“That important, hey.” He could never be cross with Andy, who was perhaps a little puppy-like but so goddamn bright.
“Ferguson says that the material used for the bomb underneath Phelps’ car matches the Paddington bomb.”
“Let’s go into my office.” Pole squeezed the BlackBerry in his hand. Perhaps he should have answered the call after all.
They both walked in silence. Pole closed the door of his office and sat behind the desk. Andy moved the pile of documents occupying the only other chair in the room and sat down.
“OK, what do we know?”
“Ferguson is categorical. Same components used for the Paddington bomb. The one that almost killed Henry Crowne,” Andy stopped abruptly. Pole knew of course: he had been called to the scene as it had just happened and witnessed the carnage it had left behind.
“Two possibilities,” Pole said. “Either the same person built the bomb or we have the same explosives supplier.” Pole started playing with a large paper clip he had found on the floor. This was not the news he wanted to hear.
“His conclusion exactly.”
Pole remained silent. Loose connections were coming together forming a web of improbable links. The bomb that had targeted Mark Phelps the SFO witness, the explosion that had almost cost Henry his life and Henry being dragged out of Belmarsh to work on the SFO case. What of the Islington canal execution?
“Guv.” Andy was waving tentatively.
“Sorry, just wondering.” He needed time to elaborate. “Never mind. What does Ferguson want to do next?”
“He would like to speak to you about Mark Phelps and the witness protection programme.”
“Has he spoken to Marissa Campbell?”
“No, he wants to speak to you first.”
Pole was about to call Ferguson, his hand hovering over the phone.
“How about Visconti? What did Grandel say?”
Andy looked lost for a second. “You mean —” as if answering his own question, he carried on. “DCI Grandel confirmed that Visconti was very well connected with a number of looters in the Middle-East. Well-known terrorists raising money by selling artefacts – particularly in Iraq.”
“Does Grandel think that could be a motive? One of his deals going wrong?”
“Not sure, Guv. Visconti was arrested in Italy and had been serving time until he escaped.”
“How long did he serve?”
“A year and a bit.”
“Hardly any time then. Was he caught for trafficking Middle-Eastern pieces?”
“No, he tried to organise the theft of a well-known painting in one of the main museums in Venice. He managed to steal it but got caught with it in his possession.
“DCI Grandel thinks the buyer got cold feet because of the publicity and Visconti didn’t have time to shift the piece before the police found him.”
Pole sat back in his chair. Was the old link between Visconti and the Middle-East relevant or was he trying too hard?
“And does Grandel think Visconti tried to reconnect with his previous contacts?”
“That is his assumption. Visconti was sighted in Geneva shortly after he escaped and then nothing.”
“Good work. Keep digging. What about INTERPOL?”
“Nothing yet.”
Chapter Nine
A distant sound of locks opening, the cell flooded with light.
“Hello Mr Crowne.” The voice was far away. Henry could not quite place it. He squinted into the harsh neon light overhead.
“Hello Mr Crowne; you don’t mind if we check your cell, do you?”
Henry rolled over on his side, threw the sheet and blanket to the bottom of the mattress in a slow and uncertain move. He swung his muscular legs over the edge of his diminutive bed.
“Sure,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
It was a good sign. The governor of HMP Belmarsh had decided, once more, to allow him outside the compound; the downside – impromptu checks of his cell.
Henry had undergone a few of these searches when he had been asked to assist Pole and Nancy on the murder enquiry linked to the LIBOR scandal. He was ready for what came next.
However, one of the new prison officers on his wing was keen to show he could do the job to an exacting standard and Henry had been a little anxious – all right, very anxious. His small art piece, his netsuke, could have got him into real trouble and, worse, it would have cost Nancy a lot too. But no one had outsmarted Henry Crowne on that day. Complacency meant mistakes and he was not about to let himself down by being smug. Gone were the days of investment banking.
His legal file marked in bold letters LEGAL & PRIVILEGED was sitting on his desk. An irresistible decoy for any prison officer worthy of the name.
The three guards moved noisily. Henry stood up and donned his tracksuit bottoms. He moved to the head of his bed, waiting for instructions.
John, a short stocky man, was in charge. Not a bad chap, but all officers appointed to HSU Belmarsh were discouraged from befriending inmates. No small talk, which Henry regretted. He had always been good at it, creating an atmosphere of trust in which people enjoyed working. He had struck the right tone, though, courteous without being obsequious, but detached. He did not seem to want anything from anybody.
The file did the trick. Officer number two, tall and wiry, a man whose name he did not know, was already moving towards the desk. He had been brought in on the task from another wing within HSU. Henry waited a few more seconds before protesting.
“Hey, that is a privileged document,” he said raising his voice.
“So you say,” the tall man replied. He had picked up the file from the desk, not opening it but threatening to.
“That’s the law and I know my rights,” Henry replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
The other guards had stopped searching. No one wanted a confrontation. John took the document away from the other officer, looking at the outside before putting it down again. “It’s the same one I saw last time we searched.”
“And the one I take when I see my legal representative.”
The search resumed. Henry cursed himself. He should have pulled back a little. The guards were now moving around his bookshelf. Some books were opened and thumbed, then came the turn of the heavy art book that hid the netsuke. The spine cracked. Henry held his breath. The guards would have to look into the spine to see the little bundle and even if they did the small clump looked like paper.
“You like your art don’t you, Henry?” John asked. He was still perusing the book, looking through the images.
“Are you saying I could start a collection?” Henry shot back. Shit, what am I saying? he thought. A little film of perspiration started forming at the back of his neck. Henry tried to look amused. He hoped the sudden tension in his body did not betray him. John kept going through the pictures. The sound of an object dropping on the floor almost made Henry jump. His legal file had been left on the side of his desk and it had now fallen to the floor, its contents lying on the ground.
Henry almost burst into laughter. It had all been about this goddamn file after all.
“Sorry,” the tall officer said with a grin, already gathering the papers together. Henry moved towards them quickly. “I’ll do it.” He knelt and bunched the papers together rapidly, pushed them into the folder and hugged it to his chest. He looked suitably annoyed and the guards took note.
An excellent decoy indeed.
Any information worth remembering he would never store on paper but rather in a place no one else could access – his brain.
The search lasted another ten minutes. The art book had been left on his chair, pushed around every time the officers moved to access another part of his cell. Henry’s back was now resting against the wall, his eyes in the distance; he forced himself not to look at the book precariously ba
lanced on the seat. One of the guards bumped into the chair and this time the book almost fell. John caught it with one hand. “I wouldn’t want your collection to get damaged.” Henry felt the punch in the gut.
Had John guessed?
The officer threw the book onto his desk, gave the other two a nod.
“Very funny,” Henry managed to mumble.
He collapsed on his bed as soon as they had left and did not move. What if they came back? His cell was a mess and he was now fully awake. He waited in complete stillness for a while.
Finally, he stretched and a small bubble of contentment burst in his chest. The decoy had worked. Wheels were in motion and he was once more allowed outside HSU Belmarsh. Kamal would be aware of it and yet Henry was not entirely sure what the other man’s plans would be. Would he attempt to escape at the same time as Henry? What Henry was sure of was that Kamal and his group wanted him for his knowledge of banking and finance. He had built an impenetrable maze of companies and bank accounts for the IRA. The money that had been taken to finance the IRA decommissioning had never been found and its origins would remain unknown for ever. Someone with such capabilities was invaluable to a new ambitious Jihadi splinter group.
Henry started tidying his room. It did not take long and once done he sat against the wall, knees to his chest. He dropped his head back, resting. The last piece of the puzzle was still missing. What if it never came?
Henry moaned. He must trust his instinct. It would; it had to.
Henry did not believe in coincidences. Kamal Al Quatari known under his battle name as Abu Maeraka had been transferred to HSU Belmarsh on Henry’s wing the minute he had been found guilty of terrorism. There were three wings in HSU but the man who had almost cost Henry his life had been transferred to his wing. Henry’s jaw tightened. He pushed away the images that were trying to force their way into his mind. The smell of burning petrol filled his lungs. He stood up abruptly. He needed to walk away from the scene. He took off his T-shirt and, lying on the ground, he started a series of press-ups: thirty, fifty, one hundred.
Henry collapsed face down. His heart pumping in his chest, his throat on fire. He turned on his back and let the cool surface of the floor calm him down. It helped. The images of Paddington receded. The bomb exploding near the police van that was taking him for questioning had been the turning point he needed. The driver of the police van had died and his colleague had been trapped in the vehicle. Henry had not had the courage to help.
He sat up, grabbed his T-shirt and wiped the sweat from his face and his body. He bunched up the garment into a ball and threw it into the corner of the cell. He knew why he had joined the IRA. He had wanted to believe his father belonged. Wasn’t it better to think he had died a partisan’s death rather than a drunk’s? Liam and Bobby had given him a sense of belonging. And perhaps their cause had been just, but nothing justified the killing of innocents.
Nothing.
Henry walked to his washbasin and ran his hands underneath the cold water. Whose blood was he trying to cleanse? He splashed his face, moved his fingers through his greying hair. Atonement would only come one way.
A life for a life.
The thought pacified him somewhat. After the months of agony during his trial and the early days at Belmarsh a glimmer of hope had emerged. A flicker of light he had learned to kindle. His need for redemption had astounded him. He had realised he would never be fully forgiven for what he had done but he could perhaps show he could be a better person. The plan he had slowly elaborated was bold, perhaps as bold as the one that had brought him down four years ago. But unlike Anthony Albert, he was willing to risk his life and face a gruesome death. Whereas Albert’s plan had only been devious.
Henry lay down on his bed again. He had a couple of hours before breakfast. And he needed a sharp mind for what was coming next.
* * *
The piece of toast popped out of the toaster with a small mechanical click. The smell of warm bread made Brett’s mouth water. He started buttering his toast and checked the tea had brewed long enough. He opened a jar of his favourite marmalade. It was all looking appetising and yet something essential was missing, a butler. Brett could not help smiling at his own delusions of grandeur – gone were the days of Downtown Abbey, an absolute tragedy. He moved to his lounge, placed the buttered toast on the table and activated the screen of his laptop, special edition, MI6 encrypted. Steve had sent additional information that might help him with The Sheik’s request. Brett had acquired a reputation for gathering information and in particular information of a sensitive nature on his clients. It had helped him to cut deals, to know their tastes and how far they would go for a piece they truly desired. The Sheik wanted everything Brett had on Henry Crowne. Brett had looked a little puzzled but he was not prepared to argue after having been shown Visconti’s pictures. He had assured The Sheik he would do his very best. It was a balancing act, neither too much nor too little or his own head would be next.
The file was extensive and Brett was surprised. This was not a last-minute cobbling together of information. It had taken time, perhaps years, to gather. Some parts were blanked out. Still Brett could see considerable effort had been used in finding out who Henry Crowne truly was.
Brett bit into his toast, white of course, none of that wholemeal rubbish. The idea of delving into Crowne’s life rather changed his mood.
The family history was unexpected. A mixed marriage some forty years ago in Belfast was unheard of. There had been speculation about Henry’s father’s IRA affiliation. It looked likely despite the lack of evidence. The puzzlement was Henry’s father’s wedding to a British woman. Perhaps it was a cover-up. His death attributed to a UVF assassination reinforced the idea. This part of the document was heavily redacted and Brett’s curiosity was piqued. Steve might one day indulge him.
Brett kept reading.
As for Henry, outstanding academic results, a move to London with a career in law then investment banking – a UK bank, a Swiss bank and finally GL, one of the most successful American banks before the 2008 crisis. Brett hated to admit it, but Henry was a very clever man.
Then entered Brett Allner-Smith, his good self, into Henry’s life. All the pieces of art and antiquities he had sold to Henry – listed, with prices, provenance whether legal or illegal. Brett felt almost nostalgic.
But not quite. Henry was only an Irish peasant trying to look the part. He chuckled at the news that Henry had taken elocution lessons to rid himself of his Belfast accent. And Brett could never forgive Henry for leading him straight into the claws of MI6. Brett poured some fresh tea. The little coward had recanted on a deal involving a stolen Iraqi artefact that had almost cost Brett his life. He had offered Crowne, the man whose deals earned him millions in bonuses, an exceptional piece, a piece every museum would want to own. Henry had been keen; so many of these pieces went missing. It was almost his duty to salvage one of them. Brett had been cautious to start with but eventually trusted Henry’s desire to own something no one else could. At the eleventh-hour Henry got cold feet.
“One million dollars,” Brett said aloud. It was the sum he owed his Al-Qaeda contacts for the artefact and these people did not accept credit.
Brett drank his tea and pondered. Now Crowne was in prison and he, Brett, was involved in a potentially lethal operation that far exceeded his appetite for risk. No time to feel sorry for himself though; if he played his cards right he would escape the clutches of MI6 and the money he had made would go a long way towards restoring his past standing. Brett resumed his reading. The dossier was now dealing with Henry’s involvement in money laundering for the IRA. The fund structure Henry had used had not been completely uncovered, essential pieces of the puzzle were missing and by the looks of it Crowne had not been willing to cooperate. Brett read through all the documents in one sitting. He kept sipping his tea and whenever his cup ran dry he poured more without stopp
ing his reading. It was riveting and almost – creative. He put his cup down and started putting together a sheet of information for The Sheik. The Sheik would be impressed. He pulled towards him the notepad that already lay on the table and started writing. Out of nowhere the images of Visconti’s body resurfaced. He stood up, feeling giddy. Brett leaned forward against the table. The moment passed.
Never feel complacent; that was the only way to stay alive.
* * *
The black and white photos had turned yellow around the edges. An elegant young man in a three-piece suit, yet sporting a Chairman Mao collar shirt, a young woman with long dark hair, a short dress with broad stripes and insert pockets that interrupted the lines – she could remember the dress, she thought. Both are all smiles. He has wrapped his arm around the young woman’s shoulders and she has her hands on the shoulders of a little girl called Nancy. Nancy turned over the photo and looked at the date. By then her parents had left China as the Cultural Revolution was biting hard. They had just arrived in Europe after months of travelling through the Chinese countryside to escape the communist regime and finally reached Hong Kong, then France. Nancy shuddered. She had kept very little that could remind her of that era but somehow this faded picture of three happy people had been hard to let go of.
She had gathered together the few documents she had kept that related to her father. She adjusted her dressing gown, drawing it tighter. Her hands were freezing despite the pleasant temperature of her apartment. She was still somewhat puzzled by her renewed desire to find her father. It had started a few years ago when she had decided to give up the law after a remarkably successful career as a QC. She paused at the thought. Any regrets?
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