‘Jeremy, using your diplomatic skills, could you pick up Aidan Gilchrist from Maine Leadbetter’s dealing room? Rafi will give you the address,’ said Kate. ‘Do it quietly and get him here as soon as possible. Tell him some cock and bull story that you’re looking into a money laundering scam for MI5 and if he’s not convinced reassure him that you’ve been given his name as a head honcho and a quiet chat would be much appreciated.’
‘Oh, you mean, the could-he-give-James-Bond-a-helping-hand story?’ said Jeremy with a grin.
Kate looked across at him and returned the smile. ‘You read too many comic books!’
‘But it isn’t half fun! And what if he’s too busy and won’t come?’ asked Jeremy.
‘I suggest you take him somewhere quiet and advise him of the powers of MI5, should they wish to flex their muscles,’ suggested Kate. ‘I think it would be best if you went alone. It’ll raise less suspicion. We don’t want Gilchrist’s colleagues to know what’s going on. I’ll arrange for a car to take you.’
Jeremy picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and was gone.
‘Kate, we’re going to need a couple more computers and access to some databases,’ said Emma glancing around the room. ‘Shall I chat to Greg or do you need to clear it with the boss?’
‘No problem. I have his delegated authority on this one. Leave it with me,’ replied Kate.
John looked at Rafi thoughtfully. ‘Could you explain in layman’s terms why the derivatives market is potentially so dangerous… And so lucrative?’
Rafi smiled. ‘Put simply, derivatives are a way of betting whether a financial asset will go up or down relative to peoples’ expectations. In our case, let’s say that the terrorists do something which causes the markets to plunge unexpectedly. If they have bought put contracts, the more the market goes down the bigger the profit they’ll make. If you speculate correctly you can make big profits of say ten, maybe twenty times your initial outlay. However, derivative markets are a zero-sum-game, thus for every winner there’s a loser. They’re the rocket science end of things, which is why I could do with Aidan’s help.’
‘Thanks,’ said John. ‘So if the sheikh and his associates were to speculate say?1 billion in these markets and they rig things to go their way, they stand to make?10 to?20 billion? Sort of puts all their planning into perspective, doesn’t it?’
‘I fear so,’ replied Rafi.
A look of concern spread across John’s face. ‘For a payout of?20 billion, heaven only knows what they have planned! Oh, by the way, I’ve been mulling over something you said about their exit plans. If they are intending to get that rich they won’t want to hang around. So I would put looking for a fast motor cruiser at the top of my “to do list”. Just a thought. Must dash now – I’ve got a meeting with my team. Let’s talk soon.’
Jeremy was standing at reception accompanied by a very unhappy individual. ‘Give DI Adams a bell and tell her I have Mr Gilchrist with me and that I am heading for the fourth floor interview room.’
Kate, Emma and Rafi arrived at the interview room moments before Jeremy and a very disgruntled Aidan Gilchrist, who looked as if a thunder cloud was hovering directly over his head.
‘What do you want from me?’ He was annoyed. ‘I thought you were taking me somewhere civilised to talk, not to a bloody police station.’ He turned and, on seeing Rafi did a double take.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Suddenly, it dawned on Rafi that his mugshot – as the man behind the Bishopsgate bombing – must have been all over the papers.
Aidan looked uncertainly at Rafi then, like the first class financial dealer that he was, he quickly regained his composure. And acted as if he had known what was going to happen all along.
Kate decided to take charge of the situation and spoke up. ‘Let me introduce you to my team: I’m Detective Inspector Kate Adams and this is my assistant, Detective Constable Emma Jessop. We specialise in financial fraud. You already know our infamous friend, Rafi. We’ll shortly be joined by the head of our IT section, Greg Thompson, and you’ve met Jeremy, from MI5. Please bear in mind that you’re here as our guest. I’m sorry that our hospitality doesn’t match the standards set by your bank.’ Kate smiled with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Rafi has been helping us with our enquiries. He’s best placed to explain why we need your help,’ she concluded, indicating to Rafi that he could begin.
‘Thank you, Kate. Aidan, I’m sorry for the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Basically, I was framed. By accident, I stumbled across pieces of the terrorists’ plans. Before we go any further I should explain your position and make it absolutely clear that you’re here under no coercion. I asked Jeremy to get you as we need your help – we believe they are targeting the derivatives market.’
‘OK, wait a minute. Are you saying that if I think you’re talking a load of bullshit, I can walk out of here?’
‘Yes,’ replied Rafi, ‘With one proviso: you can’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Aidan. ‘Please start, I’m all ears.’
Rafi sensed that the other members of the team weren’t happy with what he had promised Aidan. No doubt the signing of some formal documentation would be the norm. But this was the City of London, where for Rafi and his work colleagues one’s word was one’s bond.
The phone rang before Rafi could begin. Kate picked it up, listened for a moment and spoke to Jeremy. ‘Your delivery from Luigi’s is here.’ He disappeared out of the room and returned a few moments later with coffee and croissants.
Rafi started. ‘We’ve uncovered a network of companies controlled by a terrorist cell. Amongst other things we believe that they will attack energy installations thereby triggering a meltdown of the financial markets and enabling them to reap huge profits from their positions in the derivatives market. As a top, if not the top derivatives man, please help us find out what they’re up to and help us stop them?’
Aidan had listened intently. ‘What help will I have?’
‘You’ll have Emma to help you,’ said Kate.
‘That’s it? Bloody hell, this isn’t going to be easy!’ Aidan looked across at Emma. ‘Tell me you’ve got a degree in rocket science!’
‘Afraid not,’ replied Emma. ‘I studied applied mathematics and I have experience as an accountant…’
Aidan cut her off. ‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ he beamed. ‘Emma, you’ll do fine. What about IT kit?’
‘You’ll meet Greg, our IT Manager, after this meeting,’ said Kate.
She looked carefully at Aidan. ‘Are you willing to promise that everything you see and do here remains strictly confidential?’
Aidan nodded. ‘I have no doubt that you could make life very difficult for me and my employers if I broke my promise.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘My lips are sealed. Shall we get started?’
His demeanour, which to start with had been a mixture of tension and annoyance, was now relaxed and businesslike.
‘What we need to know is whether they are trying to short or manipulate the relevant futures or options contracts.’ Rafi paused. ‘My educated view is that the action will be in the long gilts and interest-rate contracts.’
Aidan’s face was deadly serious. His light blue eyes, sharp as sabres, focused on Rafi. ‘It’s funny – no, let me rephrase that – it’s a great coincidence that you should be talking of these two markets. Up to a fortnight ago, they were trading as might be expected in these volatile times and everyone was comfortable with an interest rate scenario where over the next year they move up by a per cent or so.’
He paused. ‘The funding of the Government’s debt mountain is on a knife edge. As things stand the big international investors are just about happy with the UK’s creditworthiness. Any significant increase in borrowings or a knock to the economy would be very unwelcome.’ He grimaced. ‘Were something to happen which shook investor confidence and caused the Government to issue shed loads of debt, it would become very expensive… recently the volume of deals betting on interest rates rising significantly has grown to the point where someone, or a group of people, out there fervently believes that they are heading towards double digits!’
Rafi raised his eyebrows.
‘The view amongst the traders,’ continued Aidan, ‘Is that a few punters have lost their marbles and instead of playing the roulette tables have decided to place some big bets in these derivative contracts. If they’re right they’ll make huge profits! My informed guess is you could be on to something. I’d be glad to check it out for you.’
‘Excellent – thank you – that’d be perfect,’ said Rafi.
There was a quiet knock on the door; Greg, not waiting for a reply, walked in.
‘Kind of you to join us,’ said Kate. ‘Let me introduce you to Aidan Gilchrist of Maine Leadbetter, the international bank. He’s a derivatives guru and is here to help us. Aidan, Greg is our IT manager. He has an uncanny knack for getting into online databases and making things work. He’ll set you up with whatever you need in terms of hardware and software. His budgets are a tiny proportion of yours, so the kit isn’t as smart as what you’re used to, but it should do the job.’
Greg had found a plate and was enjoying the last croissant.
‘Aidan, please tell Greg what you’ll need.’ Kate shot a brief smile at Greg.
‘First of all,’ said Aidan, ‘I could do with access to my bank’s intranet, in such a way that no one can trace it.’ He hesitated. ‘No, on second thoughts, that would raise too many suspicions.’ Aidan thought for a moment. ‘Would it be possible to arrange access from here via my home IP address?’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Second, I could do with access to the central computers of the main UK derivatives markets. Also, if possible, some names of contacts in their settlement teams would be a real bonus.’
Greg nodded.
‘Third, I could do with a desktop PC with a bit of grunt and access to a good printer. And fourth,’ he turned and looked at Emma, ‘Access to a supply of coffee would be much appreciated.’
As if to signal the end of the meeting, Greg slid his empty plate forward and looked up. ‘If that’s all, I’ll get started on your shopping list. If I seem a bit stressed, please bear with me. The commissioner has asked that I give you priority, but why does everything arrive in twos and threes like London buses? We still have a load of unfinished business following the Bishopsgate bombing, which took out their IT servers and means they’re using ours. It’s all a bit of a bugger’s muddle,’ Greg added as he left.
‘Emma, would you please take Aidan under your wing?’ asked Kate, changing the subject.
‘Yes, sure. I’d be happy to,’ replied Emma.
Kate turned and looked at Rafi. Her eyes twinkled. ‘And I’ll team up with Rafi.’
She looked pleased, as if she’d got what she wanted. She held Rafi’s gaze, gave him a barely perceivable wink and added, ‘Which should be interesting.’
Rafi got up to leave as if he’d finished a normal business meeting.
Kate looked a little crestfallen by his lack of interest and right at that moment it dawned on Rafi that he had accidentally ignored her gesture.
He looked at her with new eyes. She was attractive in a gamine sort of way; her hazel eyes were gorgeous… He cut short his thoughts – this definitely wasn’t the time for distractions.
Aidan stood up. ‘Where’s my desk?’
‘Follow me, I’ll show you where we work,’ said Emma.
‘Where do you want it set up?’ asked one of Greg’s team, pulling a trolley with a serious-looking PC on it. Emma pointed to the desk to the left of the whiteboard.
Greg popped his head around the door. ‘By the way, do you happen to know your home IP address or would you like me to find it out for you?’
Aidan gave Greg his nine-digit IP address. ‘Could you also arrange for my home phone line to be routed through to here?’
‘No problem.’ Greg turned and left.
‘Will your colleagues notice your absence?’ asked Emma ‘You might like to tell them you’ll be away from the office for some while.’
‘Good idea. I’ll be able to tell them I’m working from home as soon as Greg has me set up.’
Minutes later Aidan was up and running.
‘The printer is where?’ Aidan called across to no one in particular.
Emma pointed to a large, old HP printer next to her desk.
‘Bloody hell! I haven’t seen one of those for years. Did you get it from the museum up the road?’
‘That’s a bit too close to the truth to be funny,’ interjected Kate.
Aidan busied himself and in no time the printer was churning out sheets of paper.
Emma glanced at him. ‘I didn’t know you had your IP address rerouted yet. What are you up to?’
‘I thought I’d access some background data from the Web to save some time.’
Fifteen minutes later, the phone on the corner of Aidan’s desk rang. He scooped it up without taking his eyes away from his screen, said, ‘Thanks’ and put it down. He now had access to his bank’s intranet.
Rafi went over to Kate. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t seem enthusiastic about the prospect of working with you earlier. My mind was on other things. Shall we get started?’
Kate looked at him carefully, almost quizzically – she couldn’t make him out. ‘Where do you suggest we start?’
‘Let’s work on the property angle. It shouldn’t be long before we hear from the agent,’ replied Rafi.
Twenty minutes later Justin Smith telephoned. He sounded rather sheepish. He had put the list of properties through the three databases and had expected reams of information to come out, but had obtained only seven pages of data.
Constable Peter Ashby was waiting nearby in a squad car and made the pickup.
Less than twenty minutes later, he was handing over the envelope with the data to Kate.
Rafi looked at the printouts. Six agents showed up. Dewoodson cropped up more than any of the other names. Rafi smiled; so they were involved. They would be his starting point. From their website, he located their head office in Manchester, and noted that they also had offices in London, Edinburgh and Bristol. He passed the contact details to Kate.
She rang their head office – she was slightly nervous as this was going to be a difficult phone conversation and she didn’t want to tip them off that she was from the police. ‘May I please speak to the person dealing with the property company PREH?’
The receptionist hesitated.
‘Oliver Stone, our managing director, looks after their agency deals and William Wesson deals with their valuations.’
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Wesson then, please.’
There was a short wait before Kate was put through to his secretary. A curt voice said, ‘Mr Wesson is out of the office and isn’t expected back until after lunch – I suggest you ring back then.’ The secretary hung up.
Kate rang back and asked to speak to Oliver Stone, the MD. After another wait she was put through to his personal assistant.
‘Mr Stone is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.’
‘It is important.’
The PA was firm in her reply. ‘Mr Stone has left me strict instructions that he mustn’t be disturbed,’ and hung up.
Kate looked across at Rafi, ‘I wonder if it was the mention of the name PREH that made them so unhelpful?’
‘Quite possibly.’
Kate picked up the phone again and rang through to the switchboard.
‘Could you please put me through to Manchester Central?’
Kate spoke to the duty officer. ‘DI Adams here. Could you please put me through to one of your senior colleagues in Special Branch – counter-terrorism?’
A Detective Chief Inspector Rick Feldon picked up the phone.
‘Good morning, how can I help you?’
Kate introduced herself and explained what she was working on. ‘I have good reason to believe that a firm of surveyors, Dewoodson, who are based in Spring Gardens, have information on a property company, PREH, which is linked to our investigations. They are being uncooperative. As a matter of some urgency, I’m after a copy of the last valuation report, together with any other information available on PREH.’
‘Can you email me details of what you want?’
‘Will do.’
‘Also, Rick, please bear in mind that this needs to be done with diplomacy and very quietly. They can’t know we’re on to them. I could do with their MD, Oliver Stone, and their valuer, William Wesson, being interviewed and kept totally incommunicado for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘Sounds right up our street!’
There was a short silence before Rick said, ‘How’s about we pull them in on something else? Leave it with me, I’ll come up with something which will enable us to search their premises and confiscate their computers. My colleague, Phil Smith, and I will pick them up as soon as we get your email.’
It was nearly 10 a.m. on Thursday morning. Rafi had his fingers crossed that the valuation report would reveal more properties. If they, too, were close to energy targets it would confirm his suspicions and fill in valuable missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle.
Their work was interrupted by a call from Colonel Matlik.
‘Hello, Colonel,’ said Kate, putting him on speakerphone.
‘Sorry for the delay – I had hoped to get back to you sooner. However, your leads have proved most fruitful. Are you sitting down?’ There was an ominous tone to his voice.
‘Er… Yes.’
‘My men have paid a visit to the firearm club which was owned by your former Mr Koit. They tried their hand at shooting on the 1,000-metre range. Behind the firing positions they spotted an area where the winter vegetation was partially scorched -the telltale signs of a missile launcher – and to the side of the targets was what seemed to be a demolished building. After their session they went to have a discrete look. It was not a building, but a concrete wall over two metres thick. Whatever had been fired at it had punched a hole straight through the concrete. It had been hit a couple of times, which explained why it looked such a mess. Beside the rubble, covered by a layer of soil, they found a three-metre by five-metre block of metal. It was made from fifty steel sheets, each two centimetres thick, which had been welded together. It was over one metre thick and it too had two gaping holes in it.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Kate under her breath, but she let the Colonel continue.
‘I’ve been doing some research on what could cause such damage. We believe something like the Kornet E Anti-Tank Armour missile was used. It is an impressive piece of equipment and truly destructive if you are on the receiving end. It can blast a hole through one metre of armour; and not just steel armour, but explosive reactive armour. It’s the kit that gives the likes of you or me nightmares. In daylight its range is up to 5.5 kilometres and trained users can fire two missiles per minute. To add spice to its capabilities, it can be fitted with either tank busting or high explosive thermobaric warheads. It gets worse: it is very accurate as it has either thermal or optical sights to detect and track the target. And the launcher comes with a tripod – both are transportable.’
‘Would it need trained operatives to use it?’ enquired a horrified Kate.
‘One professional would do – though it would be like holding a tiger by its tail. One thing is for sure, though: it should not be fired in a confined space unless the operator wishes to have an early cremation.’
‘Can these missiles and the launchers be purchased on the black market?’
‘What can’t these days?’ replied the deep voice. ‘I reckon €50,000 would suffice.’
‘Very helpful and disturbing. Thank you,’ said Kate. ‘You have done a fantastic job…’ she was interrupted.
‘There is more. We brought in the warehouse manager earlier this morning on the grounds of committing a serious road traffic offence involving the death of a pedestrian. A tax inspector and two of my officers have been searching the warehouse and offices. Amongst the paperwork they found two interesting invoices: one was for five miscellaneous launchers, and another one for twenty miscellaneous missiles. The name of the purchaser was left blank. It was dated eleven days ago. The import manifest showed dealings with a private Russian company – Restaya – which is known to the Russian FSB and is believed to be involved in the black market arms trade.’
The colonel paused. ‘Unfortunately, I have some more bad news. The FSB tell me that several months ago pro-Chechen rebels captured a consignment of Kornet E Anti-Tank missiles -five launchers with optical sights and twenty missiles, to be precise.’
Kate was going to speak, but the colonel carried on.
‘I have interviewed the manager. He is pleading ignorance. He insists that he only looks after the day-to-day activities and doesn’t ask questions. The real decisions, he says, are made by his boss who he rarely sees. When I interrogated him further, it turned out he did not know to whom the missile launchers and missiles were sold, just that he delivered them to the same rifle range outside Tallinn that my colleagues visited. He described the size of the wooden crates and the lettering on them. Unfortunately, I can now confirm that they are a match for the missing Kornet missiles and launchers. We are keeping the manager in custody, and he will not be allowed to talk to outsiders. His secretary has been told of his driving accident and that he is being held pending a murder charge.’
‘How long can you hold him for without him seeing his solicitor?’ asked Kate.
‘As long as you like,’ came the reply, ‘now that we know he is involved with a major terrorist plot. Questions will be asked as to why he cannot speak to his solicitor in probably forty-eight hours. My team is currently going through the import/export agency’s paperwork with a fine-tooth comb to see whether any other armaments have recently passed through their hands. I will keep you informed of their progress.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate.
‘That is not all. I have been looking into the fishing company you mentioned. It owns two deep sea trawlers, the Anu Riina and the Anu Maarja; they both operate out of Tallinn docks. Both are at sea – they left port a week ago. A reasonable assumption is that your Kornets were on board. We understand the vessels are somewhere north of the Faeroes. That is all for the moment. I will get in touch again as soon as we know anything else.’
Kate hesitated and then replied. ‘Thank you. You’ve given us more than enough to get on with. All your help is much appreciated.’
‘A pleasure. I must go now. Give me a call if you need anything more. I regret being the bearer of such bad news.’
She switched the speaker phone off and sat there, taking in what the colonel had just told her… Kate broke the silence. ‘These Estonian trawlers sailing from the Baltic Sea to the Faeroes would go within a couple of hundred miles of Peterhead. If en route they rendezvoused with one of the Peterhead trawlers, then the missiles could now be in the UK!’
‘Things have just got bloody scary, haven’t they?’ exclaimed Emma. ‘When the safety specifications were drawn up for oil and gas depots, or even airports or nuclear power stations, they can’t have had any idea that such a monster as the Kornet missile existed?’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Kate, ‘or if they did, it was a masterly cover-up by our political masters.’
‘If only we had a better idea of the timescale,’ mused Rafi.
‘We should work on the basis that the attacks are imminent,’ said Kate.
‘A thought,’ Rafi replied. ‘If Aidan and I are right and the financial markets are at the heart of the terrorists’ plan, then the attacks won’t come today – it’s already too late. They’ll come first thing in the morning. That way they will get full news coverage and have the whole day to spook the markets. Now whether that’s tomorrow or next week, I don’t know.’
‘We must get information on who the foot soldiers are and what they are targeting. Carry on researching your leads and keep me informed of any developments,’ said Kate with a note of urgency in her voice. ‘I need to brief the commissioner.’
John returned with Jeremy right behind him.
‘Rafi, I’ve been thinking a bit more about the terrorists and their possible exit routes,’ said John. ‘I really would put good money on them using a fast motor vessel in addition to the trawlers. Especially as they could easily afford something very fast.’
‘Where would you start looking for something like that?’ Rafi asked.
‘Firstly, I’d look at the ringleaders,’ replied John, ‘And check out whether the sheikh, Basel, Jameel or Maryam own a large powerboat.’
‘I’ve a friend at Lloyd’s Shipping Register. Let me give her a ring,’ said Emma.
It turned out to be a short conversation. ‘She says our task will be difficult. There are many large powerboats scattered all around the smart harbours and marinas of Europe. The difficulty is that most are owned through special purpose companies for tax reasons and this makes it hard to trace their owners.’
Emma thought for a moment, then got up and went to see Aidan, who was sitting behind a large volume of paper.
‘Aidan, if you wanted to find out if a business contact owned an expensive motor vessel, where would you start?’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Anyone who spends several millions on a yacht will no doubt think it’s the best thing since sliced bread. My bet would be to go and look in their offices, where they’re bound to have photos of it.’
‘Good idea, but we don’t have the time,’ said Emma.
Rafi lifted his head up from his paperwork. ‘Of the four individuals, I doubt whether Jameel has one stashed away. He’s never spoken of boats to me and, to my knowledge, he spends most of his holiday time skiing or playing golf. Basel is a workaholic and I don’t see him leaving something valuable tucked away in a marina, unused. That leaves Sheikh Tufayl and Maryam.’
‘I’d rule out Maryam,’ said Emma. ‘She also works long hours and spends too much time between her homes in the Gulf, Luxembourg and London. I don’t see a large powerboat and outdoor activities going with her lifestyle.’
‘What about her hubby?’ asked John. ‘He is extremely wealthy.’
‘Could be,’ said Kate, ‘But in my book the sheikh seems to be the most likely.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said John. ‘It’s a bit off the wall, but how about we chat to someone working for the tabloid press and see if they’ve any photos of Sheikh Tufayl or Maryam’s husband on board a big boat? We must have some good contacts. Should I make a couple of phone calls and get some names?’
Kate nodded. ‘But the discussions will have to be in confidence, perhaps in return for a story later?’ Ten minutes later, John’s phone rang; he scribbled down the information on two contacts: one working for a red top newspaper and the other for a tabloid magazine.
‘I could do with a volunteer to pay a journalist a visit,’ said Kate.
‘Count me in,’ offered Jeremy.
‘See what you can find,’ said Kate.
‘Will do.’Jeremy picked up the piece of paper with the names and phone numbers on. ‘Which do you reckon I should try first?’
‘I’d take the top one – he works down at Canary Wharf when he’s at home but, like most tabloid journalists, he could be almost anywhere.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy, slightly sarcastically. ‘It seems a straightforward task.’ He dialled the first journalist, Pete Lockyer, and smiled when the mobile was answered almost immediately.
‘Hello, I was wondering whether you could help me?’
‘Who are you?’ a rather high pitched voice enquired.
Jeremy gave a wry smile. ‘Someone you don’t know. And who probably doesn’t exist in any of your files.’
‘Are you taking the mick?’ snapped Pete Lockyer.
‘No,’ replied Jeremy. ‘I work for a rather special part of the Government and your name has been put forward as someone who could help us.’
‘Sorry mate, I’m rather busy at the moment.’
‘So be it,’ said Jeremy. ‘I thought I’d try you first as you come highly recommended, but if you’re too busy, not to worry. I’ve another couple of people to try, including a rather pushy sod at a tabloid magazine.’
There was a silence at the other end of the phone; one could sense Pete considering whether he was about to turn down a potentially lucrative story.
‘How much of my time would you need?’ inquired Pete.
Jeremy tried hard to conceal a large smile and winked at Emma. ‘Not long! Perhaps you might have time for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?’
‘It’s a bit early for me. Let’s make it a cup of coffee. There’s a decent coffee bar around the corner from where I work.’
Jeremy took down the address. ‘Could we meet there in, say, twenty-five minutes?’
‘Fine,’ agreed the journalist. ‘How do I recognise you?’
‘Oh,’ said Jeremy, ‘I look fairly nondescript – 6’ 2”, brown hair and in a grey suit. My name’s Jeremy, by the way.’
‘See you in half an hour.’
‘Twenty-five minutes would be better,’ said Jeremy and hung up. He looked across at Kate. ‘Any bright ideas on how I get to Canary Wharf and back?’
‘No problem. If you go downstairs, I’ll arrange for you to be looked after.’
‘Thanks.’ Jeremy picked up his notepad and hurried off on his errand.
The pressure was on. The team had uncovered a number of crucial leads, but the overall picture was still far from clear. There was tension in the air.
‘Emma, how have you been getting on with your maps?’ asked Kate.
‘Rather well, actually,’ replied Emma. ‘Before I show you what I’ve got, though, I think we should consider how many targets there could be.’
‘Good point.’ Kate nodded for her to continue.
‘They have five missile launchers. Of the twenty missiles they started off with, four were used in Estonia, leaving three or four missiles per launcher. This gives each operative probably one or two targets only. The missile launchers and their tripods are bulky. If the terrorists don’t want to be captured and are keen for a quick getaway, I’d go for one target per launcher and use the three or four missiles to knock the living daylights out of it. A well-trained operative could fire four missiles in less than two minutes and then leave the area discretely.’
‘What if they fire their first couple of missiles at one target and then take their missile launcher with them to some pre-stashed missiles at a property or a vehicle parked near to their next target?’ added Rafi.
‘So we could have ten targets!’ whistled John. ‘Flaming heck! And if they had access to the roof of a suitably located property, they’d have a great launching pad!’
‘Or if a vehicle is involved, a nearby property would be useful to keep it out of sight prior to an attack,’ added Emma.
‘OK then… I suggest we look for ten targets and scale the number down only when we have conclusive proof,’ said an agitated Kate.
‘I have been making progress on the property front,’ said Rafi. ‘The mortgage register of PREH gave us an interesting set of addresses. Emma has chatted to John’s team who have been helping us rule out the true investment properties. We are left with our original four properties as possibles for the terrorists to use: Peterhead, Hartlepool, North Walsham and Prestwick.’
‘Now for the clever bit,’ said Emma. She was standing next to a large, touch screen monitor which Greg had set up.
‘First, let’s put up a map of the UK and add on to it the four suspect properties.’ Emma tapped the LCD screen, highlighting the four locations with bold blue crosses. ‘We can now add an exit port where we know there is one of their trawlers.’ As if by magic a little icon depicting a trawler appeared next to Peterhead.
‘I’m still working on where the other trawlers are. However, I have done some work on the location of our major energy installations.’ She moved back to her PC and, with several clicks of her mouse, a mass of coloured dots appeared on the screen.
Rafi let out an appreciative whistle.
‘To make life easier I’ve colour-coded them,’ said Emma. ‘The green dots are for major gas and oil plants, red dots for the nuclear powers stations, the large red blob is for the Sellafield reprocessing facility in Cumbria and, lastly, the numerous black dots are the oil, gas and coal fired power stations.’
John swore. ‘Bloody hell! I didn’t realise that there were so many of them.’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Emma. ‘But I reckon we can safely remove the black dots. The fossil fuel power stations, whilst large, aren’t in the same league as the others.’
A couple of clicks later and the black dots disappeared from the screen.
‘What precisely are those dots close to the four properties owned by the terrorists’ PREH?’ asked Kate.
Emma pointed at the screen. ‘Peterhead is between the vast gas facility at St Fergus and the main North Sea oil pumping station at Cruden Bay. The Hartlepool property – here,’ Emma tapped the map, ‘is right on top of a nuclear power station. If we go down a bit, the North Walsham property – here,’ Emma tapped again, ‘Is next to the huge gas terminal at Bacton and just down the coast is Sizewell nuclear power station. And, over here, Prestwick is only twenty miles from Hunterston nuclear power station.’
‘Phew!’ exclaimed Aidan under his breath. ‘What percentage of our gas supply comes through St Fergus and Bacton?’
‘I guess around thirty to forty percent,’ replied Emma.
‘It’s highly inelastic,’ said Aidan. ‘A shortfall of just ten percent would cause problems; thirty would be catastrophic – sections of UK industry would have to shut down. There would be electricity blackouts; the financial markets wouldn’t like it at all, sentiment would be hit and the falls could be dramatic. On top of this, crippling the North Sea oil pumping station would shut down the oil refineries it serves, causing considerable knock-on effects.’ Aidan looked worried.
John looked thoughtfully at the map. ‘If we added this up, what would we have?’
‘Potentially six substantial energy targets, of which three are nuclear,’ replied Emma frowning. ‘The bad news is, if you look at the screen, there are a number of other possible targets.’
‘Oh my God! It’s like looking for ten bloody needles in a frigging haystack if you ask me,’ said John.
‘I’ve got a question.’ Kate was looking worried. ‘How does the nuclear fuel travel to and from the power stations and the reprocessing units – and how often?’
‘By train,’ answered Emma, rummaging around for some paper on her desk. ‘Ah, yes, here it is. The trains average one round trip a week.’
‘Do any of them by any chance go near London?’
‘Yes, the Sizewell train does,’ answered Emma. She flipped through her notes. ‘It uses the North London line from Stratford round to the marshalling yards at Willesden Junction, before going on to Sellafield.’
‘Next question,’ said Kate. ‘How robust are the canisters that carry the nuclear fuel?’
Emma looked through her paperwork. ‘It says here that their design and specification have been certified by Government experts.’
‘Does this include the ability to withstand state-of-the-art missiles, like the Kornet missile that our terrorists most likely have?’ continued Kate.
‘Their thickness is…’ Emma looked for the figure. ‘Yes, 900 mm – about three feet.’
‘Could a direct hit penetrate a canister?’
‘Yes, I reckon so,’ replied Emma slowly, looking at Kate to see if there was yet another question winging her way.
‘And a glancing blow would probably ricochet off?’ added Kate.
‘Probably,’ replied Emma, uncertainly. ‘However, the experts who determined the safety specifications don’t seem to be worried. Somewhere it says that – Ah yes! Here it is – the worst radioactive release following a terrorist attack is calculated to be only 0.0024 of one percent of the nuclear waste escaping as particles capable of being inhaled. Each canister contains three and a half tonnes of spent nuclear fuel.’
Emma paused. ‘So by my calculations their figures point to only 0.1 kg of nasties being released, which they think isn’t too calamitous. And as I read them, the reports don’t consider there to be a remote possibility of a successful missile attack. What scares me,’ continued Emma anxiously, ‘Is that I reckon the contents of each canister contains about a quarter of the fallout from Chernobyl and spent nuclear fuel is around a million times more radioactive than the uranium initially sent to the nuclear power stations. I know they say it’s as safe as houses, but if a terrorist were to…’ her voice trailed off.
The uneasy silence was interrupted by John. ‘The question that the terrorist leaders would have to ask themselves is: how easy would it be to hit a moving canister accurately? And are the odds ones that they would be prepared to gamble on? Having said that, a successful attack at Willesden would have a devastating impact on north London.’
‘I suggest you put Willesden marshalling yards on your map,’ said Kate.
‘John’s got a good point – nuclear power stations seem more likely targets, don’t they?’ said Emma sifting through a pile of papers. ‘And I’ve browsed through the reports from the House of Commons and the Mayor of London’s office, which have looked at the issue of nuclear waste transport. Neither is best pleased with the nuclear cargo going through London, but they both conclude that the canisters are safe – as advised by their experts.’
‘For the time being, let’s focus on key oil and gas plants, the nuclear power stations and reprocessing plants,’ said Kate. ‘Excellent work Emma.’
‘I have been thinking,’ said Aida. ‘Hypothetically, let’s say Hartlepool nuclear power station was compromised following a terrorist attack and shut down due to radiation leaks. Public opinion could easily swing against all things nuclear. If nuclear power became politically unpalatable and phased out sooner rather than later, the Government would get hit with a bill of, say,?75 billion for the radiation clean-up and decommissioning costs. If at the same time a couple of large gas plants were to go out of action causing power cuts and if their public sector outsourcing business went belly up… A tipping point would be reached and the UK financial markets would be pushed over the edge.’
Aidan paused. He looked deadly serious. ‘The financial markets would drop like a lead balloon, enabling the terrorists to make a fortune from their positions in the derivatives markets.’
‘I agree with Aidan,’ said Rafi. ‘Their plan is to attack a number of energy installations and at the same time burden the Government with increased financial liabilities.’
‘So, to put it bluntly, they want to crucify our markets and our economy and then walk away with billions,’ observed Emma.
‘It looks as if we have two separate issues to deal with,’ said Kate. ‘The attacks, and then what they are doing in the financial markets. Aidan, you focus on the financial markets and the rest of the team will concentrate on the attacks.’
‘Will do,’ replied Aidan.
‘Well, who do we think will deploy the missiles?’ Emma enquired. ‘A student fanatic might be trained to use a semiautomatic gun or explosives, but Kornet missiles are a very sophisticated piece of equipment.’
‘I’d go with terrorists with military experience,’ said Kate.
‘But such people wouldn’t be easy to get into the UK, would they? Even on false passports,’ Rafi asked.
‘Who knows?’ replied John. ‘As things stand we can not rule anything out.’
‘We have to substantiate these suppositions and convince our bosses,’ said Kate. ‘It won’t be an easy task.’
‘Oh hell!’ The exclamation came from the direction of Emma’s desk; she turned to Kate. ‘I said that the sides of the steel canisters were 900 mm thick. I was looking at the wrong figures – the ones that are normally used in the UK are only 400 mm, i.e. fifteen inches thick. A thermobaric Kornet missile would literally rip the container apart and spew the contents here, there and bloody everywhere.’
‘My God!’ said Kate. ‘The consequences would be unthinkable.’
There was a stunned silence in the room.
It was broken by Rafi. ‘Aidan, we both believe that part of their plan is to make a financial killing in the derivative markets, don’t we? What if they have placed bent people into the dealing rooms of a number of UK financial institutions. There must be handfuls of people who are now missing their bonuses who could be bought. And if they were discreetly acting as counter parties to the terrorists’ transactions, it would enable the terrorists to build up very big positions, wouldn’t it?’
Aidan cursed under his breath before adding, ‘The impact would be like walking in front of a speeding Chieftain tank.’
‘It doesn’t bear contemplating,’ Rafi added. ‘And it would make it very expensive for the Government or the Bank of England to stop the financial system going into complete meltdown.’
‘And they would have to react very fast…’ added Aidan.
A quiet determination filled the office as they concentrated on the work at hand. Suddenly Emma stopped what she was doing and sat bolt upright. She was looking frustrated.
‘What’s up?’ asked Kate.
‘It’s just that I can’t place something; I’m looking at the cold store and packaging operations of the terrorists’ fishing business. Something is bothering me; I just can’t recall what it is that I’m trying to remember!’
Aidan looked up from his desk. ‘What makes you think that you are missing something?’
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I was reading something which mentioned fishing – and I can’t remember what it was!’
Aidan smiled and popped his head back down below his parapet of papers.
‘It’s a wonder you manage to get any work done, sitting there daydreaming,’ he muttered, just loud enough for Emma to hear him.
Emma got up and walked determinedly across to his desk. Aidan sensed that he’d gone too far with his banter. Emma, who was shorter than Aidan, looked straight at him and said, ‘Stand up, please.’
Aidan looked a little apprehensive; he stood up and Emma moved closer. Rafi had his fingers crossed that the team wasn’t going to come apart at the seams. Emma stood there, milking the anticipation and doubt in his mind. She leant forward, raised herself up on to her tiptoes and placed a fleeting kiss on his cheek.
‘What was that for?’ asked Aidan, astonished.
‘Oh, you’re just brilliant,’ Emma said looking at him. ‘It’s you and your sense of humour. It gets me thinking in strange ways.’
Aidan blushed slightly.
‘No, not that way – you mentioned the word work and that helped me remember what was niggling me.’
Everyone looked blankly at her as she made a beeline for a filing cabinet and rooted through the contents of a drawer.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Kate.
‘A briefing note on immigration; we got one a little while back setting out the priority employment sectors and how these might be exploited to gain fast track work permits and entry into the UK. It highlighted certain industry sectors. Found it! Yes! Fish packers are on that list and the terrorists have large fishing and fish processing activities. This would give them a legitimate and easy way of getting undesirables into the UK.’
‘It’s a long shot. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’ Kate phoned the switchboard and got the number for their contact at the Immigration Department.
‘Oh blast,’ said Kate, ‘They’ve got the answerphone on.’ She left a message asking for her call to be returned with utmost urgency.
A few minutes later the phone rang. It was a man from the Immigration Office. Kate explained what she needed.
‘Here are a couple of names and mobile phone numbers. If they are busy, please ring me back and I’ll see whether I can find you someone else who can assist you,’ he said helpfully.
‘Thank you,’ replied Kate. She hung up and dialled the first number – it was switched off. The second was answered with a quiet, ‘Hello, Steve Lee here.’
Kate explained her pressing need for information and the importance of confidentiality. ‘Can you help?’ she asked.
She was greeted with, ‘Oh shit! Oh shit not again, why now?’ Kate’s face turned very serious; she was about to read the riot act to the person on the other end of the phone when she heard him shout, ‘Lucy!’ and then louder, ‘Lucy, can you rescue me please? The little tyke has done another projectile poo!’ There was a brief silence. It seemed that Lucy had arrived in the nick of time and had taken charge of the situation. ‘Darling, let me have him; I‘ll finish off the nappy changing. You can sort out your work.’
Steve was most embarrassed and very apologetic. ‘It’s meant to be my day off. Oh hell, I need to put the phone down again; he got me all down the side of my trousers as well. Lucy is going to love it; I’ve just backed into the side of the sofa! Look,’ he said, ‘The sooner I get out of here, the better for everyone; give me a couple of minutes to change and, say, twenty minutes to get to the office. Ring me on this number in twenty-five minutes and I’ll be at my desk where I’ll be in a better position to help. I promise that this isn’t a brush off.’
‘It’d better not be!’ said Kate and hung up.
Aidan looked up at Emma, who by coincidence had been looking his way; their eyes met for a brief moment but both thought better of saying anything. A couple of smiles later they were heads down, focused on their paperwork.
Kate phoned Steve. ‘I’m looking at a couple of companies. I need to know whether they’ve employed any non-nationals via fast track visas, working as, say, fish packers or filleters over the past three or four years.’
‘Fire away,’ came the reply. ‘Let’s see what we can find. Can you give me the company name and its address?’
Kate spoke to Emma, who passed her the information Steve requested.
‘Thank you,’ replied Steve. I must apologise, the system is always slow bringing up information. I suspect it’s feeling a little overworked at the moment, though please don’t quote me on that. Ah yes, your fish processing company has seen a significant growth in their workforce over the past couple of years. They’ve put in six – no sorry – seven fast track visa applications for fish packers and filleters. Of these, we were able to process three on the nod as they were for EU citizens from Eastern Europe. The other four were non-EU nationals and their visa requests have been approved too. All in the past sixteen months! I see from a note on the file from my colleague Roger that they’re opening up a large new cold store and packaging facility later this year, hence their recent requests.’
‘Would you know where?’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not on the electronic notes. Roger, my assistant who deals with this company, is away on holiday. He’ll be back tomorrow morning though. By the way, what’s your email address?’ asked Steve.
There was a brief silence after Kate provided him with the information and then Steve came back on the line. ‘I’ve emailed you the details we have on each of these individuals. I’ve tried Roger’s mobile but it’s switched off, as is his voicemail. I’ll send him a text message and put a note on his desk letting him know to get in touch as soon as he’s back. Wait a minute! I am a berk -of course he’s not answering; he’s flying back from his holiday in the States. What’s your timescale?’
‘Yesterday would be ideal. As soon as possible, please. It’s really important,’ urged Kate. ‘Steve, if you or Roger can’t get through to me, here is my fax number. Please mark any faxes as Urgent.’
‘Will do,’ he said, I can’t promise that Roger will remember where the new cold store is located. He keeps a number of notebooks, but I’ve never been able to decipher what he puts into them. One of us will be in touch first thing tomorrow.’
‘Oh, by the way, while I’ve got you on the line,’ said Kate, ‘What other fast track ways into the UK are available?’
‘Off the record, news agency journalism is a good one,’ Steve replied. ‘Interestingly, representatives of overseas newspapers who are employed and paid in the UK don’t need a work permit. All they have to show is evidence that they’ve been engaged by a news organisation outside the UK, that the posting to the UK is a long-term assignment and they have sufficient funds to live here. We don’t always have the time to check that the foreign organisation is in business. The process is remarkably straightforward. Like fish processors and filleters, journalists aren’t seen as a priority area to scrutinise. The paperwork often gets only a cursory glance. And did you know that after four years they become eligible to apply for residency?’
‘No I didn’t… Could you look up a few more companies and check if they’ve made any visa requests that look in any way out of the ordinary?’ asked Kate.
When they came to the venture capital business, AGVC, Steve said, ‘Yes! They have an individual who fits your description: an overseas journalist who joined them six months ago. He’s setting up a weekly newspaper on the venture capital sector. I’ll email his details to you.’
They found nothing more.
‘Thank you Steve. You’ve been really helpful,’ said Kate. ‘Best wishes to Lucy. Tell her from me that you’re a star for coming into the office on your day off.’
Kate printed out the details on the eight individuals and bounced the email on to Jeremy who, as luck would have it, returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Jeremy, could you help me track down the eight people I’ve just emailed you? They are employed by the terrorists’ businesses and have all taken advantage of the fast track visa application process. It seems that they’ve been here, acclimatising to the UK way of life, for between four and sixteen months. The likelihood is that they’re using false names.’
As an afterthought, Kate forwarded the email to Colonel Matlik in Tallinn, with a short covering note: These people have come up on our radar screen. Do any of them look familiar to you?
She then called across to Emma. ‘Have you made any progress with the trawlers?’
‘Yes; they’ve got a fleet of eight modern vessels. Four are registered at Peterhead, two at Grimsby and two in Tallinn. I’ve confirmation that three of the Peterhead trawlers are out in the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in the vicinity of Iceland, and they’re due back next week. The fourth, Northern Rose, is in port at Peterhead. The two Estonian trawlers in the Norwegian Sea are due back in Tallinn late Sunday or Monday. Unfortunately, Highland Belle and Rosemarie from Grimsby are still unaccounted for.’ Emma continued, ‘And I’ve been talking to the coastguard. The talk is that Northern Rose in Peterhead is due to sail tomorrow around lunchtime.’
‘Good work.’
‘And, they have a cold store and processing unit in Peterhead,’ added Emma, ‘From which they supply hotels and restaurants country-wide. I wonder why they don’t have a cold store in the South of England. It would make the distribution process simpler?’
‘The north side of London would be ideal,’ commented Kate. ‘Somewhere near Willesden, perhaps?’
‘Exactly!’ said Emma. ‘Anyway, I phoned their sales office in Peterhead, posing as the manager of a fish restaurant in South London. I enquired whether they operated around London. The reply was that their nearest depot was up North. They do deliveries to London, but there was a large minimum order. The person I spoke to believed there might be plans afoot to open a facility outside London, but she hadn’t been formally told as yet. She asked me to give her a ring in six months time.’
Kate frowned. ‘That ties in with the comment from Steve at Immigration about them looking to expand. So they could well have bought a property in the South of England.’
The phone rang. John picked it up. It was one of Jeremy’s MI5 colleagues. ‘Jeremy asked to be kept informed of the whereabouts of Basel Talal. Sorry for the delay; some information has just come through from the Belgian authorities. Your man, Talal, landed in Paris last Tuesday morning almost two hours before Jameel flew out from there to Marrakech. We don’t know if they met.’ The MI5 man hesitated. ‘As Basel had no onward flight we had assumed that he was staying in Paris. The boss, however, wanted us to be more thorough and we gained access to the French, Belgian and Dutch passenger manifests. It transpires that Basel hopped onto the TGV to Brussels, boarded a flight to Copenhagen and then flew on to Reykjavik. He must have antifreeze in his blood to go there at this time of year! We’ve sent an operative up to Reykjavik to investigate and another is keeping an eye on Jameel.’
‘Thanks,’ said John and hung up. ‘All of you, our man Basel has done a runner and – would you believe it… Gone to Iceland?’
Jeremy’s journey across town was straightforward and he arrived at the coffee bar with a couple of minutes to spare, wondering whether he had whetted Pete Lockyer’s appetite, or if he would be wasting his time.
Pete was on time. Jeremy watched him saunter into the cafe. He was of medium build, slightly paunchy with receding mousey-brown hair. His face told a story of too many late nights. Pete was smiling, which was presumably a good sign.
Pete spotted Jeremy, came over and sat down opposite him. Introductions out of the way, the coffees were ordered and they started chatting.
‘What have you got that makes it worth my while being here?’ asked Pete bluntly.
‘I am doing a bit of undercover work on a rather wealthy individual who has his fingers in some interesting pies and I’m not certain what’s in it for you yet.’ Jeremy watched Pete. He didn’t look overly pleased.
‘Have you ever met a real spook before? I thought not. Well at least this can be marked down as part of your professional training.’
Pete had been studying Jeremy, who was athletic in build and had one of those faces that was handsome but didn’t stand out. Pete realised he wanted to find out more.
‘Are you really MI5?’
‘Yep, have a look at this.’
Pete scrutinised Jeremy’s MI5 warrant card, looked up at his smiling face and considered things. He’d just put a good story to bed and had a second almost completed. He didn’t really need another one right now. But he did have a spare hour or so. What the hell! The spook was fascinating.
‘I might be able to help. It depends on what you’re after,’ said Pete carefully.
‘I could do with tracing a fast motor vessel. I’ve got two leads as to who the owner might be; both mix with the great and the not-so-good! Can’t tell you what it’s about as it’s highly sensitive, but you’ll be the first to know when the story breaks.’
‘That’s a bit thin,’ said Pete.
‘My sources tell me you’re a man up for a challenge,’ replied Jeremy.
‘How’s about we go back to my office and see if we can turn something up in the library?’
It was a short walk across to the shiny, glass-fronted building. Pete signed Jeremy in and they made for the library.
Jeremy gave Pete the details of Maryam, her husband and the sheikh, and showed him the photos that Emma had sent to his phone.
‘Where do we start looking?’
‘First let’s look under their names. Let me show you how the manual and electronic cataloguing and indexing work. I suggest you start over here and I start at the other end and we see how we do,’ said Pete.
Jeremy looked at the mass of catalogued photos. Bloody hell! If only MI5 had this type of information on people! He was fascinated by the tabloid approach to life. Some of the pictures made the mind boggle and the eyes water. They surely couldn’t publish many of them, but he supposed they made for good bargaining tools!
It soon became apparent that Maryam and her husband were landlubbers; they loved high society, opera and the Arts. There was nothing to do with them and boats.
Then Pete struck gold. A colleague had been working on a story about oil magnates and beautiful celebs. There were pictures of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women and there, amongst the pictures, was the sheikh with a movie star draped across the back of a sleek-looking monster of a powerboat.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Pete. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one of those. She looks like a Sunseeker Predator 75 if I’m not mistaken. Like shit off a shovel. I reckon her top speed would be something like forty-seven knots – over fifty miles per hour… Fast boats are a daydream of mine.’
Pete looked carefully through the similar pictures. ‘Damn it! None of the photos show the boat’s name. Don’t worry.’ He picked up the phone and chatted to a colleague, and within moments was talking to a specialist yacht broking agency. He spoke to them for a while and then hung up. ‘This is the boring bit of the job – the waiting for someone to phone back with the info. And the coffee’s cold!’ commented Pete.
They didn’t have to wait long. The yacht broker advised Pete that a limited number of these boats were built each year. The manufacturer had given him the names of the boats constructed in the past five years. The broker reckoned that it wouldn’t take him long to track down whether any of them were owned by a rich Arab sheikh.
Jeremy smiled. It was great to see a professional at work! Pete didn’t give away who he was researching. He reckoned Pete could give a lesson or two to some of his younger colleagues. To pass the time, and not wishing to lose an opportunity, Jeremy pulled together a bit of information on Maryam and her husband.
Less than twenty minutes later Pete’s broker contact phoned back. He’d identified three such boats which were owned by Arab sheikhs.
‘The first one is owned by a Sheikh Tufayl.’
‘Voila!’ said Jeremy.
‘Her name is Flying Goddess,’ continued Pete. ‘She is usually moored at either Monaco or Cannes and has a full-time captain.’
The information cost Pete €500. On the basis that it would help with a story, he would mark it down to expenses. Pete made a couple more calls and discovered that the boat wasn’t in Monaco or Cannes. His contact in Monaco reckoned that the boat left late last year for a refit somewhere or other, but not locally.
‘Thanks mate,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t tell you much at the moment, but odds-on this morning’s work will have been your most profitable yet.’
‘Exclusive as and when?’
‘Of course, but in the meantime our discussion remains just between the two of us,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.’
On the journey back, Jeremy phoned Emma.
‘That’s brilliant!’ she said. ‘You’ve got the name, the make and the type of boat and even know that she’s being refitted.’
Kate called across to Emma, ‘Look at Iceland first. If that’s where Basel is, I bet that’s where Flying Goddess is having a makeover. Have a chat to Jeremy’s colleagues and get them to pass the information on to their man travelling to Iceland.’
The morning had gone by fast; it was already 12.15 p.m.
Emma called across to Kate. ‘You’ve got a phone call from a DI Rick Feldon in Manchester.’
‘Afternoon. We have pulled in Stone and Wesson,’ said a businesslike Mancunian voice. ‘The story is that we’ve linked them with a paedo ring – indecent images, etc. Well, that’s what the paperwork says. Could have got it wrong, though,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’ve made sure that neither of them can see any outsiders. Mr. Stone is complaining vociferously, and his solicitor isn’t best pleased – human rights and all that!’
Emma called across, ‘Remember to ask him about whether they use outsourcing companies in their police station.’
‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Kate under her breath. ‘I had quite forgotten.’ She asked Rick the question.
‘Yes, catering,’ came his reply.
‘Do me a favour. As far as the two from Dewoodson are concerned, treat all your caterers as hostile! I’ll explain later.’
‘Will do,’ agreed Rick with a hint of surprise in his voice. ‘We picked up William Wesson at a property he was valuing. He’s like a feral cat and is seriously pissed off.’
‘Wesson’s computer has been set up in the interview room and we asked him to show us all his files relating to PREH. The little bastard tried to delete the folder they were in. Thankfully we stopped him. Phil Scott is emailing the valuation report to you as we speak. By the way, if you want any more of the clowns at Dewoodson brought in, please let me know. It would be my pleasure. We’ve spoken to Mr Stone’s number two and explained the sensitivity of the situation. He’s agreed to close the office until Monday. Also, a couple of suits from MI5 turned up to give us a hand – said they were friends of yours. They’re giving the offices a once-over.’
‘Excellent work and thanks,’ said Kate.
‘Good luck at your end. Cheers!’ Rick was about to hang up, when he added, ‘Do you have a biro at hand? Here are Phil’s and my mobile numbers. If you need anything, day or night, please don’t hesitate.’
‘Thanks Rick and please make certain that no outsiders speak to either of them.’
The email arrived; Kate opened the attachment and printed it off. Rafi scooped it up from the printer. He went through the valuation, marking off the properties which hadn’t shown up on the mortgage register. Two of the new addresses were prime high street shop investments, but two were definitely not prime: some elderly light industrial units in Stalls Lane, Heysham, and a commercial property in Castle Street, Peterhead. Both were vacant. Result! Two more possible properties, mused Rafi. He typed Castle Street, Peterhead, into the mapping software. It was next to the docks. He did the same for Stalls Lane, Heysham. ‘Oh hell!’ he uttered under his breath.
‘Found something?’ enquired Kate.
‘We can add another nuclear power station to our list! The Heysham property is bang next to one.’
Rafi was about to continue when Emma piped up. ‘Our contact at the coastguard has traced both of the missing trawlers. Rosemarie has just finished a refit at the dry dock in Great Yarmouth and Highland Belle is at Troon dry dock. Both are poised to set sail.’
‘Well done, Emma,’ said Kate. ‘Are all the other trawlers at sea?’
‘Yep. Except Northern Rose; she is still in Peterhead harbour. That gives us three exit points,’ said Emma, who marked up the location of the two new properties and the two trawlers on the screen.
Kate stood up and clapped her hands. ‘Let us recap on the information we have.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘We have trawlers poised to leave from three ports. Rafi has located suspicious properties at these five locations, and the terrorists have five missile launchers and sixteen unused missiles.’ She scratched her head, as she looked at the screen. ‘If we were to assume two targets per missile launcher then how might the properties and targets be paired? Any suggestions?’
‘What about putting the properties in Peterhead with, the St Fergus gas terminal and the Cruden Bay oil pumping station – as the targets for missile launcher number one?’ asked Emma
‘And then there is the Hartlepool property which overlooks the local nuclear power station,’ said John, ‘but at the moment the second target in this pair is missing.’
Kate nodded.
‘Number three could be Heysham nuclear power station – plus perhaps Hunterston nuclear power station up the coast? And launcher number four could then go with the Bacton gas facility and possibly Sizewell nuclear power station,’ said Emma.
There was silence.
‘Which leaves us with bugger-all for the fifth launcher – could it perhaps be the nuclear train at Willesden Sidings?’ enquired John.
‘It’s all a bit iffy,’ said Kate with a note of despondency in her voice.
‘But a pattern is emerging,’ encouraged John. ‘The proximity of the various dots to PREH’s properties is too bloody close for comfort for this to be random. If you think back, twenty-four hours ago we had next to nothing!’
The conversation was stopped by Aidan cutting in. ‘Can you stop what you’re doing for a moment? I need to hear your views on a couple of thoughts.’ Aidan looked at them from behind his growing piles of paper.
‘I still have more to do, but I’ve reached the point where I’m convinced that a small group of investors have built up sizeable positions in both the long gilt and the interest rate futures and traded options contracts. If the positions I’ve found at my bank are replicated elsewhere and these investors turn out to be right and the markets do crash – the terrorists will make huge profits and there will be lots of bloody noses.’
Aidan turned to Rafi. ‘What if we were able to stop the markets from crashing – or more specifically prevent interest rates rising and gilts prices falling – and limit the impact of the terrorist attacks.’ He grinned. ‘If we could do this, we could turn the tables on them and wipe out their investments in the derivative markets.’
Aidan paused. ‘I would be willing to bet that there are also a significant number of murky players with their snouts in the trough, who we could also take to the cleaners.’
‘Wooah!’ said Kate. ‘That wouldn’t be feasible, would it?’
‘Aidan, that’s brilliant!’ exclaimed Rafi. ‘All we need to do is pre-empt most of the attacks and make certain that interest rates and gilts remain stable for – how long – a month?’
‘No; far less than that. If interest rates remained stable, in a week to ten days the terrorists’ positions in the futures markets would become exposed and they would either have to close them and crystallise large losses, or pay large margin calls. However, if interest rates were to fall, 24 – 48 hours would be enough to crucify them financially. In both cases their investments in the traded options markets would be wiped out.’
‘That’s all very well and good,’ observed Kate, but the if is a massively big if.’
‘Yes, I grant you that,’ said Rafi, ‘but isn’t it great to know that the terrorists might not have everything going their way?’
Kate looked at him with that same look she’d given him when she had asked him to work with her. ‘You know what I like about you?’ her eyes sparkled as she held his gaze. ‘It’s your unbridled optimism.’
‘Hold on a moment!’ said Aidan. ‘If we go back to when would be the best time to carry out the attacks? In terms of maximum impact – first thing in the morning as the markets are opening, but not late morning or in the afternoon… The London Stock Exchange opens at 8 a.m. and dawn tomorrow is?
‘7.25 a.m., give or take a bit,’ answered Emma.
‘What are you getting at?’ asked Kate.
‘We are led to believe the departure time of the trawler in Peterhead is tomorrow early afternoon, aren’t we?’ said Aidan.
‘Yes.’
‘If we are right and the trawlers are to be used as part of the terrorists’ exit plan, I reckon that all three will leave tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ said Kate sensing what he was getting at.
‘So, thinking about it, I’d be willing to bet that the attacks are planned for tomorrow as that’s when the trawlers are leaving, and that they will come between dawn and the markets opening at 8 a.m.!’ said Aidan.
‘Bloody hell! That gives us less than twenty hours!’ said John, quite taken aback.
‘We’ve got too many holes in our hypothesis,’ said Kate. ‘We’ve got to fill in more of these gaps! To put it bluntly, we have to find the missing targets, the missile launchers and the foot soldiers. In the meantime I’ll warn the commissioner of our line of thinking. And remember, not a word of this to anyone, please.’
Greg popped his head around the door at that moment. ‘Did I miss something interesting?’
‘Yes,’ replied Kate, ‘Have you been there long?’
‘No chance! You are running me ragged. I dropped by to tell Aidan that I’ve arranged every computer access he should need… Strange or what?’ said Greg. ‘There I was working in my office, drawing up a list of all the databases we would need to get into, when the commissioner walked in and asked me – yes me – what he could do to help. I explained what I needed. He left as quickly as he’d arrived and not twenty minutes later he came back saying that he’d pulled a few strings. I’ve had the head of IT from Euronext. liffe, the CME in Chicago and Eurex in Frankfurt on the phone volunteering their services and wanting to know which secure IP addresses we would be using. They’ve sent me encrypted user names and passwords and authorised me to access all their databases. Their cooperation is one hundred per cent. Simply marvellous if you ask me! Aidan, if I could use your PC for a moment I’ll get it set up to access databases you’ve only dreamed of getting into.’
Aidan smiled, like a young boy being told he was getting the keys to the local sweet shop and got up to let Greg take his seat.
In less than five minutes Greg had Aidan’s computer set up.
‘Thanks,’ said Aidan cheerfully. ‘By the way would there be any chance of a better printer? There’s going to be a lot of paper.’ Looking in the direction of Emma and the elderly printer, he said, ‘The old lady over there is getting too slow for me.’
Emma screwed up her face and then smiled at him.
Greg looked at Aidan. ‘How big a machine did you have in mind?’
‘Anything that prints quickly and has a big memory buffer would be great.’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Greg. Less than fifteen minutes later he was back pushing a printer-photocopier half the size of a desk. ‘This little beauty is from accounts downstairs; please look after it.’
John, who had been sitting, contemplating, stirred. ‘Why can’t we just close down the markets involved and stop the terrorists that way?’
Aidan looked at him. ‘In theory yes one could, but the turnover in these markets every hour of the trading day is squillions of pounds. To close the markets for anything other than a short period would be catastrophic for London’s reputation. We could close them for a day. The problem is that there are many ways of covering one’s tracks and the positions would still be there when the markets reopen. I’ve identified a number of suspicious contract notes, but it would take ages to look for them all. And this is offshore money, which can be moved electronically via intermediary banks quickly and secretively. It would be nigh on impossible to trace. What makes it really difficult is that we’re only focusing on two parts of the market. The terrorists’ positions are likely to be spread across a range of products. The two we have highlighted are the most obvious, but Sterling, the FTSE and gold would be good bets as well.’
Kate scratched her head thoughtfully. ‘Let us suppose that Sheikh Tufayl is good for?2 billion; his cousin Maryam and Jameel, via their client’s moneys, could be good for another?1 billion each and murky third parties put in another?1 billion. If this?5 billion is placed in the futures and traded options markets, and the terrorists get their way, what would their profit roughly be?’ She looked at Aidan and Rafi.
Aidan spoke first. ‘Conservatively they could make eight times their initial outlay; at the top end maybe fifteen times. Do you agree, Rafi?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘So in round terms the financial markets could be hit with losses of?50 billion,’ calculated Kate and after a brief pause continued, ‘at which point several banks and insurance companies would get into trouble and the Government would have to step in again!’
‘Yes, it would be very seriously,’ added Aidan.
‘Thank you – I just wanted to be clear,’ said Kate.
Jeremy hurried back into the office and updated the team on MI5’s progress. ‘Neil Gunton’s team is working at full throttle. And on the charity front, things are looking promising. It seems that they use just one travel agency – Fly Skywards Travel. I’m shortly off to pay them a visit.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘And we’ve identified who Khalid and Yousif were.’
Kate looked at him blankly.
‘Sorry – the people to whom the PhD dissertations were dedicated: Khalid and Yousif were the sheikh’s older brothers -cousins of Basel and Maryam. They worked for the family oil company. To cut a long story short, it seems that they were in Iraq discussing oil deals in mid-January 1991, just as Operation Granby got into full swing.’
Rafi looked puzzled. ‘Operation Granby?’
‘It was the code name for the British bombing missions. Anyway, it seems an unguided 1000 lb bomb went astray…’ He paused, ‘A large house was demolished. Khalid and Yousif were inside and were killed,’ added Jeremy.
‘Why didn’t we hear more about it?’ asked Rafi.
‘According to MI6, as collaborators helping the Iraqi regime with black market oil sales, their family probably feared what the Americans might do, if they made a real fuss,’ added Jeremy.
Kate looked serious. ‘So our terrorists have a strong motive for revenge!’
The buzz of Jeremy’s brief visit had gone. Rafi was sitting at his desk. He was tense, his wrist throbbed and his lower back ached. He felt awful. The lack of sleep had suddenly crept up and overwhelmed him.
John finished his phone call, walked over and pulled up a chair next to Rafi. ‘Are you alright?’
Rafi gave a small nod.
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve had a call about Callum’s funeral. It’s at 2.30 p.m. tomorrow in Clifton, outside Bristol. Kate has suggested that we send some flowers via the undertaker. We obviously can’t say that they’re from you. How about a card with something like: Thank you for your friendship and help. Is that alright with you?’
Rafi sat there feeling miserable and nodded slowly.
‘We have his parents’ names and address should you wish to write or visit them when this is all over.’
He wasn’t one for tears, but in his tiredness they welled up. There was nothing he could do to stop them. John briefly placed his arm across Rafi’s shoulder as a gesture of comfort.
Rafi drew a long breath and looked up to the heavens as if to seek divine inspiration. How can we sort out this horrendous mess? he wondered.
But then a sudden tranquillity came over him. It was as if Callum was in the room alongside him. Rafi’s mind cleared – they needed a game plan to stop the adverse effects of the attacks on the financial system. And for that they would need three things: a huge pot of money, a group of people to whom the Treasury and the Bank of England would listen, and a… Kate called over interrupting his train of thought.
‘If you have a spare moment, could you see if you can find another property? We’re still a couple of targets adrift.’
As if from nowhere, a possible solution flashed through his mind. His tiredness evaporated. Rafi felt calm, collected and strangely on top of things. He called out. ‘Everyone! Do you have a moment? Can we go somewhere quiet to get away from the phones, please? I need to run through an idea.’
‘Let me finish this call and I’m there,’ said Emma.
John nodded, indicating he would be there as soon as he, too, had finished his call.
Kate put down her phone. ‘We can use the meeting room down the corridor.’
John walked into the meeting room just as Kate had started to quiz Rafi. ‘Why the meeting?’
Rafi started explaining, hesitantly. ‘We’re piecing together some of the locations of the terrorist attacks and hopefully we’ll soon have a good enough picture to stop much of what they are planning. What’s been worrying me is their assault on the financial markets. Their two sets of plans are intertwined. What scares me are the consequences of one or two missiles getting through and hitting a nuclear facility. The loss of life and the long term radioactive pollution would not only be tragic, but would also dent public confidence. The clean-up costs alone could run to billions, plus there would be huge decommissioning costs… Aidan, how big a pot of money do you think that the Government might need to sort out their financial problems if things get really bad? And how much could they take on without spooking the markets?’
‘Answering your first question: how long is a piece of string? It could be anywhere between…’ Aidan hesitated and the room fell totally silent. ‘Let’s say in excess of?75 billion as a ballpark figure. It could easily be more. Answering the second part of your question, in the present environment, I reckon?25 billion.’
John looked perplexed. ‘But hasn’t the Government recently borrowed hundreds of billions of pounds without any difficulty.
So why can’t it do it again?’
‘There comes a point when investors will simply take fright and walk away,’ replied Aidan. ‘The Government’s annual borrowing requirement is currently running at around?200 billion. And they have been using quantitative easing to sort out their short-term funding needs…’
John still looked perplexed.
‘We are talking in terms of the straw that breaks the camel’s back,’ added Rafi. ‘It’s all about market sentiment.’
John shrugged his shoulders.
‘OK, look at it this way,’ said Aidan. ‘The terrorists have set up a three pronged attack. They want to hit our economy where it hurts – by creating major energy shortages and electricity blackouts… Crashing the stock market… And forcing the Government to borrow lots more money.’
John cast a serious look at Aidan. ‘So, unless we stop them… things will go pear shaped?’
‘Yes, and once things start to go wrong for the country’s finances, things will rapidly get worse. The Government’s credit rating and investor sentiment will plummet. And in no time at all there will be many more sellers than buyers of Government debt.’
‘Could the country go bankrupt?’
‘Probably not, but if the big investors stopped funding the UK’s vast borrowing requirement, then it would get really messy…’
‘Could I interrupt?’ asked Rafi. ‘There may be a way…’
‘Pardon?’ enquired Kate quietly, as though suspecting Rafi had flipped under the strain. Her eyes still had a sparkle to them and looked at him caringly.
‘Well,’ said Rafi, ‘it’s all about finding another source of money. A few minutes ago you mentioned property – as I was thinking about Callum. He’d been visiting a specialist property investor before he was killed. So who’s the biggest owner of property and tangible assets in the UK?’
‘The Government, the public sector and its various agencies,’ replied Aidan. ‘I recall from a recent article in the financial press that they have assets worth over?500 billion.’
‘Precisely!’ said Rafi. ‘So why couldn’t the Government put together a contingency fund, such that it did not have to go to the debt markets? Instead it could package up these assets into one or more of the new real estate investment trust vehicles – rather like the Swedish Government has done. Our Government could then issue shares in these REITs to those who require payment, compensation, etc., which would be straightforward as they would be listed on the London Stock Exchange.’
‘Yes, but I thought that the commercial property market and real estate investment trusts were in the doldrums at the moment.’ Aidan paused. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be a wet blanket.’
Rafi looked crestfallen. He thought for a moment. ‘OK, how about pepping up the market?’
Aidan looked at Rafi; a smile slowly stretching across his tired face. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Rafi’s mind was racing. ‘You could improve the demand for the REIT shares. What if the pension industry and those retiring could use these investments as an alternative to annuities? The REITs would have better yields than Government bonds and would appeal to many pension fund trustees and those with private pensions.’
‘That’s brilliant! No, better than that, it’s the nuts!’ enthused Aidan. ‘Real estate investment trusts would take off. Your sleight of hand would easily produce?150 billion for the Government to use, at a manageable cost. And, if they raised a bit extra they could use it to buy back gilts and keep prices firm.’
Aidan paused for a moment. ‘Your suggestion would need to be packaged properly and explained to the Treasury in terms that they understood. If it went hand in hand with a small drop in long interest rates and the markets remained stable for a couple of days, then the terrorists’ derivative positions would become untenable and they’d be wiped out financially.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ interrupted John. ‘Could you explain what a REIT is please?’
‘It is just like shares. A real estate investment trust is the property investment vehicle of choice for major investors. All it does is group a number of property investments under one umbrella. Investors can buy shares via the stock market, and they receive dividends instead of rents.’
Kate looked at Aidan and asked, ‘Realistically is this a possible solution to the impending financial problems?’
‘Yes, yes it is!’
‘Excellent! Rafi and Aidan, you work on your REITs idea and matters financial, while the rest of us get back to finding the terrorists and the missile launchers,’ said Kate.
The meeting had finished. In her relief, Kate stepped over and gave Rafi a hug.
He flinched and jumped back.
‘I’ve done it again… Apologies,’ she said, looking worriedly at him. It was as if she had invaded his personal space.
Kate turned to go. Rafi reached out and touched her shoulder; she turned and their eyes met.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. I ran out of painkillers at lunchtime… My shoulder and back are rather sensitive, not to mention my wrist.’
‘I’m glad. No, that didn’t come out right – what I meant…’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rafi cut in.