Crossfire (36 page)

Toleron thought for a moment. “Perhaps it’s a code to prove that the transfer request really is from this AR person.”

“Alex Reece,” I said.

“Didn’t I meet him at that dinner party? Ginger-haired fellow?”

“That’s him,” I said. “Slightly odd sort of person. He’s Jackson Warren’s accountant, but he’s up to his neck in the fraud.”

“But Warren must surely know that I would suspect him if the fund went bust and I lost all my money.”

“But he would simply apologize for the bad investment advice and say that he’d also lost a packet and, if the newspaper reports of your company sale are to be believed, you would have been able to afford the loss more than he would. In fact, I bet you would have ended up feeling sorry for him, rather than accusing him of stealing from you.”

“Don’t ever believe what you read in the papers,” he said. “But I get your point. The very fact that it was a relatively small investment is why I did it in the first place. I can afford to lose it. Not, of course, that I want to.”

How lovely it must be for him, I thought, to be so rich that two million dollars was a relatively small investment, and one that he could afford to lose.

“So all we need to do now is to get this Alex Reece chappy to e-mail SB in Gibraltar and get him to return the money whence it came.” Martin Toleron smiled at me. “Then I’ll have my money back. Shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange, surely?”

He certainly made it sound easy, but I’m not sure that Alex Reece would play ball. He might be more afraid of Jackson Warren and Peter Garraway than he was of Martin Toleron, or even of me and my syringes.

“I have a better idea,” I said. “We could send an e-mail to SB, pretending to be Alex Reece.”

“But that’s not as easy as you think,” Martin said. “Not without his e-mail account password.”

Now it was my turn to smile at him. “And what makes you think I don’t already have it?”

The e-mail to Sigurd Bellido was ready to go by half past eleven.

Martin Toleron and I had looked through all the transfer requests in Alex Reece’s Gibraltar folder, and we had studied closely the language and layout he had used in the past.

“Are you happy with it?” Martin asked.

“As happy as I can be,” I said.

“Do you think it will work?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But we have nothing to lose by trying.”

“I have,” he said. “I stand to lose two million dollars.”

I decided against saying that he’d told me he could afford it. “You’ve already lost it, but this might just get it back. It’s worth a try, but it’s a hell of a lot of money for a bank to transfer without making any other checks.”

“They’ll e-mail him back, though,” Martin said.

“Oh, for sure.”

By looking at all the e-mails to and from SB and AR we had discovered a pattern. Alex would e-mail the request always at about midday or five minutes either side, UK time. Sigurd would then e-mail straight back, acknowledging receipt and requesting confirmation. Alex would then instantly respond to that with a note that contained some comment, not now about Sigurd’s mother-in-law but about the weather in the UK.

The Taliban would have had a field day with this pathetic level of security. I only hoped that Alex hadn’t realized that I had copied his messages and compromised his defenses.

“Are you ready to intercept SB’s reply?” Martin asked.

“As ready as I can be,” I said. “I’m logged on to Alex Reece’s e-mail account via the
mail2web
webmail service, but it will all go wrong if Alex downloads the reply straight to his computer from the server. We’ll just have to take the chance that he doesn’t click on send/receive at that precise moment.”

“Do you have the reply ready?” He was hopping from foot to foot with his nervousness as he stood behind me at his desk.

“Calm down, Martin,” I said. “Let’s just hope that the real Alex Reece isn’t sending his own transfer e-mail to SB today.”

“Oh my God,” said Martin. “That would really confuse things.”

“The shortest time that money has spent in the account before being moved on is six days. It is now five days since the first one arrived and four since the second. So I don’t expect a real transfer request from Alex today.”

“How about if SB knows that it has to be a minimum of six days or it’s a fake request?”

“We’ll know that soon enough,” I said. “It’s two minutes to twelve.”

I pushed the send button, and the message disappeared from the screen. It was on its way, and we were left holding our breaths.

We both waited in silence as I continually refreshed the webmail page. The clock on the computer moved past twelve o’clock to twelve oh-one. I refreshed the page once more. Nothing. I forced myself to be calm and wait for a count of ten before I clicked on the refresh button again. Still nothing. I counted again, slowly, this time to fifteen, but still nothing came.

The reply arrived at nine minutes past twelve, by which time I had all but given up hope.

I had the reply ready to send, but I quickly pulled it up to make the changes. I typed in the new information.

I pushed the send button, and again the message disappeared from the screen. Next, I used the
mail2web
tools to delete SB’s reply from the server so that it would not appear on Alex’s computer when he downloaded his mail.

“Now we wait and see,” I said. But I went on monitoring the webmail page for another forty minutes before I was happy that SB wasn’t going to ask another question.

“Do you think it will work?” he said.

“Do you?” I asked in reply.

“Not really,” he said. “It was much too easy.”

“Yes,” I said. “Almost as easy as getting you to part with the two million dollars in the first place!”

 

 

M
artin called his bank and asked them to inform him by telephone immediately if a large deposit arrived. My mother, meanwhile, might simply have to wait to see if it appeared on her bank statement.

“Call me if you hear anything,” I said, shaking his hand in the driveway.

“Don’t worry, I will,” he said with a smile. “Quite an entertaining morning, I’d say. Much more exciting than the boring existence I have now found for myself.”

“You miss running your company, then?” I asked.

“Miss it!” he said. “I grieve for my loss.”

“But you have all that money.”

“Yes,” he said rather forlornly. “But what can I do every day? Count it? I started in business when I was straight out of school, aged sixteen. It wasn’t plastics in those days, it was cardboard. Cardboard boxes for home-moving companies. They were all still using old tea chests then, and I reckoned that cardboard would be better. I started by collecting old cardboard boxes from shops and passing them on to the moving men. Then I started importing boxes, both cardboard and plastic.”

He sighed.

“Where did the drainpipes come from?” I asked.

“The man who made the plastic boxes in Germany also made drainpipe, and I bought the UK rights from him. And it just took off. That was years ago.”

“Why did you sell?”

“I’m sixty-eight, and neither of my children are interested in running any business, let alone a drainpipe business. Far too boring for them. But I loved it. I used to get to the factory in Swindon at seven in the morning, and often I’d not leave before ten at night. It was such fun.”

“Didn’t your wife object?” I asked.

“Oh, I expect so,” he said, laughing. “But she does so enjoy shopping in Harrods.”

“So what will you do in the future? Will you start something else?”

“No,” he said, with another sigh. “I don’t think so. I suppose I’ll have to go to Harrods more often with my wife. We need to do something with all that money.”

The prospect of more shopping with his wife clearly didn’t make him happy. I obviously wasn’t the only person viewing his future life with anxiety and trepidation.

“Shop for some racehorses,” I said. “I hear that’s a great way to spend loads of money, and it can be lots of fun too.”

“What a great idea,” he said. “I’ll do just that.”

“And,” I said, “I know a way to save you all the VAT.”

We both laughed out loud.

As I had hoped, Martin Toleron and I parted as friends, not foes.

 

 

M
artin called my cell phone at a quarter past three as I was dozing on Ian’s sofa, half watching the racing from Huntingdon on the television.

“Have you heard from the bank?” I asked, instantly wide awake.

“No, nothing from them,” he said. “But I’ve just had a call from Jackson Warren.”

“Wow,” I said, clapping my hands together. “And what did he say?”

“He tried to tell me that the bank in Gibraltar had made an error and had inexplicably returned my two million dollars to my account. He asked if I would mind instructing my bank to send it again.”

“And what did you say?” I asked.

“I expressed surprise that Jackson was calling me, as I had no idea that he was involved with the organization of the fund. I told him that I thought he was just another satisfied investor.”

“And what did he say then?”

“He tried to tell me that he had only been called by the fund manager because he, the manager, knew that Jackson was a friend of mine.”

He paused. “Yes?” I said. “Go on.”

“I lost my rag a bit. I told him to get stuffed. I said that I would not be investing in anything to do with him, as he had purposely misled me. I also told him I’d be reporting the incident to the Financial Services Authority.”

“I bet he didn’t take kindly to that.”

“No, he didn’t,” Martin said. “In fact, he threatened me.”

“He what?”

“He told me straight-out that if I went to the FSA I’d regret it. I asked him what exactly he meant by that, but all he said was ‘Work it out.’ ”

That was the same phrase that Alex had said to me.

“And,” Martin went on, “he doesn’t seem to be too pleased with you either.”

“How so?” I asked.

“He point-blank accused me of conspiring with you to defraud him. I told him that was rich coming from him, and he could go and boil his brains, or words to that effect.”

I wasn’t altogether sure that insulting Jackson Warren was a sensible policy. Insults sometimes provoked extreme reactions, and some historians now believed that Saddam Hussein’s cruel invasion of Kuwait in 1990 was the direct result of a personal insult to the Iraqi people from the Emir.

“Did he ask if you knew where I was?” I asked.

“Ask me?” He laughed. “He demanded that I tell him. I simply said that I had no idea where you were, and also that I wouldn’t have told him if I did.”

“How secure are your gates?” I asked.

“Why?” He sounded slightly worried for the first time.

“I think that Jackson Warren is a very dangerous man,” I said seriously. “Martin, this is not a game. He has already tried to kill me once, and I am sure he would do it again without hesitation. So keep your gates locked and watch your back.”

“I will,” he said, and hung up, no doubt, to go outside rapidly and make sure his gates were closed and bolted.

Was it now time, I wondered, to involve the police and be damned about the tax consequences? But what could I say to them? “Well, officer, Mr. Jackson Warren tried to kill me by hanging me up to starve to death in a disused stable when I had to stand on only one leg for days, but I escaped by unscrewing the hay-net ring, climbing over the stable walls and breaking a window in the tack room, but I’ve only now decided to tell you about it, a week later, after I’ve been sneaking around Berkshire in camouflage cream, attacking and torturing one of Mr. Warren’s associates using fake insulin and a hypodermic needle, and using the information I illegally obtained from him to transfer one million American dollars from Mr. Warren’s company in Gibraltar into my mother’s personal bank account in Hungerford.”

Somehow, I didn’t think it would bring the Thames Valley Constabulary rushing to Jackson’s front door to make an immediate arrest. They would be far more likely to send me to a psychiatrist, and then Jackson would know exactly where I was.

It was much safer, I thought, to lie low for a while and let things blow over.

How mistaken could I be? The answer was badly.

 

 

T
he first sign that things had gone dangerously wrong was a hammering on the door of Ian’s flat that woke me from a deep sleep.

It was pitch-black, and I struggled to find my way to the light switch. The hammering continued unabated. I turned on the light and looked at the clock. It was one-thirty in the morning. Who could be knocking at this ungodly hour?