Shiv laughed cynically: ‘He’ll still get paid as an Opposition MP – plus he gets to save his marriage. Besides, who do you think fancies himself as the next leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition after Marvell goes and the other mob take over?’
‘No! Do you really think? The cunning bastard!’
‘What do we do?’
I thought about it. ‘For now, you have to continue squeezing Devereux dry. Get everything you can. Particularly any tangible evidence, written or otherwise, that he might have. Knowing that slimy bastard, he probably recorded conversations. Then get him to sign each and every page of notes to keep the lawyers happy. Christ, Shiv, you don’t need me to tell you how to do this.’
‘What if Marvell tells the Russians to get stuffed?’
‘Then we still have a ripper story. You simply write about the secret Russian loans and the blackmail attempt by a foreign government. Either way, he’s fucked. So start writing. Give me a draft story or stories for me to look at ASAP. At some point we’ll have to front up Marvell himself. Then, unfortunately, we’ll have to sit down with the lawyers. Christ, that will be painful. Can you imagine their faces when we tell them what it’s all about?’
‘Never mind those weasels, can you imagine Bolshy’s face when he hears about it?’ Shiv said. ‘Without a doubt he’ll get booted out of the country!’
Fingers crossed. That would solve all my problems. ‘Thank Christ the man has no bloody idea of what we’re up to.’
53
BLACK MAC watched Charles Connor’s inauguration ceremony on TV while Borya Bolshakov spoke to his father Leonid on an encrypted smartphone. Macrae was half-looking at the TV screen and half-listening to his boss. Despite the fact he could only hear one half of the conversation and he didn’t understand Russian, it was clear what was being discussed. This was the first time he had ever seen his boss look nervous.
‘Yes, Papa, I’m watching it right now. With Carlos. Congratulations again. It will rank as your greatest achievement in a long and illustrious career. Let’s hope that President Connor will usher in a new era of, shall we say, East-West cooperation!’
Bolshy spent a moment watching the presidential party gather on the West Front of the US Capitol Building in Washington DC prior to the swearing-in of the forty-fifth President of the United States.
‘No, we are in my London apartment. That’s right – Knightsbridge, overlooking Hyde Park. Yes, I can just see Russian Embassy from my window. It’s on the far side of the park. What? Yes, I know you were based there once. No, I didn’t know that. Rodchenko too?
‘Look, Papa, I have bad news. The choknútyy editor has betrayed me. The crazy bastard has refused to do what I tell him about sanctions campaign. We have threatened his family but still he conspires against me.’
Bolshakov winced and held the phone away from his ear. Carlos could hear an outraged squawking.
‘Calm down, Papa.’
Borya put one hand on his forehead and sucked in some air as the squawk started up again.
‘Unfortunately, there’s more bad news. It appears this man, Jonno Bligh, also knows about Banquo. Not everything, but enough.
‘How do we know? Because Carlos bugged his office. We heard him tell someone to dig deeper into this situation. He also suspects that we had the woman reporter killed.
‘No, Papa, Banquo is not aware of this. Not yet. But Bligh will confront him at some point soon. Why? Because that is the way newspapers do things here. They offer right of reply to people they accuse of bad things.
‘No, you needn’t worry. We have a solution to the problem. We’ll deal with the kakáshka immediately. Bligh is a dead man walking. Those Islamic crazies have already threatened to kill him. We will simply do job for them. Carlos will arrange it.’
At the sound of his name, Black Mac took his eyes away from the TV screen and looked at his boss. He nodded, put a thumb up and left the room.
‘What was the other thing you wanted to tell me? Vava has been deported? Tvoyú mat! Son of a bitch! What happened? Yes, I knew the Americans had closed down our consulate in San Francisco. What has that to do with Vava?’
‘No, I haven’t spoken to her. What do they have on her?’
‘Yes, I’m looking now.’
With his free hand, the younger Bolshakov keyed in the words ‘Varvara Moroshkin US deportation’ into Google on his laptop. Up came dozens of results. He clicked on one.
A Russian banker suspected of secretly working as a spy in a New York City bank is being deported back to Moscow, federal officials said today.
US Immigration and Customs and Enforcement announced the removal of Varvara Moroshkin who, they believe, has spent several years in the New York offices of a Russian state bank while covertly working as an agent for that country’s foreign intelligence agency.
The move follows the closure of the Russian Consulate in San Francisco, which the FBI say housed a spy ring that collected intelligence on US sanctions against Russian banks, as well as cyber experts engaged in the disruption of US presidential election voting systems in various states.
Sources in the US State Department confirmed that the FBI had found semi-shredded sensitive documents in the consulate after the diplomats had been forced to leave. Some of these indicated Moroshkin’s involvement in strategic investments in various Silicon Valley companies involved in social media via a network of shell companies. The money, said to be hundreds of millions of dollars, is believed to have been provided by the Kremlin.
The State Department alleges that Russian hackers used social media, including Facebook and Twitter, to place false stories and highly contentious political ads during the election campaign as well as the cyberattacks targeted at the presidential election.
Immigration officials said Moroshkin would be deported ‘within the next few days’.
Bolshy whistled. ‘At least they have not yet linked her to you or me. But, of course, it is only a matter of time.’ He paused as another stream of Russian invective rumbled down the phone.
‘Papa, I have to go. Carlos is back. I will call you later with update.’
Black Mac had slunk back into the room with a satisfied smirk on his face. The oligarch wiped some sweat from his forehead and looked at Macrae expectantly.
‘Spoke to the Kazakh brothers,’ Macrae said. ‘They like your “fatwa” idea. Reckon they can do it within seventy-two hours, guaranteed. It will cost us a ton of roubles, coming so soon after Bill Todd. But you can relax, boss – Jonno Bligh is a dead man.’
54
MRS TODD looked nothing like the photograph that had once had pride of place on her husband’s desk. She seemed younger, more vulnerable somehow.
It had been more than a week since Bill Todd’s death. I hadn’t gone to the funeral because that would have been insensitive. I was the man, after all, who had fired him, and there had been some suggestion his suicide was a direct consequence. But I did feel that I owed his widow a visit. Her husband had worked for UK Today for some years and, despite my contempt for the man, I thought she deserved a visit from a senior representative from the newspaper. Besides, I was curious about him, his life away from the office – and his death.
Against expectation, Mrs Todd – Isobel – did not display any hostility towards me. Not exactly open arms either, but she invited me in while Neville waited in the car. The house was larger and grander than I expected: a detached Tudor-style home in Chalfont St Peter, a leafy village in Buckinghamshire about an hour from central London. Must have cost a packet, I thought. More than Todd could afford on his salary. It confirmed what I had imagined: he had a second source of income, courtesy, no doubt, of Black Mac.
His wife was blunt. ‘Bill didn’t like you. Said you’d stolen his job. He’d always wanted to be editor.’ We were sitting in a conservatory at the back of the house overlooking a large, well-stocked garden. She gazed out at it with pride. ‘That’s my hobby. Spend all my time out there, weather permitting. Hardly ever saw Bill.
Well, you know what it’s like.’
I nodded, then took a sip of tea.
‘You married?’
‘Yes. Annie’s her name. She’s feeling a bit neglected right now as well.’
Isobel sniffed. ‘Well, at least her husband’s still alive.’
‘Yes. Sorry. Talking of which, can you tell me what happened? You know … Bill’s death? If it’s not too painful, that is.’
Turned out, she was happy to talk. Probably lonely, I thought, living way out here. She repeated what Mrs H had told me, that she’d got the train to her sister’s up north. She hadn’t talked to her husband while she was away: ‘We didn’t communicate much.’ She said they’d been married for nearly thirty years, as if that explained why. Then, when she’d arrived home, she hadn’t immediately noticed anything was wrong. She’d unpacked her case and made herself a cuppa. Some time after that she’d gone to the garage where they had a large deep freezer to get something for dinner and seen him hanging there.
‘I was shocked. Obviously. He looked bad. I no longer loved him but, still, it was a horrible way to go.’
‘Had there been any hint that he had been suicidal?’ I asked gently.
‘None,’ she said firmly. ‘Bill was the last person I’d expect to kill himself. He was always so – so sure of everything. Mind you, he was upset about being sacked but he wasn’t depressed, more determined about getting revenge.’
Revenge? On me, I assumed. ‘Has there been an inquest?’
Mrs Todd explained that the post mortem examination had not found anything suspicious, but there would be an inquest in due course. This was standard procedure following suicides.
‘So, nothing to suggest that his death might have been anything other than suicide?’
She gave me an odd look. ‘Funny you should say that. My neighbour saw two men coming out of the house on the day it’s supposed to have happened. She said they were a bit, you know … hard-looking. Not from around here, she said. Foreigners.’
55
PERCY WAS using his chubby chipolata-shaped fingers to devour a bowl of cold porridge. The dish summed up the atmosphere around the table.
‘Look love, I’ve said I’m sorry I was so late. Again. It’s just that – well, these big stories keep coming. I hadn’t fully appreciated how the buck stops firmly with an editor. It’s a heavy responsibility.’
‘Boo hoo, Jonno. Poor you,’ Annie said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You, at least, are having fun at your blessed newspaper. We are the ones that have to manage without you. And even when we are out trying to enjoy ourselves, we have to keep an eye out for assassins.’
We’d told the police about the two men in the park who Annie had also seen outside the flat. There wasn’t much they could do: they just said to contact them immediately if there was a further incident.
‘Promise me at least that you’ll take Saturday off,’ Annie said.
I must have looked puzzled because she exclaimed: ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Jonno, in case you have forgotten, it’s your birthday! A big one. Would be nice if we could all celebrate it together.’
Fuck, piss, bugger, shit. I had forgotten. My fortieth, no less. In all the newsroom hurly-burly over the last week or so, the so-called happy event had totally slipped my mind.
‘No darling, I had not forgotten,’ I lied with a winning smile. ‘And yes, I do have the whole day off. Normally do on Saturdays, as you know.’
‘There is nothing normal about your working hours.’
I deserved that.
‘So, have you got anything in mind?’ I asked, my eyebrows arched. In my ideal world the whole day would be spent in bed getting some much-needed sleep and some quality time with my gorgeous wife. Knowing Annie, however, I figured that was out of the question.
‘We thought it might be nice to take Percy to a panto. Saturday is the season’s last matinee performance of Puss in Boots at the local theatre.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Well, Posh and I. Did I tell you she’s got a date? With a boy called Azim. Isn’t that fantastic?’
I nodded, genuinely pleased for her.
‘Anyway, Posh says she has always wanted to see a good old British panto. And Percy would love it.’
‘Oh no, he wouldn’t!’ I said in a stagey voice.
Annie laughed. It was a welcome sound. ‘Okay, that’s settled. I’ll organise tickets. Then afterwards we’ll go somewhere nice for afternoon tea. It will be a memorable day, trust me.’
56
MICKY SARDAR waited until the waitress put down the pot of mint tea and disappeared before he switched on his phone’s voice recorder. The man opposite – a Pakistani, he reckoned – began speaking in a soft, strongly accented voice. He had refused to give his name but Micky knew he was a governor at the Nur ul-Haq Academy. His brother Aleem, who had given him the original tip-off about the school, had arranged the meeting in a shisha café close to Leicester’s central train station. For privacy, they sat in an open area. An overhead patio heater guarded them from frostbite.
Later, Micky would report that the man had been nervous but resolute. He had a closed-in sort of face, a face that gave little away: shutters down, guard up. The man sucked intermittently on a long-stemmed shisha pipe. The watermelon flavour seemed to calm him. He said that he’d been appalled at what has happening at the school but had been too afraid to speak up. Now, however, he was prepared to spill the beans with the guarantee of anonymity.
‘The government has given us more than three million pounds in grants over the last ten years. These were supposed to support our educational and cultural programs but most of the money went elsewhere.’
‘Where?’ Micky asked.
‘The British Federation of Islamic Councils.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The BFIC controls nine schools, including ours. They were ostensibly set up to provide services to regional areas with a strong Muslim community in accordance with the teachings of Islam. They apply to local authorities and government departments for special grants.’
‘All above board, I presume?’
‘Yes, that bit is legal. But not what happens next. The grants go to the individual schools. Then the BFIC bills them for “services”. These include providing “religious and cultural education, fees for building maintenance and repairs, and legal costs”. They also charge us an inflated rent and take interest-free loans amounting to hundreds of thousands of pounds. I am sure it is the same with the other schools.’
‘Do you know what happens to the money after that?’
‘No. There are rumours, but I cannot be certain.’
Once the man had gone, Micky phoned his colleague Richard Pearce and gave him a quick summary of what he’d just heard.
‘Good stuff, ‘said Pearce. ‘I don’t suppose he told you what these rumours were?’
‘Yes. He said that some in the mosque were worried that the cash was going to radical groups. He said that Muslims in Leicester were very moderate and did not agree with violence.’
‘Right, Micky, get back here as soon as you can. I’ll be upstairs in Derek Baird’s office looking at the school accounts. On the sixteenth floor. He’s UK Today’s financial director. We’ll expect you in what, two hours?’
* * *
I got the call from Derek Baird just after the late conference. When I reached his office, I found him with Richard Pearce and young Micky Sardar. ‘How’s the Muslim school probe going?’ I asked. But I could already tell from their faces that they were on to something big.
‘It’s schools – plural,’ Richard said.
Not only had the story stood up, it had got bigger than Ben Hur. Their joint investigation showed that not only had millions of pounds of government funding for the Leicester school been funnelled to a shadowy national Islamic body over several years, but several other similar Muslim academic institutions throughout the UK had allegedly done the same.
‘The Leicester school was just the t
ip of the iceberg,’ Richard said. ‘Derek has exposed serious financial and compliance lapses. Basically, taxpayer cash designed to support educational and cultural programs is finding its way first to a group calling itself the British Federation of Islamic Councils and then, we believe, to terror organisations.’
‘Never heard of them,’ I said.
‘Not many people have. It took us some time to find out more about them. Even then, it’s not much. But one thing is definite: they have links to Al Jamaat-e-Islami and, through them, terrorist groups like Al-Qaeda.’
‘But how? I mean, how could they get their hands on the money if it was coming from the government?’
Richard Pearce smiled. ‘Shockingly easily. The BFIC set up the schools years ago – at least nine of them – ostensibly to provide services to regional areas with a strong Muslim community, in accordance with the teachings of Islam. They quickly applied to the appropriate local education authorities and various government departments for grants and they all fell over themselves to give them buckets of cash under the sacred umbrella of promoting multiculturalism. Derek can tell you what happened next.’
The accountant adjusted his glasses, looked at his notes and explained that the taxpayer money had gone straight to the schools. The BFIC simply billed the schools for so-called services and that money then ended up in Syria and Afghanistan.
Unbelievable. ‘Let me get this straight … You’re saying the Muslim schools were essentially ATMs for terrorists?’
‘Well, that’s not exactly how I would put it,’ Baird said with a crooked smile. ‘But, yes.’
‘And it has been going on for at least twelve years,’ Richard Pearce said. His eyes were flashing, clearly excited by his findings. ‘Last year alone, the BFIC raised the rent of one school campus in Lancashire by six hundred per cent. Young Micky found that out.’
I looked at the young reporter. He was also clearly excited by the story. I asked him if he would cop some flak from his community when the story broke.
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