The Rules

by Laurence Todd

  “And?” she said neutrally when I’d finished.

  “And I can’t seem to make heads or fucking tails of any part of it,” I said light-heartedly.

  She laughed, which lit up her whole face.

  “Seriously, I can’t seem to make any connections between these events. I’ve fed the details into the computer, hoping the dots could be joined up, and I’ve drawn a blank, but I’m certain they’re somehow linked together, so anything you can tell me off the record about this would be a help. Smitherman’s told me to back off from looking into the person I initially suspected of shooting at al-Ebouli.” I shrugged.

  She paused and sipped her latte. I was wondering if the events I’d just laid out were all new to her, or whether there was some security service operation going on I’d somehow become enmeshed in. She was considering what she could tell me.

  After a silence lasting around fifteen seconds, I asked another question. “Is Rhodes really working for the security service?”

  She didn’t reply. I waited a moment longer.

  “Does Khoudri’s death have anything to do with Blatchford’s campaign? That seems to be about the only connection I can make. Saturday’s shooting was at a campaign rally, and Khoudri’s working for Blatchford, or at least he was,” I corrected myself.

  “Do you think it does?” she asked.

  “That’s why I’m asking you. Khoudri was killed by a pro; that much is certain. Nobody saw anyone going in or out the hall, and it was clean. One shot, straight to the heart. Whoever did this is good at what he does.”

  I waited whilst she considered her options. She looked deep in thought. I finished the garlic bread whilst she was thinking and wondered about ordering another.

  “Okay.” She sat forward. “You’re right, Rhodes is working for us. We’ve suspected Donald Dellvay for some while. We’ve wondered where Kader’d acquired the materials to make the hydroxilyn he was attempting to use, and the thinking is he got them through Dellvay. It’s logical. Dellvay’s firm makes some of the compounds needed to manufacture hydroxilyn. It’d be easy for him to get access to them.”

  Interesting that she’d used Donald Dellvay’s name. I hadn’t mentioned it.

  “It couldn’t be proven conclusively, though, which is why we wanna keep tabs on him. That’s why Rhodes is with him.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “But how would Dellvay know about David Kader?”

  “That we don’t know. Hopefully, Rhodes will give us something. Hembreys itself isn’t under suspicion, just Dellvay. As well as Red Heaven, we think he’s also had links to other terrorist groups, notably Muearada. Our recent intel tells us they’ve been trying to acquire the materials needed to make low-grade chemical weapons, and even these’ll kill God knows many people if they’re ever used. We’ve also been tipped off, once they’ve got what they need, they’re planning to use them here in London, so we’re going all out trying to find how they get their supplies.”

  “Is Muearada that active in this country?” I asked.

  “They have followers here, if that’s what you mean. Al-Ebouli’s suspected of being an adherent to their philosophy, though we can’t pin anything directly related to terrorism on him. Be great if we could,” she said with some feeling.

  “I’d heard someone from outside this bunch of charmers had been brought in to take out al-Ebouli,” I ventured. “That’s why Smitherman wasn’t surprised someone took a shot at him, though I’m surprised whoever it was missed him.”

  “I can’t comment on that. That’s a separate issue altogether.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t waste your time on this. That’s all I can say. I shouldn’t even be telling you that.” She looked concerned as she spoke. What did that mean? I’d have to ask Smitherman what this meant.

  “Is this why I was told not to look for Richard Rhodes?” I asked. “’Cause it was him? He certainly fitted the description we were given by eyewitnesses.”

  She didn’t reply to this comment. I waited a few seconds, then moved on to something else.

  “Does al-Ebouli have any connection to Dellvay?”

  She sipped her drink and noticed the plate of bread was empty. I’d eaten both pieces.

  “Does this have anything to do with the events I described earlier?” I asked.

  Again, she sat holding her cup and not replying. I waited a few more seconds.

  “Am I asking the wrong questions?” I said neutrally.

  “Sorry.” She smiled. “There’s a lot I can’t talk about. You know why that is.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. I waited for a moment. “So, does Khoudri being murdered have any connection to the Blatchford campaign? As I said, I don’t believe this was a random killing. I think Khoudri was targeted by someone, because his death was a clean kill by a pro, and pros cost money. I think Khoudri knew something about something, or someone, and he was taken out for that reason.”

  “There’s where you should be looking, then. Look at what Dellvay’s doing at the moment, because that’s why he’s over here. That’s why Rhodes is watching him.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Oh, come on, that’ll be easy enough to find out.” She said this like a teacher telling a particularly slow pupil the assigned homework really isn’t that difficult. “You’re the detective.”

  “Sometimes, I wonder.” I frowned. “Is there a connection here with the campaign I just mentioned?”

  “As I said, look at what Dellvay’s trying to do.”

  Something else struck me as she spoke.

  “PC Jones was also killed by a pro,” I mused out loud. “His throat was sliced in exactly the right spot to minimise any chance of his being kept alive till he could get proper medical attention. I’ve seen throats cut before. Mostly they’re just done by someone lashing out, thrusting a broken bottle or something at the neck in a wild fashion, and the incisions are jagged and damage is random. But this was done with almost surgical precision. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing. I’ll bet Jones bled almost to death before he even realised he’d been cut.”

  “Could be,” she agreed.

  “But why pick on a young copper? Kid’s only twenty-four, for Christ’s sake.” I was bemused. I paused for a moment. “He was also at the meeting where al-Ebouli spoke last Saturday. That’s not a coincidence, or is it? Was he targeted as well?”

  She didn’t reply to this. I had one more point to put to her.

  “The person we spotted leaving the scene of Jones’ death, we think’s an Israeli national with links to the Mossad. We’ve got a fairly good description of this guy. But why would an Israeli kill a British police officer?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  I didn’t believe her, but I knew her job demanded the ability not to blab to anyone about matters people didn’t need to know. Clearly she thought I didn’t need to. I sat quietly for several seconds.

  “But you know more than you’re letting on, don’t you?” I said.

  “’Course I do. That’s one of the reasons you like talking with me.” She grinned. “’Cause I have Stimpson’s ear, and I know how fond of him you are.”

  She put her phone into her bag and stood up. I’d learned all I was going to. Back to doing police work to find answers.

  “I’ve put a name to this Israeli, and I’m gonna bring him in,” I said. “Maybe we’ll get some answers doing that. I don’t like police being killed on the streets; sends the wrong message to the wrong people and it’s against all the rules.”

  “That might not be as easy as you think,” she said, slipping into her jacket.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  She smiled enigmatically but didn’t reply. She left money to cover the bill.

  “Thanks.”

  I went to shake hands but, to my amazement, she reached forward and gave me a warm hug, which I immediately returned, plus a light kiss on the cheek. Wow.

  “Be good.”

&
nbsp; She smiled at me and set off to walk back to nearby Thames House.

  *

  I’d not been entirely truthful with Christine Simmons. I’d not told her police had caught a lucky break because, from Clements’ description, and the sketch expertly drawn by Jacqueline Chandler, I was confident I knew the name of the person suspected of killing PC Jones. But what I didn’t know was the protocol involved when a suspect had an address at a sovereign embassy. In international law, accredited embassies were the equivalent of the sovereign soil of the nation concerned, so if Joachim Balpak was inside the embassy, in law it was as though he were in Tel Aviv itself. He was beyond the jurisdiction of the police in this country so long as he remained inside the embassy.

  Smitherman still wasn’t in his office, and I wasn’t certain I could just casually stroll into the Israeli Embassy, one of the two most heavily guarded in London, and ask someone there to come and help me with my inquiries, particularly when that person was a suspect in the murder of a police officer. I left another message asking to see Smitherman the next time he was available, stressing the importance of my request.

  I went onto the Branch database and requested details about Hembreys, particularly focusing on what the company might be doing now. Maybe I could make some connections there.

  Hembreys was red flagged, meaning there was a security interest in the business. Red flags are used either because a company has strategic importance to the Government or because it is known or suspected the company does business with organisations or nations the UK government disapproves of. The majority of Hembreys’ transactions were listed as being with ordinary businesses like itself, but it did a sizeable percentage of its business with national governments, mainly the US and British governments, and this was causing concern with the security services because one of its operatives, a top manager, was suspected of complicity in aiding terrorists. This would explain the red flag. It would also explain why there was little of any real substance listed against the company’s activities.

  I then entered the name Ambersial into the search bar. It was a scientific research company which, amongst other things, conducted experiments on animals for larger companies that produced products like cosmetics and cigarettes, which were lawful but which, under UK and European law, could not be marketed until all procedures for ensuring their safety had been undertaken. These meant animals like mice, rabbits and guinea pigs being used in whatever way the law sanctioned to ensure product safety. The company had often attracted the unwanted attention of animal rights groups, notably a group known as CDA, Close Down Ambersial, and there were frequent demonstrations outside their premises. Interestingly the database mentioned Ambersial had recently signed an agreement to go into partnership with a larger American firm, Hembreys, and once the new site in Cambridge was completed and operational, Ambersial was going to relocate and centralise all its productive activities there.

  The websites of both firms were largely factual, with glossy pictures of products made, business blurb about how successful each firm was in the markets they operated in, and all manner of corporate spiel about how all this success was achieved despite the complexities of trading in the modern globalised world. There was little of any real substance on the Branch’s database about either firm, however, and it was safe to assume nobody in security would accede to any request I made for more information. I needed to talk to someone who was clued in business-wise, someone who’d know more than the formalities on the Branch computer, someone who’d have inside gossip about the more shady activities big business gets up to. And I knew someone who would be only too glad to help.

  *

  Kevin Sharone worked for Lantanis, the English offshoot of an American think-tank based in Washington DC, and his department specialised in providing the kind of useful business analysis not found in financial statements and official corporate documents. He was an American, from Montana, and had lived in England for several years after falling in love with this country when he’d first come over in the mid-noughties, though never quite losing his accent.

  The function of Sharone’s department was to provide detailed contextual political and social analysis for firms contemplating investment or doing business in those nations where the risks of so doing were considerable, before any decisions were taken.

  No organisation of any size, especially giant corporations, bases any significant investment decisions purely upon financial considerations. Whilst the projected financial returns of an investment may look good to the shareholders, people whose interest rarely extends past the bottom line, those charged with taking investment decisions always need to know more about the region concerned, and geopolitical realities rarely figure in financial predictions. An oil company considering investing a billion dollars or more exploring for oil wouldn’t want to know just the projected financial returns on any major investment. It’d also want to know about the politics of the region, the key political figures and their attitudes to Western business, the drawbacks to investing in that region, the favourability of the political climate, the likelihood of political unrest, and similar matters.

  Sharone’s department helped provide such intelligence. Even though virtually all major national and global companies had their own economic analysts, Lantanis had access to information such companies didn’t always have, such as which third-world government official had a Swiss bank account and might be susceptible to being bribed with money or women, or possibly both, or, in extreme cases, which official could be blackmailed into agreeing to granting exploration licences. This was always useful to know when major investments were under consideration.

  I’d heard it said by those in the know that Lantanis obtained much of its information about leading political and business figures around the world through the American State Department. For obvious reasons, the US government couldn’t be seen to be directly involved in decisions involving overseas business, but it could involve itself under the table. And if this meant sweeteners being paid, women being provided or some other inducement, this was felt to be a price worth paying if business interests were satisfied.

  Someone had once said the business of America is business, and, one way or another, America did all it could to ensure this remained so.

  I knew Sharone because he was a friend of a friend. Mickey Corsley, a colleague before leaving the police to open a pub in Bayswater, had introduced me to him one evening in his bar, as a friend he occasionally worked out with at his martial arts classes. We’d got to talking about sports, mainly football and rugby, which we both liked. For an American he had an admirable knowledge of both, given neither were exactly mainstream sports back in the States. We’d also discussed a range of political issues. Sharone was very leftwing in his political stance, making no secret of it, and I’d wondered how he’d ever landed his current post working with an influential American think-tank, where you’d be more likely to find people claiming they’d been abducted by aliens than you would socialists. But, whatever the case, he was in charge of his department and responsible for signing off on some very sensitive intelligence analyses.

  I phoned Lantanis and managed to get through to him. He remembered me from the pub. One of the things I remembered him saying, the first time we’d met, was how much he liked English beer, so I asked if he wanted to meet in a pub, but he said he’d sooner talk in his office as he had things on the go and couldn’t leave just yet. He was more than willing to meet up and answer a few questions, though, despite it being nearly six forty. Lantanis had its suite of offices in John Islip Street, Westminster, which ran parallel with Millbank, so it was easy to walk to.

  I was shown into Kevin Sharone’s office by a rather attractive secretary who, upon learning I was Special Branch, looked at me as though I was there to spread the Zika virus. She opened the door to the office, then turned briskly and walked away.

  Sharone was sitting behind his desk and came around to greet me. He was probably around my age, a little shorter
than me, maybe five nine, wore wire-rimmed glasses and had shoulder-length hair pushed back behind his ears. He was stockily built, like a fly half, and wore an open-collared floral shirt, dark trousers and sandals. He was the most unlikely-looking employee of a US think-tank I’d ever met, even if he was also the only one. I suspected he and Richard Clements would become great mates were they ever to meet.

  “McGraw, how you doing? Squat yourself over there.” He nodded to an armchair by the window. “I’ll rustle up some coffee.”

  His office was about fifteen feet square and every inch was functional. His desk was pushed back against the wall by the window. From there, he could see the six computer terminals on the opposite wall, each showing movements in currency and equities markets across the globe, indicated by different-coloured lines. There was also a large-screen TV tuned to BBC World News, where a breaking news video link was continually being repeated, as well as a TV showing Bloomberg financial news. Above this television set were four clocks showing four different time zones. There were three shelves crammed with books and ring binder files. I noticed a hardback copy of Too Big to Fail, which I knew to be a book about how Wall Street came to be rescued from complete financial meltdown, courtesy of the American taxpayer, during the 2007–08 financial crash.

  I was still looking at a screen showing share prices, wondering what the significance was if the Dow Jones went up and the Nikkei went down, when, a few moments later, Sharone returned with two aromatic coffees and a plate of Belgian dark chocolate biscuits. A classy outfit.