No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  She was wearing her usual black suit, white shirt uniform. She was allowing herself a quick cup of coffee before the police car came to pick her up. Crowne would already have arrived. She had left it to Pole and Nancy to speak to Henry about his proposed meeting with Mark Phelps. Against all odds, Marissa had decided to trust Henry. His rebellious nature chimed with her own, although she was grateful she had never been dominated by it and plumbed its depth. She dropped a lump of sugar in her mug and drank in small sips. She never stirred her coffee, enjoying its bitterness being gradually replaced by the sweetness of the taste once she reached the bottom of the cup. Marissa understood only too well the temptation to seek revenge. Black and female in the legal profession, let alone the judiciary, had not been easy. King’s College London had been a bedrock of support, helping her assuage her frustrations. With Nancy as a master and mentor during her pupillage, she had learned to gain in confidence. She could not have hoped for a better role model: similar experience, equally ambitious and above all the same determination to preserve their integrity.

  It was still early and she had absent-mindedly moved to the lounge whilst drinking her coffee. The space was dwarfed by the grand piano she had positioned beside one of the bay windows, not too close though to avoid exposing it to the sun. She lifted the keyboard lid and ran her fingers over the white and black keys. She placed her cup on the floor, leaned over a little. Her hands moved quickly, playing the first bars of Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’. The melody brought back the unhappy memory of her meeting with Mark. Music was her sanctuary. It should never have been violated in that way.

  The doorbell rang. At the same time her BlackBerry buzzed with a new text. The police car was waiting for her. She gently closed the keyboard and finished her coffee, enjoying the sweetness of the last gulp. She moved back to the kitchen, looked around: everything was in its place, tidy and organised. The doorbell rang again. She hesitated; a wave of anxiety surprised her.

  “I’m outside.” Marissa recognised Pole’s voice.

  Her knees wobbled and she grabbed the door handle for balance. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Don’t be alarmed. I was just on my way to work and thought I’d give you a lift and use the official car as an escort.”

  Marissa opened the door, struggling with the bolts.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Pole’s tall frame loomed in the hallway.

  “I’m going to be a bit jumpy for a while.” Marissa closed the door behind her, secured all the bolts. She tested the door handle. Pole called the lift but when it arrived, she could not quite remember whether she had switched on the alarm. She cursed between gritted teeth, went back to check whilst Pole held the lift doors open. She hurried through the same ritual. When they reached the ground floor, Marissa slowed down. “Did you want to speak to me about anything in particular?”

  Pole smiled. “Direct in your questions just like Nancy taught you.”

  “No point in beating around the bush with you, Inspector.”

  Pole led her to his car and opened the passenger door to let Marissa in. She nodded an appreciative thank you. The escort car’s engine was running. It moved alongside Pole’s. The officer in the passenger seat lowered the window.

  “I’ve checked traffic around the bridges across the Thames. Battersea is our best option.”

  Pole had also lowered his window. “OK, you’re in the lead. I’ll tune into your radio frequency in the car to follow your route.”

  “Fine by us.” The officer closed the window and the car moved forward at a measured pace. Pole checked his rear mirror. No one behind him. He pulled out.

  “Going back to your question about my own question Marissa,” Pole said with a smile that did not reach his concentrated eyes. “I wanted to know what you thought about Henry.”

  “Off the record?”

  “Off the record.”

  “As financial criminals go – and I have seen my fair share of them – I like Henry Crowne. Before you choke, I know this isn’t what you were expecting me to say.”

  Pole shook his head in disbelief. “What is it with you lawyers indulging a criminal like Henry —”

  Marissa interrupted. “I said financial criminal. I did not say terrorist. As far as that is concerned …” Marissa stopped. She was about to condemn Henry for his IRA affiliation but before she could continue the police radio interrupted.

  “Inspector Pole, change of plan. There’s an accident on Wandsworth Bridge, all traffic re-routed to Battersea. We are re-routing to Lambeth Bridge.”

  “OK, your call,” Pole answered. He looked again in the rear mirror. The traffic behind was still light. Nothing out of the ordinary. Marissa had stopped talking, observing him as he drove.

  “You were saying,” Pole asked. “Terrorism is a no-no.”

  “Surely, you don’t think I’m condoning it?” Marissa feared her voice sounded somewhat forced. Could Pole have read her hesitation? Or was he simply trying to put her at ease during the ride?

  “There are quite a few barristers who try, genuinely, to understand why people resort to violence. Any form of violence, including terrorism.” Pole indicated, turning right into a maze of smaller roads. The police car was still comfortably close.

  “That’s true but it’s also part of their job. I don’t deal with those people.”

  “Even money laundering?”

  “Point taken.”

  “What about the BAE Systems case? Bribery paid to Saudi Arabian officials.” Pole kept an eye on the lead car and one on Marissa. “I too read the papers.”

  “And I presume you did a bit of digging around before you agreed to work with me.”

  Pole chuckled. “Once a copper, always a copper. Got to know the background.” A small moped had come alongside the lead car. Its basket bore a Deliveroo sign and the driver was checking his watch. Pole’s attention switched to the bike. It seemed well used. The driver’s jacket was bulky, enough to hide a weapon. The traffic light went amber, then green; the driver swerved in front of the lead car and disappeared into the distance.

  Marissa had stopped speaking as well. Pole relaxed, the lead car moved on. It picked up speed again. Pole accelerated, ensuring no car could separate them. They were on the approach to a large roundabout. A few cars were already waiting in an adjacent lane. The lead car indicated right, accelerated then veered to the left, almost turning back on itself.

  Pole hears it again, the noise of tyres exploding on impact.

  “Marissa, brace position,” Pole shouts.

  He looks into the rear view mirror, reversing – a bullet hits his windscreen, the glass cracks but holds. Pole picks up speed. Marissa muffles a scream, head on knees, hands over ears. The police officers in the other car jump out, taking up position. Pole hears retaliatory shots. A van moves to block Pole’s retreat. Pole changes gear, moving forward towards the crowd of police officers advancing towards them under the cover of cars parked along the street. Another shot hits the car from behind. Men in balaclavas get out of the van. Pole counts at least two. He increases his speed and brakes furiously sending the car sideways, his flank exposed to the shots. The men fire rounds in his direction.

  “Stay down,” Pole shouts. “The car can stand this.”

  The glass of his window takes a bullet; another one and it will explode. An officer is running in the direction of Pole’s car. Pole manages to manoeuvre his tall body onto the back of the car. He opens the door as the officer arrives. The officer starts firing, giving Pole and Marissa cover to leave Pole’s stranded vehicle. Marissa has opened her door but she has to be coaxed out of her seat. Pole helps her to crawl towards other officers who have just arrived. Pole crouches behind another vehicle. Marissa has been extracted from the danger zone. Pole glances in the direction of the shooters from behind the bonnet of the car protecting him. He sees a small rucksack m
oving rhythmically with the blast of gunshots. Pole hears a cry of pain. He retreats to check none of the officers have been hit. One of the gunmen is limping between two cars, takes another bullet and rotates with a jerk. Pole loses sight of him.

  The rucksack he had spotted keeps moving away from the scene. He waves at the officer closest to him.

  “Another shooter, five cars down.”

  The officer nods, starts inching slowly towards the spot. The rucksack has stopped.

  The officer yells. “Drop your weapon.” The gunshots start again. The rucksack has moved behind a large tree. The officer has moved into position. The rucksack suddenly moves backwards, in a flurry of gunshots. The attacker has reached a small alleyway and disappears into it. Pole stands up and starts running after him. The gunman picks up speed. Pole accelerates. He can’t see a gun. Pole can only hear the pounding of his feet on the pavement. They reach a main road. The shooter doesn’t stop, effortlessly avoiding the cars. Pole follows but is less nimble. He slows down, almost hit by a car. He does not stop to apologise when the driver angrily sounds his horn. The gunman increases the distance between them. He now turns left, running along the central reservation of the road. Pole swears. He needs to cross the road before he can follow.

  Which is the closest tube? Lambeth North.

  Pole races across the road again. Cars barely avoid him. The shooter is now on Kennington Road. He jumps over the protective railing and runs between the cars almost in a straight line, fearless. Pole climbs over the rail further down the road. He pushes himself as hard as he can. A mass of people is coming out of the tube station. The attacker jostles his way through. Pole makes a final effort and bursts down the stairs of Lambeth North. The crowd is too dense. He slows down and when he reaches the corridors, looks around and tries to spot the man he has been chasing. Pole does not want to create panic or, worse, a hostage situation. For all he knows the shooter still has a gun and bullets in it. He scans the tide of people: a young woman fiddling with her mobile, two men in baseball caps. Pole vaults over an entrance gate and considers the direction of the tube line. He can hear the rumble of the next train approaching. He reaches the bridge that straddles the two platforms. People have started to gather towards the edge of one of them. He must make a choice. He climbs down the stairs two by two as the train appears. He thrusts his tall body forward. And he sees it, the small rucksack at the end of the platform. The doors have opened, people pushing through to get out, people jostling to get in. The warning beep sounds, the doors about to shut. In a final effort Pole reaches for the rucksack with one hand and the hoodie with the other. The rucksack comes loose and slides along thin arms; a plait of thick black hair escapes from the hoodie – a scarf – a woman. Pole freezes. The doors close and the train lumbers away. She never looks back.

  Pole gathered himself together. Had he been chasing the wrong person? But surely the owner of the rucksack would have resisted it being pulled away? He unzipped the bag impatiently. It was empty.

  “Shit,” Pole blurted. “Shit.”

  He ran back up to the concourse and knocked at the window of one of the ticket booths. The man looked up, taking his time and putting down a newspaper. Pole shoved his ID onto the glass and indicated he needed to come in. The man adjusted his glasses, suddenly jumping to attention and moving quickly to open the door.

  “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  “Do you have access to CCTV cameras and can you call Waterloo?”

  The elderly man looked blank.

  “I’m in pursuit of a suspect.”

  “Right. Right.” He grabbed the phone and dialled promptly. “What does he look like?” Pole clenched his fist. The description was ridiculously bland: small build, black trousers, black hoodie and scarf – and a plait of dark hair.

  “Where is your CCTV camera access log?”

  The phone was ringing.

  “Do you still want me to call them?”

  “Yes, tell them I am looking at CCTV footage to get a better description.”

  The old man waved Pole towards the back of the ticket booth. Pole walked into a small room, smelling of food and coffee. A weary young man stood up. Pole showed his warrant card again.

  “I’m in pursuit of a suspect, direction Waterloo. The train left three minutes ago.”

  The controller keyed instructions into a portal he had called up on his monitor. A number of screens appeared, replaying the event. Pole could see himself holding the rucksack, stupidly stunned.

  “Go back a couple of minutes.” Pole was searching. “There. There,” he shouted, pointing at the screen. He looked at the small figure, weaving her way through the crowd towards the far end of the platform.

  The other man came into the room. “They’re waiting for you on the phone.” Pole nodded. “Can you send these images to Waterloo Station and the British Transport Police?”

  The young man nodded matter of factly.

  “Hello, this is Inspector Pole. I am following a suspected attacker in a firearms incident. Your colleague here is sending you a picture of the suspect. “He …” Pole hesitated. “I’m not sure whether it’s a man or a woman, but this person is armed and certainly dangerous.”

  The woman who had taken his call responded immediately. The trace was in motion. Pole went back to the weary young man.

  “Can you roll forward and switch to the train itself?”

  “Sorry mate. Can’t do.” The man shook his head. “You have to ask the LUCC to see the footage of what’s happening on a train.”

  Pole shook his head, exasperated. He should have remembered; only the London Underground Control Centre had access to the camera footage from trains.

  “Not my fault mate.” The young man had become almost animated.

  Pole ran his long hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. There was nothing he could do at his end for the moment. He gave his contact details and walked out of the station towards the site of the shooting. He called Andy. The images gathered at Lambeth North were on their way to him and he would call the LUCC. Pole broke into a jog. Marissa was unhurt when he left. He hoped it would still be the case when he returned.

  * * *

  Pure luxury. Henry had been allowed a proper coffee from the Caffè Nero close to the Yard. Andy had obliged and he would be eternally grateful. The same arrangement of screens had been set up as the last time he helped Pole, together with a Bloomberg terminal and a printer. No mobile phone yet but it would come. Henry just needed to be patient and start impressing them as he had before.

  A very large wad of papers had been left for him to go through. It looked disproportionately big on the small desk where it lay.

  Henry smiled, cracked his fingers in a ready-to-tackle-anything gesture and started keying in instructions on his BBG keyboard. He liked the colour coding of its display, specific to traders or research analysts.

  He called up the names of several law firms he knew that could put together complex legal structures of the type Marissa had mentioned. Mossack Fonseca was still at the top of the list. Their website deceptively plain but effective, the four-branch logo that represented them a well-known trademark distinguishing them from the other Panamanian firms. Henry checked whether the website listed the contact names and telephone numbers of people working there. But no, only one enquiry number, just as it had always been. The reputation built on forty years of servicing the world with legal yet obscure corporate structures had to be preserved. Henry pondered. His contact would probably still be working there, but if not, he knew how to trace him. Mac would be aware of Henry’s fall from grace but that eventuality had been thought through and worked out a while ago. Henry also suspected Mac would not want to be the subject of an international search warrant.

  Henry seized upon the pile of documents and went through them methodically, underlining the details he needed to commit to memory.

>   For Bank X, the rescue package extended to UK banks by the government had been unpalatable. Treasury representatives sitting on the board represented an unwelcome intrusion of civil servants unable to understand the taking of risk in the international banking sector. The offer from the Middle-East on the other hand had been much more appealing. Henry grinned a wicked grin. The name of the Bank and the Middle-Eastern state had been blanked. Who did they think he was? Some newbie who did not know his way around banking? He had heard the news at the time of the offer and could still remember it clearly. HXBK was the bank which had bought his previous employer GL for almost nothing. The press had been all over it for days. What the press had not been told about was the arrangement between HXBK and an obscure Panamanian structure that was soon to receive a substantial amount of the money diverted from the cash injection HXBK had received. Speculation had been high that Saudi Arabia would once more increase its exposure to the financial sector in the Western world. But the Saudi Sovereign Fund had made their fair share of investments and Henry had discounted them immediately. The two remaining candidates were the UAE and Qatar. Qatar was the most interesting. It had started to show interest in building up its Sovereign Fund investments and HXBK was an ideal candidate. The stock was depressed. Henry went to his Bloomberg screen and dropped HXBK’s share reference into the BBG search engine. The stock had dropped by seventy per cent at the beginning of the 2008 crisis.

  “Shit a brick,” Henry blurted. “Time to buy.”

  And this is what Qatar had done four years ago.

  How far would a bank go when its management had been grabbed by the throat or possibly somewhere even more painful?

  Henry nodded. “Far – very, very far.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brett had hoped The Sheik would want to see him at a reasonable time when he had been told the day before they were having a meeting. But a text he had received on his burner phone had simply said instructions would arrive at 6am. The promised instructions duly arrived at 6am on the dot, giving Brett scarcely two hours to get to the meeting place at Tottenham Hale. The old navy-blue slacks and the faded jacket would be the first clothes he wore today. Brett checked his MI6 laptop as he ate a quick breakfast. No further news from Steve. Where was his minder when he needed him?