefit of the doubt.

  You will be asked to interfere or even stop me – I beg you, don’t.

  You may even be told that I have killed myself or been killed. I will never let this happen.

  Trust has been at the core of our friendship – believe in me one last time. I know what I must do.

  Henry

  Nancy ran her slender hand over the letter and left it there for a moment. She could not reply to Henry’s message. It had been p
laced abruptly in her hand as Henry was leaving Scotland Yard for Belmarsh, his time away from the HSU having come to an end. Nancy sighed and folded the letter. The flow of a constant correspondence that had passed between them had been broken. The feeling of unease that had started gnawing at her since she had first read Henry’s words had grown stronger. She could not confide in Pole. Nancy had let Pole grow closer, intimate, but that intimacy had consequences. Should she choose between her allegiances?

  “No,” she said replacing the letter in its folder. “Not yet.”

  From the time she had organised, then joined Henry’s defence team almost four years ago, her support for him had been unwavering. It was love of a very special kind, not one that called for crumpled sheets and intimacy. It was the love of deep friendship, that of two people who understood each other. There were no excuses for what Henry had done. He too was adamant that he must bear the consequences of his actions. But perhaps it was the hope that some goodness still remained, untapped, ready to be given a chance, that made him a man one could not turn away from. Nancy had been given that chance when she had decided to move away from the Bar and concentrate on the world of art. Perhaps Henry deserved that chance too? Her BlackBerry buzzed, the vibrations spreading into the wood of her desk and into the tips of her fingers.

  “Bonjour Jonathan; don’t apologise please.” Nancy smiled at Pole’s protectiveness.

  “It is a sword – a Mashrafiya sword.”

  “Let me grab my pad.” Nancy stretched to dislodge a yellow pad buried under a pile of opened documents and pulled it towards her. She pressed the speaker button.

  “I am very impressed.” Pole’s voice tilted into the base register. “You did say it looked like an antique sword and it is.”

  “Very glad my hobby can be put to good use.”

  “Do not tell me you are a specialist in Arabic artefacts?”

  “Alas no, I simply test my skills religiously with the weekend FT Quiz and this name crops up regularly. I am just a bit of a snob when it comes to general knowledge.” Nancy chuckled.

  “I had half wondered whether this was the result of one of your cases. I couldn’t quite imagine that your other passion would have got you close to such a weapon and the countries where you might find one.”

  “You mean the contemporary art scene?”

  “Bien sûr.”

  “You would be surprised how prolific art is in the Middle-East, daring and irreverent too – Iran, Iraq, Lebanon. The Istanbul Biennial.” Nancy could summon in her mind dozens of pieces by artists she had come to know well. “These artists risk their lives for their art. Pardon Jonathan, I am digressing.”

  “Not at all but perhaps a conversation over dinner?”

  “And what a good idea that is.” Nancy’s voice was all smiles. “Still, let’s talk about the Mashrafiya now. Has Yvonne come up with anything?”

  “Too early for forensic results.” Pole hesitated. “I am glad you did not see the result of its use though. I have seen quite a few cuts in my time but this was bad.”

  “In what way?”

  “Deliberately brutal.” Pole’s voice lost some of its colour. “Not only to the victim but to the people finding him. It was meant to shock.”

  “Any theory about why?”

  “Nancy,” Pole’s voice became softer. “I am not sure you need to be involved in this one.”

  “Jonathan, really? I have dealt with war criminals and various other unscrupulous individuals. I don’t scare easily.”

  “Which is precisely what scares me,” Pole carried on before she could protest. “I have some news that will interest you and it involves Henry.”

  Nancy’s mouth dropped; for a moment she could not say anything. Her throat tightened as her eyes fell on the folder that contained Henry’s letter.

  Had Pole guessed or, even worse, seen it?

  “The SFO has been in touch with me. One of their lawyers has requested help on a case involving a suspected high-profile banking fraud.”

  “You mean the Serious Fraud Office?” Nancy managed to say with enough composure.

  “The very same.”

  “Pray, tell.” Nancy inhaled deeply and pushed the folder away.

  “They have not said very much yet but I gather the SFO hopes to use Henry’s expertise in banking and financial structuring matters. They have heard about the way Henry helped with resolving the LIBOR scandal case.”

  “Ah. That case has done the rounds in well-connected legal circles.”

  “I know. It has at The Met too. Superintendent Marsh has not stopped talking about it. It’s almost embarrassing.”

  “You’re just too humble, Jonathan.” Nancy teased.

  “Anyway,” Pole changed subject swiftly; his personal qualities were never his favourite topic. “I would of course have recommended that you be involved but —” Pole stopped for a short moment and Nancy’s heart missed a beat. She could hear the rustling of paper. “— the SFO lawyer had asked for you already. Her name is Marissa Campbell.”

  “Je suis trés flattée, mon cher ami.” A little French helped defuse the anxiety of not telling the whole truth. “Both you and Marissa have thought of me.” Nancy cringed. Was she sounding obsequious? “Do we need to adjourn somewhere for —”

  “Lunch. Absolument,” Pole suggested with enthusiasm. “Our favourite place, 12pm?”

  “Our favourite place it is,” Nancy replied without hesitation.

  * * *

  The drab little office smelt of over-brewed coffee and sweat. Mark Phelps stood up, moved to the small window that overlooked an outside wall stained with the dirt that pervaded Trafalgar Square. There was little light so the only thing he could see distinctly was his reflection in the window. The investigation team had left the room. Now that he was alone, he could hear the irritating buzzing of the neon light overhead. Yet he was glad he had not been left in complete silence. He wrapped his long arms around his body and squeezed.

  “Was it all worth it?” He now wondered.

  His body started shaking a little, a tremor that came in short bursts and ran from his neck through to his belly. Mark moved away from the window. He had to sit down. The clock on the wall indicated 9.35am. He had spent almost fourteen hours with the SFO team that Marissa Campbell was leading. They had offered to stop at 1am but he had too much to tell and needed to say it all straight away, otherwise he might falter. He might retract his accusations of fraud against his employer, one of the largest investment banks in the City.

  Mark gazed at his solid wedding band; the tan of his body made it look more noticeable. He had told his wife he was travelling on business. He could not share his decision with her yet. How could he tell her he was almost certainly putting in jeopardy the lucrative career at the bank he had been fostering for the past ten years? But he could no longer stay silent about what he had uncovered. Soon the papers would talk about him without mentioning his name or even knowing who he was and he would become Bank X’s whistle-blower.

  Mark recalled how the frequency of the trips had intensified. Perhaps not as much as in 2008 when it was all about saving the bank after the financial crisis. But more than saving it from collapse, it was saving its independence by not having to accept the UK government bailout. And yet, how far should a bank go to preserve its autonomy? Mark Phelps had soon questioned the methods suggested by his employers. What he had discovered in the past few months had made him increasingly nervous.

  A draught of fresh air startled him. Marissa Campbell walked in with another two cups of bitter coffee, sugar sachets and small tubes of milk. She sat opposite Mark and pushed a cup towards him.

  “You should go home now,” she said.

  “I should. I should.” Mark sipped at his coffee, eyes gazing into the distance.

  “Your name will be protected. You know that?” Marissa’s solid body
was hunched over her cup. If she was tired she did not show it. Her dark eyes rested on him with confidence. Mark nodded. The distant memory of a Russell Crowe film was gnawing at him but he had so far managed to push his doubts away. It was the UK, after all, not cut-throat America.

  Still, he doubted whether whistle-blowing in the financial sector would do his career prospects any good.

  “Is it about Helena?”

  The name of his wife spoken within the confines of this horrible little room took the wind out of him. He ran a weary hand over his face.

  “I haven’t told her yet.”

  Marissa nodded. She knew how hard it would be and she was not going to judge him. Mark was grateful for that.

  “Today. I’ll tell her today.”

  “It is a brave decision to do what you are doing, Mark. Remember that.”

  Mark nodded and moved away from the subject to one that gave him some confidence.

  “How soon are you going to launch the case?”

  “You mean prosecute?”

  Mark nodded. He had read all that he could on the SFO website and had been warned by its lawyers that it would take time. But he had a glimmer of hope that perhaps he would not have to wait for months, let alone years, before the case came to court.

  “You know how this works; it will take time, a long time.”

  “And what should I do in the meantime?”

  “Go back home. You’re tired and making a decision now is not a good idea.” Marissa’s broad shoulders had moved across the table a little more. Her hands, long and muscular, stretched over the table, gave Mark confidence. They were the hands of an able person, a decision-maker who could keep hold of the rudder in a storm and never let go.