Silent Money

by G D Harper

  ‘Okay, it’s a deal. You can pick up the heroin as soon as the money comes through.’

  ‘Ah, no. Delivery is included in the price. I pay when you bring it to our warehouse in Oviedo.’

  Michael was horrified. ‘It would be easier for you to collect it here,’ he said.

  ‘No possible. Too many risks. I don’t know you, who you tell. Maybe they tell someone. Any problems in Scotland, they your problems. I see you in Oviedo.’

  Diego couldn’t be persuaded. That meant going back to Big Jockie and finding someone they could trust to take it to Oviedo. Michael had risked everything to be this closely involved in a drug deal; no way was he going to put himself in further jeopardy by taking the drugs to Spain. All it would take was one random check at the border and there would be no way of avoiding a long, long jail sentence. Michael didn’t do random. It would be pure chance to get to Spain undetected.

  After Diego left, half-carrying the semi-comatose Manuel, he considered his options. Big Jockie couldn’t do it; if anyone was likely to attract the attention of customs, it was someone looking like him. Finding someone else to make the trip would mean trusting whoever that was not to screw up, not to betray them, and even if they were successful, never to talk to anyone about what they had been part of.

  He had been stupid to get this closely involved. Maybe he should tell Big Jockie and Los Zetas that the deal was off, that he wanted no further part of it, and if they wanted to sort something out between the two of them, to do so but not to involve him. The outlook was bleak. Two irate parties furious with him for letting them down. If they went ahead themselves, none of the money coming to him. Glensporret, a pipe-dream that had forever slipped through his grasp.

  He’d taken risks before. He could take one more, one final risk, as long as it could be managed; as long as the odds of detection were acceptably low. Flying was the easiest way. Book a package holiday to northern Spain and he’d be able to get to Oviedo the same day. But far too risky. If he were asked to open his luggage at the airport, he’d be done for. That left driving, taking a ferry – either a short Channel crossing and a drive through France, or a longer trip across the Bay of Biscay. He decided the Calais crossing would be best. There would be another customs check at the France–Spain border, but that would be relatively busy, less chance of a thorough check.

  Michael got one of his regional operatives to fit out his car with hidden compartments, a common enough practice among the brotherhood of thieves. It meant a long drive to Liverpool and back, but Michael wanted no one in Glasgow to have any inkling of what he was doing. It would be a long shot that he’d even be stopped at customs, and there would never be a thorough enough search to find the drugs unless the authorities had been tipped off, or he started acting in some way suspiciously. He could trust himself not to do that. He loaded up the bags the night before his drive to Dover. He’d break his journey south of Manchester and be on an afternoon crossing the next day. Two days of driving to reach Oviedo on Spain’s north coast. Then he could complete the deal and relax on a ferry straight back to the south coast of England.

  As he pulled into Dover, Michael could see the SeaLink ferry waiting in the dock, a long queue of cars snaking back from the ramp waiting to board. He joined the longest queue. He wanted to reach passport control with as little time as possible to spare before the ship sailed, hoping that would reduce the chances of a lengthy examination.

  The queue started moving forward, car by car, to the customs booth looming ahead. Then it was one car before him. He held his passport and ticket in one hand, the other cradling the gear stick. He took a few deep breaths to keep calm, puffing out his cheeks when he exhaled. He realised that looked conspicuous and stopped. His nose had an insatiable itch.

  The car in front had been at the customs booth for three, maybe five minutes; there seemed to be a problem. Michael saw the customs officer pick up the phone, the driver folding his hands behind his head as he waited. The cars behind pulled out into the now empty adjacent lanes, disappearing into the bowels of the ship. Just as Michael was beginning to think it was going to look odd if he was not doing the same, the guard put down the phone and handed some documents to the driver. He headed off, and Michael drove up to the booth, smiled forgiveness to the guard that he’d been kept waiting. He got a harassed wave to continue, and Michael tried not to grin too much as his front wheels bumped up onto the ramp.

  Once in France, all the cars sped off without any more checks and Michael drove down through the country avoiding further incident. For the last few hours before reaching the Spanish border, he debated whether to turn off the motorway and cross the border on a rural road where he imagined there wouldn’t be any checkpoints. But if there were, a British car might arouse suspicion. He weighed the pros and cons, but there was no clear answer. In the end, the decision was made for him. It was getting late as he neared the border and he didn’t want to risk getting lost on some anonymous backway. He drove through the crossing just after the Basque town of Biarritz without any problems, and was checked into his hotel in San Sebastian as night was falling.

  He set off before six the next morning as he wanted to complete the drive along Spain’s northern coast and hand over his cargo by the end of the day. For the first time on the journey, Michael felt able to relax. Keep below the speed limit, he told himself, and there was nothing more to worry about until he reached his destination.

  He came over the brow of a hill just outside Laredo and was met by a line of stationary traffic. Blue flashing lights in the distance told him it must be an accident of some sort, but at least the queue was moving slowly forward in sporadic bursts, and the delay didn’t look too long. He did a quick mental calculation, worked out it would likely be one hour at most. Frustrating, but no need to change his plans.

  After inching forward for half an hour, he stepped out of the car to stretch his legs. A few other drivers were doing the same, and Michael noticed that one of the cars behind him had a British number plate. ‘Looks like there’s been an accident,’ he shouted over to the driver, a florid expat in blazer and cravat.

  ‘No accident, old boy. Heard the news on the radio. ETA set off a bomb in the town this morning, absolute bloody carnage. This will be the roadblock the Civil Guard set up to search for the perpetrators. Waste of time if you ask me. The scoundrels will have scarpered long ago. Still, it makes it look like they’re doing something. Bloody pain in the arse.’

  Michael looked up and down the road. No way of turning off before the roadblock. No way to do a U-turn onto the other carriageway. He had no choice but to continue. He got back in the car as the queue started to move forward again. When it stopped, he was about four hundred yards short of the checkpoint. He fished out a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and sized up what was going on.

  They were searching every fifth car. Rigorously. Alsatian dogs were sniffing around, two guards, one on either side, were inspecting everything. He watched three cars being examined; sure enough, it was exactly one in five. Even if the dogs didn’t detect the heroin, the search surely would. He got back in the car. They moved forward another hundred yards or so. He leapt out, started counting back to his car from the one being searched. A sickening realisation. His was the thirty-fifth car.

  He slumped back into the driver’s seat. There was no way to avoid the search. Abandoning the car was an even worse idea; once the heroin was found it would be traced back to him. His only option was to sit tight, and hope against hope that he’d get through undetected. But as he got closer to the checkpoint, he saw that was a forlorn possibility. It was taking a long time because the search was so thorough. Terrorists wouldn’t leave anything incriminating in open view, and the police were making sure they missed nothing.

  The whole situation was surreal. He could walk around his car, unfettered and ignored, but slowly, inexorably he was heading to his doom. He felt a sickening spasm
of irony. Ever since day one, he had planned meticulously, left nothing to chance. Now it was all going to end on a dusty Spanish highway because of random bad luck.

  The next wave of cars moving forward put Michael less than a hundred yards from the checkpoint. One more surge, two at the most, and it would be his turn. Then he saw two new guards approaching, sauntering insouciantly towards the checkpoint like they didn’t have a care in the world. The two new guards approached the two conducting the searches, chatting with them before taking charge of the Alsatians and continuing the checks.

  But they stopped the third car in line, not the fifth. Sure enough, once they got going, every fifth car was searched. But now that didn’t include him. He got back in his car and slipped into a Zen-like trance of numbness. He wouldn’t believe he was out of this until he was through the barricade. Things had changed once; they could change again.

  Nothing. He was through. Once he was on his way, free to drive along to Oviedo, he let out a cathartic, primal scream. He started sobbing with relief, his body wracked by tears of gratitude. He would never go as close to the edge as that again.

  chapter twenty-eight

  The opening-night ball at Glensporret House had been a stunning success. Invitation only, it had attracted the great and the good of Scottish society and was even graced with the presence of a minor royal. The morning after saw the arrival of a fleet of Range Rovers to spirit away the revellers, with one rock star putting on a display of ostentatious one-upmanship by leaving the front lawn by helicopter.

  Michael looked over the scene from the balcony window of his private apartment. It had been the greatest day of his life, the point when he had reached his destiny. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he slid back into bed to allow time for the last guests to depart. There was a slight stirring beside him, and an arm extracted itself from under a pillow and draped itself across his chest.

  ‘Morning Charlotte,’ he whispered.

  ‘Morning darling. Has everybody gone?’

  ‘Everybody but you, my love. I’m never going to let that happen again.’

  Charlotte chuckled softly, and he started to coax her fully awake.

  * * *

  He went into the great hall, flicking through the thank-you notes left by satisfied quests. Most were written on lodge notepaper, but beside them lay a crisp white heavyweight envelope with his name typed on the front, marked Private and Confidential.

  He sat down and opened it. It was from the chairman of one of Britain’s big five banks, Sir Harold Carrington. Michael remembered exchanging a few pleasantries, recalling him as the archetypical silver-haired banker, oozing gravitas from every pore. The letter was an offer to discuss an important role at his bank, one it said he would find it easy to fit in around his obligations running the Glensporret Estate. If he was interested, could he call Sir Harold’s private office and make an appointment? It was six months since Royal Clydeside had turned down his request for a bridging loan. Michael smiled at the irony.

  He visited the bank’s offices when he travelled to London a few weeks later. The liveried doorman pointed him towards a private elevator that whisked him up to the executive floor. From the reception area there was a panoramic outlook over the Thames, and the décor was an understated avowal of luxury and good taste. The room had about it a moneyed hush, as of a gateway leading to a world of wealth and power beyond.

  The middle-aged receptionist spoke as he walked up to her desk.

  ‘Mr Mitchell, isn’t it? Welcome. Please take a seat. Sir Harold’s secretary will be here in a moment.’

  He sat down on a pale grey sofa, felt its aniline softness. He tried not to look too interested in the Old Master on the wall, ignored the Rodin sculpture in the corner. He did nothing, in fact, to show how impressed he was by the surroundings.

  Sir Harold’s secretary was in the same mould as the receptionist, elegant and charming but with a steely core of brisk efficiency. She showed Michael into Sir Harold’s office, a combination of business modernity and traditional oak panelling. Sir Harold got up from his desk and came over to greet him. He ushered Michael over to two matching red-striped silk sofas facing each other. They sat down and Sir Harold began to talk.

  ‘Thank you again for a wonderful weekend at Glensporret,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘Marvellous what you’ve done with the place in such a short period of time. I’m hosting the next chairmen’s conference in the autumn. Thinking of your place for the venue. We can combine business with a few days’ shooting.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to have you,’ Michael replied. ‘Have one of your people contact me direct; I’ll personally oversee the arrangements.’

  Sir Harold nodded his appreciation. ‘I know you’re a busy man, Michael, so I’ll get to the nub of what I’ve invited you here for. There’s a vacancy on the board for a non-executive director, part-time, one or two days a month at most, quite an important corporate governance role. It requires someone with complete discretion, which is why I didn’t go into too many details in my letter. Can I tell you more about it?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘There has been pressure put on the banks from the highest level to do something about money laundering. You might remember what that’s all about from your time at Royal Clydeside. The Scottish banks have shown up us English, I’m sure you’ll be amused to hear, by working together to combat this blight on the banking system. They put in place inter-bank cooperation and processes years ago. Now we’re catching up. Each of the major English banks has agreed to appoint a non-executive director, someone who’s not a part of the day-to-day operation, to implement a common strategy. Someone who is an outsider to the banking world but who understands how it works so that we can root out corruption and malpractice. As you can imagine, a tricky brief. That’s why your name came up. Someone from the world of business, but someone who also has had a stint in the banking world. What do you think?’

  ‘I’m flattered.’ Michael decided to play hard to get. ‘But Glensporret House takes up a lot of my time, especially at the moment. What would the post entail apart from two boards a month?’

  ‘Oh, nothing too onerous. You’d receive a monthly briefing on our latest anti-laundering strategies, with which you’d be required to familiarise yourself, and once a quarter you’d need to meet with your counterparts from the other banks, so that we’re all singing off the same hymn sheet. No point in us all doing our own thing. The rascals who we’re out to catch would be able to play us all off against each other. You’d report back to the main board after your meeting, with any changes or new initiatives the group recommend, and we’d take it from there. So, one to two days a month of your time, for which you’d be paid £10,000 a year. Plus the knowledge that you’re helping to get rid of this reprehensible practice. What do you say?’

  ‘Well, the money’s very attractive, but I think it’s more my civic duty that makes me want to say yes. The banking industry has been very good to me, it gave me a start in life. I think it’s fair to say that without the experience I had with Royal Clydeside, I wouldn’t be where I am today. It would be nice to give something back. I’d be delighted, Sir Harold. When do I start?’

  ‘Splendid. I like a chap who doesn’t take long to make up his mind. Someone will be in touch to sort out the details.’ He paused. Michael could see him trying to choose his next words carefully. ‘There’s one other thing, I’m afraid. You’ll be seeing some highly sensitive and confidential documents. It’s critical they don’t fall into the wrong hands. Everything needs to be delivered to you in Scotland by personal courier, and you’ll have to do the same sending anything back to us. You’ll need to have a safe installed at Glensporret, at our expense of course, to store all your files. Only you to know the combination. And it goes without saying that you can’t share this information with anyone, and no copies of any documents can be made. Sorry to have to mentio
n this, but I’m sure you understand why.’

  ‘Of course. You don’t have to worry. I don’t want to see more criminals getting into laundering any more than you do. It will be fascinating work, Sir Harold. And very satisfying. Delighted to be able to help.’

  Michael flew out to Spain the next day. Dick thought it hilarious.

  ‘This is like all our dreams come true,’ he said as Michael outlined his role at the bank. ‘Know every safeguard, every red flag, and at the same time make it tougher for anyone else to muscle in with a rival operation? Michael, if you weren’t so ugly, I’d kiss you.’

  ‘If we play this smart, it sets us up for life,’ Michael replied. ‘That’s why I think we need to make some changes in how we operate. You told me I could never fully shake free of my past and I accepted that. But I think we should do things differently from now on.’

  ‘How different?’

  ‘I cut all my ties with your operation. Every single piece of paper involving me is destroyed. I don’t have to come back to solve any problems; I never get involved operationally in the business ever again. As far as the rest of the organisation is concerned, I don’t exist, never have. You are the only person who knows of my existence, and in return, I keep you one step ahead of the banks at all times. You never react in a way that would create suspicions you have someone on the inside. That means sometimes taking a hit rather than have any risk the banks change the people who are privy to what is going on. We never take any chance I could be detected.’

  ‘Nobody gets a ticket out of an operation like ours, Michael, I’ve told you that. But, yes, this is a special situation. I don’t want to take any gambles with this either. As long as you keep the information coming, you’ll get your wish. And there will be a little something from time to time to show our gratitude. Don’t want you to think of you forgetting about us, with your new fancy friends.’