A conversation about Henry Crowne.
“I saw the pictures of Visconti’s body.” Brett had decided on another tack. His stomach felt queasy. He took a sip of tea, forgetting altogether the lemon slice he was so eagerly awaiting. He cleared his throat discreetly. MI6-Steve’s face lost some of its glee. Brett had not mentioned this when reporting on his meeting with The Sheik. Steve put down the sandwich he had just grabbed.
“You should have said.” It was not a reproach; an indication rather that MI6-Steve could have been better prepared.
“Yes, well. I don’t think I wanted to speak about it then and, as much as I dislike Crowne, it was easier to speak to you about him face to face.” Brett took another mouthful of tea. He so wished they had met at the Club; he could have ordered a much-needed glass of whisky.
Steve bent forward. He would wait for Brett to be ready to tell his story. He had seen too many of these executions not to know the effect it would have on someone who saw a beheading for the first time – even in a photograph.
The slice of lemon arrived, a little slim but it would have to do. Brett refilled his cup, dropped the lemon into it and stirred.
Almost acceptable.
“You may not believe it, but in all my years dealing with these people, selling their looted artefacts and art pieces, I had never seen a Jihadi execution.” Brett closed his fingers tightly over the handle of his cup. “The slaughter of the kafir, the infidels.” Brett stopped; the pictures materialised in front of his eyes. His stomach was heaving. He brought his napkin to his lips for control.
“You don’t need to give me the details,” Steve said. “I have seen enough myself. I understand.” He moved his glance away for a moment, stirred too by the dread the photos were meant to inspire.
“The question that matters now is why?”
“A warning.” Brett tried to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know why though. Everything has gone smoothly so far and,” Brett stopped in mid-sentence. “You don’t think they know about …?”
Steve shook his head.
“You would not have made it out alive otherwise, no matter how much they need you. And if they had wanted you to deliver something for them and then execute you, they would not have warned you.”
“Right. Right.”
“How much do you know about Visconti’s business?” Steve asked.
“In my art business —” Brett started.
“You mean your trafficking business,” Steve replied, glad of the diversion.
“No need to be crude.” Brett frowned. “Visconti was known to be one of the best at supplying almost any piece his clients wanted. He was connected all over Europe, in particular Eastern Europe, the Middle-East, of course, and Asia.”
“OK, so you know he was a crook who stole art from anyone but in particular from museums and war zones.”
“Well some of his thieving, as you call it, has saved some exceptional pieces from destruction.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Not going to argue with that one. What else?”
“It all went very badly when he was caught with a stolen piece from one of the best-known museums in Venice.”
“And after that?”
“He escaped. But you know that already.” Brett put the cup he was holding back on its saucer abruptly. “Then I assumed he had retired, but perhaps not.” Brett pursed his lips in a dubious pout.
“Would he have started the old business again?”
“I don’t think so.” Brett wiped his mouth slowly. “There would have been a buzz in our community and my contacts would have told me.”
“You’ve heard nothing?”
“Not a word.” Brett felt genuinely puzzled. “Are you testing me?” He had no time for Steve’s games.
“I’m not trying to trick you. Visconti was up to something, that much we know.”
“What? The great MI6 lost track of a well-known art trafficker – shocking.” Brett looked suitably distressed.
“No need to rub it in.” Steve grumbled. “Not our pad anyway; we’re not the National Crime Agency.”
They both fell silent. The leftover sandwiches and cakes looked unappetising. Brett called for a fresh pot of tea.
“Still,” Brett said, playing with his cigarette pack. “I don’t understand why the photos.”
“There is perhaps an explanation,” Steve mused, toying with a piece of uneaten bread. “If Visconti worked for them and he did not deliver they may …”
“Ask me to deliver instead.” Brett shook his head. “Shit, what have you dropped me into?” Swearing was not part of Brett’s education but at that very moment he no longer cared. “Some crappy weapon deal, Lord knows?”
“Very possibly,” Steve replied, his bulldog face more serious than ever. Even he might not enjoy sending Brett to his death.
“You mean, almost certainly,”
“Whatever you need, we can provide.”
“Don’t be ridiculous – you mean bodyguards, a bulletproof jacket and a change of identity?”
“Well, remember what we agreed.”
“A clean slate to start again and a fat bank account. As long as I live long enough to enjoy it, which at the moment is starting to look rather unlikely.”
“You don’t know what The Sheik has in mind and Visconti didn’t have the backing of MI6.”
“So. Anything I need, hey?” Steve was onto something big and Brett could feel it. Brett waited.
“Fine,” Steve grunted. “Anything you need.”
Brett poured a fresh cup of tea. “I meet The Sheik again in a couple of days.” He took a content sip.
“Glad to hear it.” Steve poured himself another cup of tea in turn. “And to accompany this excellent cuppa, how about the topic that brought us here in the first place?”
Brett shot a dark eye at Steve. Did he really have to be such a tiresome arse?
“You mean Henry Crowne?” The name almost stuck in his throat.
“The very same.” Steve grinned.
Chapter Eight
The library was empty and today’s librarian was taking his time, checking the cards he had taken out of the filing box. These showed the names of everyone who had either borrowed or returned a book.
Henry was sharing the job with a strange-looking man, thin as a wire, an equine profile and an unusually high forehead. The Doc had a reputation. He had been convicted for prematurely terminating the life of several of his patients; to him, euthanasia did not only apply to cats and dogs. Yet, the Doc was incredibly well read and at times Henry almost forgot why he had been convicted in the first place.
Almost.
“Library shutting in fifteen,” The Doc said, his nose still stuck in the cards.
“Just finishing a letter to my lawyer. Won’t take five.” Henry sat down in front of the computer and moved to the right screen.
The Doc raised one eye and finished replacing the cards in the box. He did not care what Henry was up to as long as it did not impact upon him. Henry started typing on the keyboard. He had once more cracked the password that allowed him access to the Internet, access reserved only for the prison officers. The PC provided for inmates was designed to facilitate writing to their solicitors and other officials. Two icons to choose from: a cat and a dog. The corny humour of assigning a cat to the cons and a dog to the officers still made Henry smile. Today he had clicked on the dog and the little pet had responded to its master’s voice; Henry was in. The password was complicated enough but having worked on the trading floor for most of his professional life Henry knew a standard keyboard layout by heart. Henry had also noticed that although the screen was shielded from viewers its reflection could be seen in the shiny surface of a steel cupboard. He simply had to be patient and keep an eye on the guards’ fingers when they typed. The password was changed fortnightly and Henry had
kept up with the change.
He was searching for articles on Serious Fraud Office lawsuits. The SFO had had mixed success in prosecuting high-profile cases. The BAE Systems debacle must still have been rankling badly. In 2004 the SFO had started litigating against the company for making illegal payments to government officials to win deals relating to armaments. It had made payments to several governments in Africa and the Middle-East. The allegations covered payments handed over to an unnamed Saudi official in relation to the £40 billion al-Yamamah arms deal between the UK and Saudi Arabia. However, the case had been dropped after the UK government argued the enquiry might upset the UK–Saudi relationship and threaten national security. BAE paid a record UK fine of £30 million in 2010, “for failing to keep reasonably accurate accounting records relating to its activities.” The SFO confirmed there would be no further prosecutions, including of the individuals identified in the fraud. BAE had taken measures to implement a better ethical and compliance culture.
Henry smiled a knowing smile. Could any arms deal be done without a large backhander? He doubted it, or perhaps he was too cynical. Henry continued reading. The US Department of Justice had also pursued BAE and had received almost the entire amount of the final fine – over £400 million. Well done the prosecutors of the DOJ, Henry thought. The conclusion of the case had not ended well for the previous SFO director, Robert Wardle, who had narrowly escaped being charged with perverting the course of justice. Henry looked at the clock on the wall. He did not have enough time left to finish his research. The Vincent and Robert Tchenguiz case looked embarrassing, but the discovery of its details would have to wait.
“The SFO needs to score,” Henry murmured.
The Doc pushed his chair back noisily. It was time to leave. Henry closed the article he was reading, erased his browsing history, printed the letter he was supposedly writing. One of the prison officers had arrived and was doing a circuit of the library. He checked what Henry had printed without reading it, a quick glance showed it was harmless. Henry left slowly. Bang-up time would start shortly, an hour back in his cell, followed by free time for dinner and then lock-up for the rest of the night.
Henry’s mind was buzzing despite his nonchalant pace. He had to mine the SFO story further. He had also started browsing Panama in the hope he would find snippets of information telling him what the interest was in this particular fiscal paradise. But nothing obvious had come up. He knew the place well from numerous trips and had looked up the name of the law firm he had worked with there in the past, Mossack Fonseca. There was nothing relevant on their website apart from the usual corporate ads detailing how easy their shell companies were to set up and maintain.
Henry left the long corridor that led from the library. Another officer was waiting for him whilst the first guard was locking up. He found himself in the common room where the inmates socialised during the day. They were allowed twelve hours outside of their cells, not a bad ratio. Henry slowed his pace further, scanning the perimeter for troublemakers. To his relief Kray was not around. Big K had also disappeared and so had Kamal.
Perfect timing.
He did not want to have to face anyone difficult at the moment, including Big K. No matter how much he enjoyed the banter with the Jamaican giant, Henry needed to put down on paper what he had learned. Try to find a pattern and get an angle, anticipate why the SFO sought his expertise. It had worked superbly well in the LIBOR manipulation case. He just needed to pull another similar trick out of his hat and he would get closer to his goal.
The door clanged shut behind him and Henry felt almost free in his cell. His heart had not sunk as it usually did at the sound of the bolts closing, a regular reminder of where he was. In one step he reached the little table he called his desk. The word gave him hope that when he sat down at it he could still produce work worthy of that name. He pulled a pad from underneath some books and started writing.
A list of all the countries he had used to structure complex transactions: Europe, the US, Asia, as well as all the small jurisdictions that offered legal advantages. Nothing ever illegal when working in banking. But a clever understanding of the differences in the laws of each place had allowed him to take advantage of discrepancies. There was however one noticeable exception – he placed a star next to the place he had used for structuring the funds and accounts the IRA once used. Now those were illegal – good old-fashioned money laundering. His hand stiffened and he stopped. There it was, in black and white, his commitment to what he thought had been his father’s cause. He put his pen down for a moment. The pain of betrayal surged into him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. He pressed his hands over his trembling thighs and the spasm going through his body eased off. It had become easier not to succumb, to let the feelings course through him and then be released. Was it the passage of time or the faith in the plan he was meticulously pulling together?
Perhaps both.
The plan was shaping up as he had hoped it would. The word that had been haunting him no longer felt fantasy but reality.
He would escape the most secure prison in the UK: HSU Belmarsh.
* * *
Low tide on the River Thames had dropped the waterline of its banks. Nancy had walked for a while along the path that led to the water’s edge. It was not a route she knew well nor one that would take her back to the safety of her apartment. Pole had been full of attention. She had never felt surrounded by so much kindness and, dare she say it – love. He had patiently waited for her to tell the story of her father, questioning seldom but always with tact.
Nancy leaned towards the water, her forearms resting on the stone wall. The colour of the Thames had turned icy grey, the swells within it giving the river an occasional silvery glimmer. She pulled up the collar of her coat and fished out from its pockets the gloves she had forgotten to put on. She had allowed Pole to jot down a few notes, mainly dates and names. Early memories of her childhood in China – the visits to her mother’s family in the UK, their escape during the Cultural Revolution since her father had become one of the artists the Chinese government wanted to “re-educate” – had come flooding back.
“I never speak about it,” Nancy had said to Pole.
“In your own time.” Pole had extended his strong but elegant hand, wrapping it around Nancy’s fingers and she had almost cried.
She was not yet ready for this ultimate show of trust.
“My father left us – after almost ten years in Paris.” Nancy had taken a gulp of tea to dissolve the lump that had swollen in her throat.
“You mean he left to go back to China after the Cultural Revolution was over?” Pole had helped by putting it into words for her.
“That’s right. He had great hopes for China once Deng Xiaoping took over.” Nancy was struggling again and Pole pressed her hand gently. Nancy squeezed back so hard she thought she might hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” she said releasing Pole’s hand and withdrawing in shame. Pole captured her wrist loosely.
“It will take a lot more than a tight pinch to hurt a well-weathered DCI like me.” His smile was reassuring, his eyes a mixture of affection and gentle tease.
Nancy groaned. “I have to know, Jonathan.” She raised her wounded eyes towards him. “Oh god, sorry. I am not very good at giving you the right background.”
“This is not a Scotland Yard case. It is you and one of the most important events …” Pole’s voice tailed off.
“I need to know whether he is still alive,” Nancy had spoken quickly. She felt exhausted. She let her body drop back into the small sofa she had been sitting on. For a moment she closed her eyes and when she reopened them Pole had moved next to her. She rested her head against his shoulder and for a while there was nothing left to say.
Pole’s BlackBerry buzzed and he sent the call to voicemail with a click. Nancy straightened up slowly.
“I need to gather so
me proper information for you. I have an old file.” Her voice was still uncertain. Pole’s phone started again, another click. He would not be rushed. Nancy managed a smile and gently cupped his cheek with her hand.
“The great DCI Jonathan Pole is needed.”
Pole kissed the palm of her hand and returned her smile.
“I am sure they can wait a little longer.”
Nancy had sighed. “Thank you.”
Nancy turned her back to the river. She leaned against the wall, facing the Globe theatre. She wondered whether she was right to dig up the past. Her father had left France for China in the early eighties. He had written a few letters but then silence. Whenever he wrote it had always been about the new government, hope for the future, the artist’s role at the centre of the people’s revolution. He never asked about her, never wished her mother, his wife, well. The anger sizzled within her. She would not surrender to it though, not any more. Still, she was unsure what the result of a confrontation with reality would be. She thought about Henry. His own anger had led him to where he was, a grubby prison cell and a thirty-year sentence to go with it. Could it have been her?
Perhaps.
She had, after all, worked with the famous Jacques Vergès when he had defended Klaus Barbie for crimes against humanity. He had called her back when he was hoping to mount the defence of Saddam Hussein. A vicious gust of wind made Nancy shiver. It was time to head home. She decided to leave the heart-aching questions for another day. Another case demanded her attention and she was glad of it.
* * *
“Slow down.” Pole broke into a slow jog towards the lift doors on the ground floor of Scotland Yard. “I’ll be with you in less than five minutes.”
Andy had received news from the Counterterrorist Squad and Ferguson was agitated. He had delivered the information to Pole’s DS as, “the Inspector was nowhere to be bloody seen,” quoting the man verbatim. Pole did not regret the time spent with Nancy. He had devoted enough years to The Met; his personal life, for once, would come first. Andy was pacing outside and almost rushed into the lift as Pole walked out.
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