No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  Henry shut the book and closed his eyes. An unfamiliar sense of peace had settled on him since he had made up his mind about what he must do next – a sense of peace but also a sense of purpose. It had taken him four years since he had been thrown in jail to formulate what had been haunting him, from his responsibility for Anthony Albert’s death to his involvement with the IRA. Even though the reconciliation process had started and decommissioning had been ordered, he had continued helping the IRA with their finances, so keen was he to belong, to repay Liam and Bobby for their unwavering friendship when he needed it the most and also perhaps to find a connection to the father he had lost so young. But he could no longer excuse his behaviour – nor did he want to. He needed to prove if only to himself that he was redeemable, that he could be better than what he appeared to have become. Henry threw the pillow away with one hand and lay back on his small bed; the frame creaked a little underneath his weight. He held the book against his chest, heavy. Henry opened his eyes and lifted the book over his head. He felt free from a heavy burden. He knew what it would take. Something that might perhaps cost him everything.

  Kamal had plans for him. He had suggested as much during their coded conversations. Henry did not need to be a genius to work out why he wanted his involvement. Henry had been a banker, a brilliant banker. He had managed to keep the finances of the IRA hidden, inaccessible to the most extensive of investigations. Something new was happening in the world of terrorism in the Middle-East. Kamal, or Abu Maeraka – his warrior name – had convinced him that something more powerful, more extreme was afoot. Another new organisation that needed someone to help with the money they were already amassing. Would they trust a non-believer though? Perhaps not, or perhaps for as long as they required his services and then … But it was all part of the yet-to-be-revealed master plan and, if Henry was right, also the reason why Abu Maeraka had been transferred to Belmarsh on the same wing as Henry.

  Henry stood up in one jump. His well-trained muscles responded to the command instantly. He replaced the art book on its shelf and lifted out a much smaller one he had recently been lent. The Holy Qur’an in Arabic with an English translation. Kamal had not told him about the book. Henry had simply one day found a little parcel of green silk on his chair. Kamal had not bothered to give Henry a simplified text. It was a Qur’an with a translation but no commentary. The perfect way to lure a man of Henry’s calibre, whose intelligence was his greatest asset and his biggest downfall. Henry replaced the Qur’an on the bookshelf too. There was nothing wrong in trying to understand the way of thinking of the people he wanted to join – at least for a while – but now was not the time.

  His watch indicated he had another few minutes before bang-up time was over. He returned to his bed, stretched out again and reviewed the status of the financial market in his mind. He had succeeded in cultivating his good reputation as a model inmate, keeping himself to himself in the hope that the next fallout from the 2008 financial crisis would provide him with a get-out-of-jail card of a more permanent nature. The world of banking was still far too messed-up not to produce yet another spectacular outrage. His involvement in the LIBOR scandal had proved decisive. Even Pole had given him due credit. He sensed that the next shocking incident was around the corner, and he, Henry Crowne, was ready for his next move.

  * * *

  “What did Ferguson say?” Marissa asked, a small muscle at the edge of her mouth twitching. She sat upright, her solid frame shielding the back of her chair.

  “It will take some time to analyse all the components of the bomb but from what has been gathered so far it was motion activated: it detonated when the car started to move.”

  “Can we tell the origin? I mean I’ve heard it’s possible to trace the maker of a bomb.” Her hands were clasped so hard that the knuckles had turned white.

  “It will be given top priority, no doubt about it, but my guess is that we will find most of the components originated from within the UK – such as the timing device and the motion sensor. Our best hope of finding something that helps with more specific identification rests with the explosive itself —”

  “But the bomber?” Marissa interrupted.

  “If we can trace the origin of the explosive it will tell us something about who is involved and possibly who the bomber is, assuming he is known to the Counterterrorist Squad.”

  Marissa remained silent, absorbing the information, trying to make sense of what it meant.

  “Does Mark Phelps know?” Nancy asked.

  Marissa nodded, took a deep breath. “He is in shock but, surprisingly, he remembers everything.”

  She broke out of her frozen stance and spread her hands over the table.

  “It’s the hardest thing I have ever had to do.” She dropped her hands into her lap. “I have prosecuted dozens of cases and yet …”

  Pole glanced at Nancy and stood up. “I’ll get us some fresh tea, shall I?”

  “If you are blaming yourself, don’t,” Nancy said as soon as Pole had closed the door. “It won’t help in any way; more importantly, how could you have predicted this?”

  “But I can’t help wondering whether there were signs I missed.”

  “Because of who was involved in the case?”

  Marissa stood up, went to the window and leaned her head against it. “That is what I like the most about you Nancy, always going straight to the point. I liked it very much during my pupillage years but it is tough to bear when you are on the receiving end of it.”

  “I’m sorry Marissa,” Nancy said, coming alongside her and extending a friendly hand. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

  “But you are right, this is no time for self-pity. The best thing I can do now is help you find the frigging bastards who did this.” Marissa spoke with feeling, the attitude of someone who understood injustice and who would not shy away from tackling the cause of it.

  There was a rasp against the door and Pole entered with a tray bearing some appetising looking biscuits – no doubt snatched from the tin of one of his colleagues – and some freshly brewed tea. Pole placed a cup in front of Marissa and Nancy. Everyone drank in silence but the biscuits remained untouched. Pole waited. There was no immediate rush to force Marissa to decide what her next move would be.

  “Mark came to us, I mean the Serious Fraud Office, about six months ago.” Marissa had sat down again. “He had been working for HXBK for ten years as a very senior compliance officer so he saw a lot of privileged information. About a year ago his boss was taken ill. Something sudden, a heart attack I believe. Anyway, he had to step in.” Marissa drank some tea. “To cut a long story short, he came across documents that his boss hadn’t had time to file. During the 2008 crisis the UK government offered a bailout programme to enable the banks to escape bankruptcy. I am sure you remember the likes of RBS and Lloyds accepting the offer. Of course, no government pulls together a programme like that without wanting shares in the institution they intend to salvage and taking some level of control at board level.”

  “You mean government officials on the board of these institutions, complete scrutiny, reducing the risk profile of the deals done by the bank?” Nancy asked.

  “That’s right.” Marissa nodded appreciatively. “HXBK had found an alternative solution. A private investor.”

  “Someone out there was willing to invest enough money to salvage them, despite their involvement in the subprime market?” Pole asked incredulous.

  “That’s correct.” Marissa nodded again and this time her stiff shoulders relaxed. She had found a team that was more on the ball than many of her colleagues.

  “Were the terms of the share purchase commercial and who was the investor?” Nancy asked.

  “A state in the Middle-East. I can’t say more at the moment and no, not at all, the terms of the share purchase were reasonable bearing in mind the circumstances. It’s what happened subsequ
ently to the money HXBK received that has become an issue.” Marissa opened the file she had been guarding closely and handed them each a copy of a short document. “A sum of money representing a large portion of the original investment has been lent back to a fund registered in Panama.”

  Nancy speed-read the document, still listening to Marissa.

  “In itself a fund registered in Panama is legal,” Nancy said.

  “Very true but the question is who is the Ultimate Beneficial Owner of the fund? So far we have not been able to determine who the UBO is.”

  “And you suspect this UBO is someone representing the Middle-Eastern State that lent the money?” Pole had finished reading the document too.

  “That’s right.”

  “Mark thought it was the case too; otherwise he would not have contacted you?” Pole turned his BlackBerry face down as several messages kept appearing on its screen.

  “Mark had a conversation with senior management, at CEO level, and the answers he received were less than convincing.”

  “How so?” Nancy frowned, bringing her elegant eyebrows together.

  “A final document was issued confirming the verification of the identity of the UBO but that identity was never made available. The complexity of the structure of the fund’s ownership was not particularly transparent either.” Marissa finished her tea. “When Mark’s boss returned he told Mark in no uncertain terms to close the file and stop questioning a transaction that had already been finalised.”

  “In other words, don’t ask the awkward questions,” Pole added.

  “Mark’s involvement in high-profile transactions almost completely dried up at that point.”

  “If you don’t have the identity of the UBO you don’t have a case.” Pole handed the document back to Marissa.

  “No, not a chance.”

  “This is the reason why you need to speak to Henry Crowne.” Nancy also handed the document back. She was waiting.

  Reluctantly, Pole nodded. They needed Henry.

  Chapter Six

  Andy was pacing up and down in front of Pole’s office. He was speaking to someone on his mobile phone and waving a sheaf of papers.

  “What’s all this extra activity about?” Pole asked with a faint smile.

  “Got some results on the Mashrafiya, Guv.” Andy looked disappointed as Pole’s face remained blank. “The sword that was used to behead Massimo Visconti.”

  Pole slapped his forehead. “That sword, the Mash whatever.”

  “Rafiya,” Andy’s mind was already on the next piece of news. “I have managed to find out where it came from.”

  “You mean it has some special origin?”

  “It was stolen from a museum in Iraq during the last war. But this particular piece is very important; it is supposed to have belonged to the man who fought alongside the prophet Mohammed.”

  “Go on,” Pole said opening the door of his office and waving Andy in.

  “The museum in Baghdad was ransacked a number of times but very thoroughly after the fall of Saddam Hussein.”

  “I see what you are getting at,” Pole said dumping the file Marissa had prepared for him to a dangerously high pile of papers. The pile wobbled. Andy held his breath. Pole sat down hardly noticing. “You think Massimo Visconti had something to do with the theft of this sword?”

  Andy sat down in slow motion, a wary eye still on the pile of documents. “Yeah, Guv, I do.”

  “And? You can’t hide anything from me you know.” Pole leant forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped together over another bundle of papers.

  “I also think …” Andy took his time to speak the words, “…he might have known his assailant.”

  “That is a pretty big assumption. From having possibly stolen the Mashrafiya to being slaughtered with it and by whom – the person who asked him to steal it in the first place?”

  “I know, Guv, so I spoke to DCI Grandel.” Andy waited for Pole’s reaction.

  “That’s a good idea. What did good old Eugene have to say for himself?”

  “He confirmed that Visconti was heavily involved in art trafficking out of the war zones in the Middle-East. He was on the ground way before anybody else dared chance it according to DCI Grandel.”

  “Who were his contacts in the region? Do we know?”

  “According to DCI Grandel, Visconti had already realised that he had to work with the fighters on the ground, get very close to the local people. In particular the rebels in Iraq who needed funds for the war against the US and the government it supported there.”

  “You mean Al-Qaeda?”

  Andy nodded.

  “So after nearly ten years of playing happy families with a number of terrorist groups, looters and so on Visconti comes to a sad end. But why? What changed?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. He was arrested, remember.”

  “But he escaped.” Pole had started to fiddle with a rubber band and stopped, keeping the elastic fully stretched.

  “You don’t seem convinced.”

  “It’s not that, Andy. It’s what comes next if your theory is right.”

  “You mean …” Andy’s chubby face dropped.

  “Yes, what does it mean if we prove Visconti was murdered in the middle of London by a terrorist cell?”

  Andy’s blue eyes darted from Pole to the papers he had prepared for his boss, attempting to articulate a response to the chilling question.

  London. Terrorism. Last bomb from the IRA, 1993. Then 2007 the Al-Qaeda bombing happened.

  “So no, I am not saying you are wrong,” Pole released the elastic band. The car bomb that had just killed Mark Phelps’ wife could well validate Andy’s findings. Superintendent Marsh would shortly be addressing the press. The Home Secretary would almost certainly chair a Cobra meeting to discuss the event. But Pole did not want to overreact. Andy needed to find proof.

  “Shall I go back to DCI Grandel?”

  “That’s a good plan. Get all the information he has available on Visconti. Do we know what he stole? Do we have the names of people he dealt with? You know the drill.”

  “On it, Guv.” Andy adjusted his thick glasses, leaped out of his seat and left Pole’s office, already dialling Grandel’s number on his mobile.

  * * *

  The blindfold had been knotted too tight. Brett could feel the pressure against his eyes but did not dare loosen it. He gathered the car that was taking him back was not the one that had driven him to his meeting with The Sheik. It had been cleaned recently, the smell of detergent mixed with an overpowering rose-scented air freshener almost made him throw up. Brett had known that a tough meeting would happen one day but perhaps not so quickly and not so openly brutal. There was nothing physical, at least not yet, apart from the tight blindfold and the rough way he had been frisked when he had got out of the car that had picked him up from Manor House tube station.

  The change of pick-up address had already unsettled him. But again, it had been intended to. The journey had taken longer than the usual thirty minutes or so. The pattern of the journey had also changed. Brett had relied on his training, spotting the turns that indicated the car was going around in circles. This time though there was very little circling around the same area. By his reckoning the drive had taken a little more than forty minutes in a straight line. He was taken deep into the suburbs, the heartland of a community he knew nothing about.

  The blindfold had only been removed when he was in the meeting room. The place was dilapidated, the floorboards bare, the wallpaper had been torn down, taking with it pieces of plaster. The house had no heating and the cold seeped through his body as he stood wondering once more whether this was a meeting or an execution. Should he sit down on one of the mattresses that were lying on the floor? Perhaps not. He had been brought here as a warning. He was intended to be sc
ared and he was, but more importantly he should show that he was.

  Someone walked through the open door. Brett jerked back. The Sheik waved to him to sit down. His eyes focused on Brett with a coldness he had not yet witnessed.

  The Sheik sat down on a mattress opposite Brett’s, drew a photograph from a brown envelope and threw it at Brett’s feet.

  “Do you know this man?”

  Massimo Visconti’s face, the unmistakable large brown eyes, the slightly hooked nose and strong jaw – a charm that seduced all. Brett held his breath for a few seconds. Should he deny it? But it would not make sense. Visconti was too well known in the art-trafficking world. He had nodded hesitantly.

  The Sheik’s face relaxed slightly. Brett saw he had passed a test.

  For now.

  “It’s been in the news,” he mumbled. Perhaps he could glean more information?

  The Sheik threw several more photos onto the floor. It took almost a minute before Brett could make sense of what he was seeing and when he did he scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the back of the room, reeling in horror. He coughed and reached for a handkerchief in his trouser pocket. He wiped his mouth and face with it.