The Rules

by Laurence Todd

  “James did wonder about that.”

  “I’ll bet he did.” My cynicism was evident. “It also stopped most of the demonstrations against the firm, once two of the main organisers were off the scene. The new building could go ahead and the deal with Hembreys was back on again.”

  “Something like that,” he agreed, finishing his drink.

  Kevin Sharone had told me something similar two days back, and his source had been Balpak himself. I just hoped he didn’t let on to Balpak he knew me.

  “I think the same person who shot Jamal also killed Jones last Monday,” I went on. “The guy with his face covered who spoke to you and Jamal. He approached you because he knew you were part of Blatchford’s team.”

  Jaser paused for a moment.

  “You know what I heard?” he said. “I heard, after the crash, they found the dead man’s mobile phone, and the last number called, not long before the crash, was traced to Jones. The other person in the car was his stepfather, you see, and the assumption was he’d told Jones what was happening.”

  “So they kill Jones outside al-Ebouli’s meeting, which puts al-Ebouli in a bad light and deflects any suspicion away.”

  “Couldn’t take the chance, you see?” Qais Jaser said as though it were all perfectly logical.

  Jones had been killed because someone thought he might know something about what had happened relating to the burglary. The fact the burglary had occurred a couple of months prior to Jones’ death was conveniently overlooked.

  I mused for a while, chewing over various permutations and scenarios in my mind. If, as I’d been told, Rhodes was helping out MI5 by keeping Dellvay under consideration, the assumption would have to be he was helping with the deal, so working with Balpak would enable him to know what the Israelis were doing as well. Ingenious.

  “Why was Perkins so sure Blatchford’d go along with this?” I asked.

  “They’ve been friends for years. Perkins found out James had taken a few bad hits during the credit crunch, so it gave them the perfect cover.”

  “What do you mean, the perfect cover?”

  He smiled knowingly at me. “As I mentioned, the security people favoured a deal with Hembreys, so it was agreed James would do what he could, with the firm’s blessing of course.” He nodded sagely, touching his empty gin and tonic glass.

  “Crattelle & Hatchman knew about it? They were in on the plan?”

  “Of course they were,” he replied, as though I were particularly dumb. “You have any idea how complex an operation like this is? One person on his own could never have done it. Something like this could never have been carried off without their agreement. James did make a few losses during the credit crunch, but nothing like as bad as was claimed, certainly no worse than anyone else’s from that time. But his record of business losses was, ah, exaggerated somewhat, shall we say, to make it look worse than it was. The word was put around he’d been acting recklessly.” He was smiling, on a roll.

  “So the story about complaints to the FCA was all crap.” Jaser smiled and nodded. “It was just part of the backstory. So, when the Israelis came in to complain, the bank could say, ‘We know he’s useless, but he’s running for the mayoralty. If he wins, he’s not here anymore, and if he loses, he leaves.’ And that’s what they did indeed say when the Israelis came calling. The bank only knew about the accounts screw- up. They didn’t know about the formula. They just agreed to help because they were assured it was in the UK’s national interest.”

  “When did the Israelis realise, for want of a better term, they’d been fucked over?”

  “That’s exactly what happened.” Jaser laughed. “But how long after? I don’t know. I heard about it from Christian later.”

  That would figure.

  “Who in the bank knew about this? Who agreed to it?”

  “Stephen Crattelle, the senior partner. He and Stimpson, along with Christian, devised the whole scheme. They all know each other from way back.”

  Of course they did. Stimpson was very much a part of the establishment. He pulled the strings no one could see. He made the deals behind closed doors but in the context of the national interest. I had no idea, nor would I ever have any idea, why British security preferred Ambersial dealing with Hembreys rather than Zealiac. What I did know, however, was that British security had wanted something from the Israelis, and had orchestrated the whole situation to get hold of it. I also knew this operation had cost several innocent people their lives. Jamal Khoudri may or may not have been party to what Blatchford had done, but he didn’t deserve to die because of it. Steven Perry and Assa Khoudri had perished in a car crash and were smeared as being the burglars, all so Rhodes could save his own skin, and convince Hembreys to keep working with Ambersial into the bargain. And PC Jones had had his throat cut because the Israelis couldn’t take the chance on what his stepfather, Steven Perry, might have said during that fatal last phone call.

  This also explained how Christian Perkins knew the suspect for killing Jones was an Israeli. Of course he’d know that. His son was working for his friend Stimpson. All very cosy.

  I was feeling nauseous as a result of what I’d heard. There was a bad taste in my mouth, and not just because my cappuccino was now lukewarm. I must have drifted off whilst thinking because Jaser’s voice brought me back to earth.

  “You looked like you were miles away just then.”

  “Times when I wish I was.”

  He looked apprehensive for a moment.

  “Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” I said. “This whole fiasco has been stage managed from the outset. Blatchford deliberately screwed up some business arrangement between Zealiac and Ambersial, with Crattelle and whatsit’s connivance, simply so British intelligence could get hold of some formula from the Israelis. That’s the truncated version, but am I near to the truth?”

  “Something like that,” Jaser agreed. He pursed his lips for a moment.

  “And four people die as a result.” I stopped for a few seconds to draw breath. “What’s so fucking special about this formula? What is it, the secret of eternal life?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man,” he said in a neutral tone. “I’m a political scientist, I have no background in the natural sciences. Anyway, they’d not tell me even if I did. I’m just a functionary in the grand scheme of things, Detective.” He shook his head. “I don’t get told the big things. I just do what I’m asked.” He paused. “So now you know.”

  He looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better be getting back.” We stood up.

  “What happens now?” he asked.

  “Blatchford probably becomes London’s next mayor, that’s what happens now. I don’t know about anything else.”

  I didn’t. Israeli agents had directly killed or been responsible for the deaths of four innocent people, including a police officer whose probable offence was to have been the recipient of a phone call from his stepfather’s mobile. I’d no idea what had been said about anything, but Balpak and his team had taken no chances, so they had stage managed an outbreak of public disorder where, in the melee, Balpak had slit Jones’ throat. Jamal had been killed maybe because of Assa or because Israel suspected he was involved in wrecking Zealiac’s proposed business arrangement with Ambersial. Steven Perry and Assa Khoudri had died evading a hot pursuit, probably from Rhodes and Balpak, and were quite likely terrified whilst attempting to evade their pursuers, which no doubt contributed to their car crashing into that tree at high speed. I just hoped this formula was worth four innocent lives.

  I swore Jaser to secrecy about talking to me, told him not to tell anyone who he’d just been talking with, in particular the candidate. I assured him I wouldn’t let what he’d said on to anyone who didn’t need to know. Well, almost anyone.

  S E V E N

  Friday

  Di Reece had followed up on seeing Moshe’s picture and made inquiries about him, only to be stonewalled at every turn. The Israeli Embassy refused to make either
Moshe or Balpak available to answer questions about the death of Donald Dellvay. Their car had been spotted driving through London yesterday after my call to Dispatch and had been pulled over, but both men showed their diplomatic credentials and, after being checked out, were allowed to continue. Richard Rhodes had also been questioned, as his face had appeared on the hotel CCTV, but denied any part in Dellvay’s killing, which police accepted. As these were the two most obvious suspects the inquiry soon became a cold case. The necessary arrangements were made for Dellvay’s body to be flown back to his family in Massachusetts.

  “Moshe Brinke flew out of Gatwick earlier today, flight to Tel Aviv,” Smitherman said after bringing me up to speed with the stalled investigation. “Waved at the two Branch officers at the desk who saw him boarding.”

  “And Balpak?”

  “Still here, and don’t waste time asking what’ll happen to him because you already know the answer,” he said formally.

  “So Israel scores twice: eliminating those they think screwed them over and lifted the formula, and also blackening al-Ebouli’s name because Jones’ death is now linked to Muslim extremists.”

  “You could well be right on that, Rob.”

  “What was this formula anyway?” I asked, not expecting an answer. I was, however, about to receive a surprise.

  “I shouldn’t actually be telling you this,” he said conspiratorially, “but I’m going to trust you, as you’ve been involved in the case.”

  He fixed me with a stone glare, one I knew from experience to mean breathe a word of this to anyone and you’re back to directing traffic wearing a uniform.

  “What you heard about a pill for heatstroke? That was just a front. What Zealiac was really working on was some kind of germ toxin. Our friends the Israelis were attempting to develop some form of lethal nerve gas, and our masters and betters decided they didn’t want any British company tied up in this, so they arranged to get the deal stopped but in such a way as to make the cancellation seem plausible. The Israeli government complained to our government, but behind the scenes, couldn’t go public because we knew what they were really trying to do.”

  “Israel’s fallen out with Britain?” I asked.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “This was just a friendly spat. They’ll be upset for a while but it’ll pass. We still share the same interests and we’re committed to the same ideals. Why’d you think Dellvay was shot?”

  I was puzzled.

  “Rhodes discovered Dellvay was attempting to provide a small batch of hydroxilyn to someone known to be connected to Red Heaven. He passes it on to Balpak . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

  “Who passes it on to Moshe, and Dellvay is dispatched.” Smitherman nodded gently to himself. “Yes. Stimpson gave them permission to kill an American citizen on UK soil. They’ll square it with the CIA chief in Grosvenor Square.”

  “Where’s this germ toxin now?”

  “Porton Down,” he replied. “Our boffins are doing whatever they do with it. I doubt we’ll ever hear any more about it. I don’t want to either. Disgusting stuff. No civilised nation.”

  E I G H T

  Friday, one week later

  At midday, after the count, James Blatchford was duly elected to become London’s new Conservative mayor. On a high turnout, a quite remarkable fifty-one percent, he achieved over fifty percent of the first preference votes cast, meaning he had an overall majority over the other candidates. I was watching the evening news, listening to a happy and very excited Blatchford committing himself to making London an even greater city under his watch and outlining some of the things he hoped to bring about. He finished by dedicating his victory to the memory of his fallen friend, Jamal Khoudri, who’d died needlessly ten days earlier. I saw Qais Jaser standing behind the victor, looking very pleased with himself. Blatchford’d certainly not been elected on my vote.

  But the final week of the campaign had not been all plain sailing for Blatchford. On Tuesday, the London Evening Standard had published a front-page article, which was later followed up by other newspapers and TV news channels, claiming James Blatchford had profited from insider trading, because he’d bought shares in Ambersial and Hembreys before the news of their collaboration was made public, and had made a six-figure sum from them. The article was published under the byline of Sally Taylor.

  Because I’d already spoken to her whilst investigating Khoudri’s murder, Smitherman asked me to talk to her again, and ask her how she’d obtained such confidential information. I contacted the Evening Standard and asked to talk to her, and we met in a nearby Starbucks for a coffee. She was friendly and polite, but refused to divulge where she had received the information, or who from. What she did say was she had a source who’d provided her with these figures, and her editor had said, if these figures were true, it was in the public interest to publish. She’d run them by Blatchford, who’d refused to comment on what he referred to as a malicious smear story designed to influence the election result. She said she’d spent Monday checking figures and dates, believed the story was factually true, as did her editor, so he decided to publish it on Tuesday. The allegations were reported on the evening news and again in Wednesday’s national newspapers, causing quite a stir.

  Asking Taylor about her information had been a wasted exercise. Not because I knew she wouldn’t tell me anything; no journalist in her position would. It was wasted as I already knew where she’d obtained it from. Because, indirectly, I was her source.

  I liked Sally Taylor and had decided, as she’d helped me out a couple of times, and she was looking like she was going to be a source for the Branch, it was time to return the favour, albeit anonymously. So, on Saturday, I’d sent Richard Clements an untraceable email from a one-time address, which had been immediately taken offline after its one usage, outlining James Blatchford’s engagement in insider trading. I included some figures I’d uncovered to support my case. My message suggested he pass them on to Sally Taylor at the Evening Standard, as she’d worked covering the campaign since it began and was familiar with Blatchford.

  He did. The story broke on Tuesday afternoon and created quite a media storm on the news that evening. Clements phoned me later than evening and excitedly told me about the manna from heaven which had dropped onto his lap. I’m a good liar so I congratulated him on his scoop, but told him to be careful. He was convinced it’d been sent from someone on the inside of Blatchford’s campaign. I agreed it probably was.

  Blatchford had spent an uncomfortable Wednesday fielding questions from all parts of the press about the story but, consummate politician that he was, he already had a cover story prepared. Yes, he admitted he’d sold shares, but he had owned them for some time and was simply divesting his portfolio in readiness for what he hoped would be an election victory. He’d insisted the timings were simply fortuitous and there’d been no foreknowledge of increases in share prices. The story did him no lasting harm and he won his victory. But for a while I’d made him quite uncomfortable, and planted a small seed of doubt about him. I’d no doubt Sally Taylor and Clements would continue to look into James Blatchford as his mayoralty progressed.

  But my talking to Sally Taylor hadn’t been a completely wasted exercise. I was just draining my coffee and thanking her for her cooperation when she fixed me with a cute coy smile, almost an embarrassed schoolgirl look.

  “Actually, Robert, as you’re here . . .” She paused for a moment. “I was going to ask you this when we were in that café last Thursday, but for whatever reason I didn’t, so now’s as good a time as any. Would you be interested in you and me going out for a drink one evening?” Her eyes sparkled as she asked.

  I was so taken aback I nearly spilled what was left of my coffee, so I placed the cup on the table and looked at her. “You asking me out on a date?”

  “Yeah, I suppose I am.” She smiled. “I really like you, Robert.”

  There was no denying Sally Taylor was a very attractive
and intelligent woman. I loved her hair and the way it tumbled down onto her shoulders. There was definitely something about her. Whatever it was, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I just knew it was there. I could feel myself being pulled into her orbit because her eyes were imploring me to say yes. I’d had the feeling for a while that her always being around was going to lead to something, but I’d assumed she was just softening me up to be a friend and a potential future source. I’d certainly not anticipated her asking me out on a date. But, hey, I liked her enough to be very interested in her offer.

  “Yeah.” I smiled. “I could very well be interested.”

  She squeezed my hand lightly and returned my smile with a killer smile of her own.

  “You have any plans for later this evening?” she asked.

  I hadn’t . . . but I did now.