Arbitrage

by Colette Kebell

  ‘OK, here we go,’ said Whitley returning to screen. ‘Keep your fingers crossed, if we get away with it this time, I’m retreating to some remote island. And if we don’t … well, let’s not think about that. Yuri, is everything ready?’

  The Russian nodded and launched the program. Whitley had placed the computer so that the camera could show the screen where the buying and selling of shares happened. It didn’t really matter because those transactions were made at a speed that the human eye couldn’t record, but it provided an idea of what was going on.

  Hank saw a variety of charts that rose and fell, not understanding the meaning of what he was seeing. To others, it seemed they were watching a sci-fi movie where amazing technologies were at work.

  ‘For now, everything is going as expected,’ said Whitley, ‘we are entering and deleting orders, and the market is moving. See, someone is trying to follow us.’

  Whitley was doing a live broadcast of any transaction that Yuri was doing. Actually, most of the work was being done by computers in their data centre, but on a screen, they could clearly see the accounts and in particular Sokolov’s, and his three hundred million. The numbers were changing at every moment. In an instant, the counter changed from three hundred million to one hundred, then two hundred million for a moment, then went back to zero. Silence reigned in the meeting room in Brighton and the only one who didn’t seem interested in what was happening was Sokolov, who now had started polishing the axe.

  Gradually they saw the account grow again. Three hundred and ten million, three hundred and twenty. That went on for another hour until Whitley’s voice woke them up from that spell.

  ‘Jesus Christ! We had a flash crash.’ Whitley took a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, beaded with sweat. ‘Get us out of this mess, Yuri!’

  Hank continued to watch the monitors, stunned. He saw Google shares that were falling from seven hundred dollars to pennies. IBM shares were sold at $100,000 apiece, and an instant later returned to normal. Then, for a while, the Nasdaq Index went to zero, and there it remained for about ten seconds before returning to the nominal values. Then it was the turn of the BATS and later the NYSE. The market was in chaos, no one knew what was going on, except maybe for Yuri, and when the Chicago Stock Exchange began to trade, even that was not free from repercussions.

  The counter which showed Sokolov’s earnings had risen to nearly four hundred million and didn’t even hint at stopping.

  ‘Guys, we’re in big trouble this time. If they catch us, it’s jail time for all of us! I’d say it’s time to stop,’ said Whitley.

  ‘Not yet,’ boomed the voice of Sokolov from across the room. Everyone turned and saw him standing and looking right at Whitley on the screen. Then he went further toward the camera while holding the inlaid axe in his hands. He showed the axe to the camera and said, ‘I decide when it is time to stop.’

  Whitley wiped his forehead again and tapped his hand on Yuri’s shoulder, urging him to continue. The young Russian programmer did not need encouragement. He knew what would happen to him if he did not obey.

  CHAPTER 44

  Robert Price had called his lawyer from the police station, he asked him to go to his house and pick up some boxes full of documents from the trunk of his car.

  When the lawyer arrived at the police station, he went into a separate room with his client and had a long discussion. In the end, Price was ready to confess, said the lawyer, in exchange for immunity and protection for his family.

  The full confession took place in Chief Superintendent Ross’s office, who had personally taken over to call a prosecutor and to inform a judge in case they needed a warrant.

  In the quiet office, Price told of Mortcombe’s involvement with the mafia, his ambition and when he became, de facto, the mafia’s banker. He did not neglect any details, except for the murders of Romanov and Amelia Mortcombe. That would remain a secret, unheeded.

  Now and then he watched his lawyer as if seeking confirmation. The lawyer nodded to encourage Price to continue. Price was not ashamed of what he had done, his only regret was that he had been caught.

  While he told the facts, a tape machine took care of recording every word of what would later become his formal confession. He spoke slowly, chanting the words, pausing from time and time to construct the right sentence to describe the years serving the most powerful criminal organisation in history.

  When he had finished, Price felt drained. He had nothing left. The dream of leading Mortcombe Bank vanished. The vision of becoming rich out of proportion and even to live a happy life with his wife and children had disappeared. It would no longer be possible. And if his wife didn’t ask for a divorce, they’d have to live a regular life, an ordinary one, probably in a country overseas. One of the clauses to remain under police protection was to stay inconspicuous, remain anonymous as much as possible. That was what terrorised Price most, much more than just dying at the hands of the mafia.

  He read the typed confession, slowly, nodding from time to time. Then passed it to his lawyer for a second reading, before he signed it. For an instant, his gaze was directed towards the window, behind Ross’s shoulder. He could glimpse the sea, silhouetted in front of a cloudless sky. He knew he wasn’t going to see it again.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Chief Superintendent Ross, ‘this will be a tremendous blow to the mafia. We will be in every newspaper in the country.’

  Price’s lawyer checked for one last time the letter from the prosecutor which had sanctioned both Price’s freedom and the protection for him and his family, then passed it to his client.

  ‘These are the documents we promised you,’ he said then, showing the two boxes that had been left by the door. ‘What you’ll find there is enough to indict Sokolov and suspend all the accounts. When you have a warrant to enter the bank, you will find more information. Obviously, my client is happy to fully cooperate with you.’

  ‘I guess it’s time to go get them,’ said Corrigan addressing Blake. Now the net was tightening, a patrol had followed Marcus Splinter, Chaz, and Lenny to the hotel and was waiting for orders. The Russians and Hank Edwards were still in the Resurgence Equities Enterprise building. Corrigan and Blake would go directly there, followed by other officers.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Corrigan to Ross and the prosecutor, ‘just to avoid our newly acquired friend, Mr Price, changes his mind about the story he told us today.’

  The two listened in silence and then smiled malignantly toward Corrigan.

  ****

  ‘We are in the news!’ announced Whitley, ‘CNN has just reported the news of the flash crash, if we keep going, we will be the richest convicts on the planet!’

  Sokolov looked at the giant screen and saw how much money was in his account. The counter listed six hundred and ten million and was still growing. ‘We can stop now,’ he announced with his deep voice.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ said Whitley. ‘Well, guys, it was a real pleasure. See you in Patagonia, for that’s perhaps the only place in the world where they won’t search for us. Holy cow, we’ll have to live as refugees. I’m going to transfer the money to you immediately, minus my commission. I’m going to pack my suitcase, and if you have some brains, you will do likewise.’

  Hank’s computer let out a slight beep in confirmation that the money had been transferred. Four hundred ninety-six million. He had to look at the number repeatedly, to make sure he understood what had just happened.

  It was at that point that a sound of breaking glasses interrupted the conversation. ‘Go and see what is happening,’ said Sokolov to one of his bodyguards, ‘I wouldn’t want that employees had forgotten to leave the building.’ Then he leaned his axe, which he had held in his hand the whole time on the table and drew back the Tokarev TT-33.

  Pointing the gun at Hank, he said, ‘Now transfer the money to my account. Every single penny.’

  Before he could comply, the office door was smashed open and Corrigan, Blake, and two oth
er police officers raided in, immobilising the remaining guard. ‘Put down that weapon, Sokolov. You have everything to lose if you make the wrong move.’

  The Russian obeyed quietly, resting the gun on the table. Robert Price, accompanied by a police officer, entered the room. Sokolov looked straight into the traitor’s eyes as he left handcuffed.

  ‘We will meet again. It’s a promise.’

  It was at that moment, not noticed by the officers, that Logan picked up the Tokarev TT-33, pointing it in Price’s direction.

  ‘Bastard! You killed Amelia! You won’t get away with what you have done!’ Keeping the gun pointed toward Price, Logan ordered Hank to move the money into another account. He dictated the account numbers that Hank repeated aloud for confirmation. In an instant Logan’s phone made a beep, confirming the transaction had completed successfully. He took the phone in his left hand and looked briefly at the notification, but that instant was fatal for him.

  ‘Let go of the gun, Logan, it’s not worth it,’ said Corrigan pulling out his revolver and pointing it towards the old lawyer. Logan who was shaking while holding the gun with both hands and now there was nothing but hate on his face. He fired in Price’s direction.

  Corrigan fired in turn, hitting him twice in the chest. Logan slumped to the ground while his shirt became red with blood. His breathing was heavy, he could barely keep his eyes open. His shot had missed Price by a whisker.

  ‘Someone call an ambulance!’ cried Corrigan as he tried to take Logan’s pulse, ‘and for Christ’s sake, make sure there are no other weapons around.’

  While the officers handcuffed Hank, Anders, and Domino, Corrigan looked again toward Logan’s body. He picked up the Tokarev which had fallen a short distance away and placed it in his jacket pocket. Then he felt for Logan’s pulse again. He turned toward Ross and shook his head. ‘A weak pulse, he’s losing a lot of blood.’

  The ambulance arrived a few minutes later, and two paramedics raced up the stairs until they reached Hank’s office. Logan had passed out, and the two paramedics loaded him on the stretcher, after learning that he was still alive.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ said Corrigan.

  ‘The Royal Sussex, it’s the nearest hospital,’ said the younger of the two.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Konrad.’

  ‘Well, Konrad. When you arrive at the hospital, ensure the doctor calls me immediately.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir, yes,’ said Konrad. The two paramedics hurried to load the wounded man into the ambulance and set off, the sirens screaming in the night. Only after a couple of miles did to the driver slow down and turn off the sirens.

  ‘We made it, guys,’ she said talking to the three in the back.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I shit myself when that Russian entered the room. I thought he was going to kill us all,’ said Logan, opening a can of Coke. That day he was celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of sobriety.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, tipping the can towards the front where Amelia was grinning at him through the rear-view mirror.

  CHAPTER 45

  Bruno Mortcombe awoke suddenly hearing someone calling his name.

  He looked around. He was still in a hospital bed. A room with two beds this time, his and that of an old man intent on watching television. The pain in his neck and chest made him almost pass out while he tried to look around. In those rare times when he had regained consciousness, during the past two days, he had always been alone. Not now. And nobody had pronounced his name. Not in that room. The television was showing an attractive brunette, lean, and scatty; she was right in front of the Mortcombe Bank building. In the background, he could see the blurred flashing lights of police cars, high-visibility yellow jackets moved around indistinctly, like ghosts, on the TV.

  Mortcombe closed his eyes and continued to listen to that voice. Investigators had not released a statement yet, but it was evident that Mortcombe Bank had ties with the Russian mafia, according to some indiscretions. There was plenty of evidence. Everything had been put on lockdown, and the local police were searching for more clues on the bank’s computers. Several bank accounts had been frozen.

  According to the journalist, it was not yet clear whether there was a link with the recent death of Amelia Mortcombe and another man named Ryan Logan, killed during a police raid at the company headquarters of Resurgence Equities Enterprise.

  The woman went on, telling how Resurgence was a fictitious company, unrecorded and the mysterious disappearance of Logan’s body; she promised more news as soon as it became available. Then she sent the link back to the studio.

  Logan, thought Mortcombe, the natural father of Amelia.

  With great effort, he reached the phone and composed a number he knew by memory. ‘I must disappear immediately,’ he said to the person on the other end of the phone, ‘it’s a matter of life or death.’ He listened intently to the words that were spoken to him. ‘I still have some money saved up, but not much. Make it quick,’ he said.

  The journalist on television was interviewing a police officer about the mysterious disappearance of Ryan Logan’s body.

  Logan was worse than cockroaches, thought Mortcombe, that do not die even after a nuclear catastrophe.

  CHAPTER 46

  La Bouilloire was an elegant, but not too much so, bistro in a side street facing directly on Boulevard de la Croisette in Cannes. Marcel, the owner, was a sixty-five-year-old man from Paris, who had bought the place as an investment many years before. That was his main job, buying ruined shops and apartments, putting them back on track and selling them for profit.

  With La Bouilloire things had been different. Soon after restructuring it, he furnished the kitchen, just to entice potential buyers. Then he applied for a license and he finally hired a cook, two aides, and three waiters. It had been nearly two decades since that day.

  It was a quiet morning and the only guests were a woman, an old man, and a young man with blond and straight hair, like punks used to have. The woman would be the new owner of the bistro. The time had come to retire and take that cruise around the world that Rosalie, his wife, had always desired.

  ‘Have you decided where to go?’ asked Amelia.

  Before Konrad could speak, a solid man, with an undulating walk, approached the three guests. ‘Inspector Corrigan, Interpol, may I sit down?’ said the man, showing his badge.

  ‘Good morning, inspector, you are welcome,’ said Amelia, smiling. ‘Can we offer you something to drink?’

  ‘A glass of white wine will be fine. I don’t have the pleasure of knowing this young man,’ said Corrigan, aimed at the young blond.

  ‘You should well remember him, Jordan. He is the guy who loaded me into the ambulance after you shot me,’ said Logan, ‘and his name is, or rather was, Konrad. Part-time paramedic, although his preferred job is to hack computers; he is now retired from public life.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. You seriously have to work on your communication skills, guys. I had to find out what was going on for myself and improvise.’

  Corrigan turned the glass between his fingers for a few seconds before continuing, ‘Here’s the latest news. Price was put under protection and disappeared from circulation. Bruno Mortcombe fled the hospital once he woke up from his coma; there is a warrant for his arrest. Sokolov got away with it. He lawyered up and passed as a potential victim. The documents Price gave us were enough to freeze the all the accounts; they’ll go bankrupt, but there wasn’t enough evidence to condemn the Russian.’

  ‘I only regret not having been able to see Mortcombe’s face when he heard the news,’ said Logan.

  ‘He won’t get off easily, even if he fled. The police blocked his accounts. He has no money, no support from the mafia. He has a life of hiding and misery in front of him.

  ‘What happened to Whitley?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘The company is still in business. After a week, the newspapers were tired of trying to explain to the average American that
the stock exchange is basically a scam in itself. The SEC slapped him on the wrist but did not find anything illegal. I mean, these high-frequency traders are growing like mushrooms. I was reading in yesterday’s newspapers that they are going to link the London Stock Exchange with a high speed trans-Pacific internet cable. New markets for him and those like him,’ said Logan.

  ‘And new opportunities for arbitrage,’ said Corrigan.

  ‘Remind me not to invest my money in the stock market,’ said Amelia.

  ‘By the way,’ said Logan, ‘that old boyfriend of yours, Quentin. I convinced him to invest in Resurgence, I hope you don’t mind.’

  Amelia laughed loudly. ‘What a bastard!’

  ‘Who, me or him?’

  ‘Him. But you too. How much did he toss their way?’

  ‘A hundred thousand pounds. He is still hoping for a future together with you.’

  Amelia shook her head amused.

  ‘What are you going to do with your share of the money?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘I’ll buy a battery of servers as big as a house,’ said Konrad.

  ‘I’m doing nothing,’ said Logan. ‘It’s dirty money, when I was released from prison, I learned that I needed very little to live in peace. I just want to stay here, in contact with my daughter. We put our life savings into this restaurant. What more do you want? Honest work, by the sea, in one of the most beautiful places in Europe.’

  ‘By the way, here are your new documents, hot off the press,’ said Corrigan.

  ‘And what will you do?’ Logan asked Corrigan.

  ‘United States. I’ll buy one of those luxurious camper vans and drive across America. I’ll send a postcard to my ex-wife from a different place every day. She can try chasing my pension if she really wants.’