Dreams to Die For (33 page)

Friday had not been good for Detective Superintendent Ritson of the ATU of the Metropolitan Police. His team had diligently pursued what enquiries they could but were hampered by a distinct lack of any hard facts or evidence. Indeed, they had very few leads and still did not know whether they were chasing ghosts and simply wasting their own and everyone else's time. The Egyptian Interior Ministry had, after lengthy deliberation, simply referred the ATU back to the Hannet-Mar Bank in London stating that, in their opinion, all the information the ATU required could be obtained on their own door step. The telex machine remained stubbornly silent and Ritson concluded that OFAC had not been able to trace any more details than those that had come through late the previous evening. He decided to talk things over with his superior Assistant Commissioner Manders.

“You really believe there is a plot, Bill?”

“Yes Sir, I do. Very much so.” Ritson replied assertively.

“So do I. It's the little things that make it certain, the Dubai connection for one. The money being transferred to several different banks in a single day – why do that? Why not just transfer it from London to Switzerland? Why lose so much on exchanging good currency for bad and then back again, if it's not to obscure the identity of those wanting the funds?” Manders became more pensive and absentmindedly began scratching his chin. “I think there is a plot alright, but seemingly in France.”

“Not necessarily. I would back Dongle that the transactions were made from a computer in France, but let's not lose sight of the fact that the money was originally in England,” Ritson reminded his boss.

“That means nothing. These bastards will put money wherever they want to, probably concealing their identities along the way. I think it could be just an accident that they chose England, unless of course the manager is suspect. If so, that would explain why it was deposited with the Hannet–Mar. That small sum transferred to Yemen, then to Dubai, interests me though. What use is that to a supposed large consortium? What on earth is it for? You know my motto,
always follow the money.”

Ritson successfully managed to conceal his groan at the umpteenth repetition of what had become more like a mantra than a motto.

“Did you have anything in mind, Sir?” Ritson enquired.

“Yes, I think so. The last time I saw the commissioner on this case he virtually booted me out. I'm going to try again. He has influence in high places and, after 7/7 last year, he won't be too keen to ignore me if I put this to him in a certain way. We need details of that Dubai account, and hopefully he is going to get it for us.”

A short time later, Manders was seated before the Commissioner Sir Neil Roberts and quickly outlined what ATU now knew and suspected.

“Is this that SR12 case you spoke to me about some time ago?” Roberts tersely questioned Manders.

“Yes, Sir. The same.”

“Well, my answer is also still the same. I'm not poking my nose into it on this collection of suppositions.” Manders could tell that Roberts was irked even though he had not been asked on this occasion to look into Cindy Crossland's file.

“Actually Sir, I quite understand that and it never occurred to me to ask you to access that file again – at least not yet. No, it is this Dubai connection and the bank account there that troubles me. You see, if it is subsequently established that it does form part of the financing of a terrorist cell, I am just anxious that any plot that may be in the offing is not carried out against British subjects. Britain has a lot of close connections to Dubai, not just commercial. Politically, I believe our government has excellent relations with the Constitutional Monarchy of Dubai and, more widely, the whole of the United Arab Emirates. All are very positively disposed towards the British, so co-operation between agencies ought not to be a problem. What little we do know of this Hannet–Mar money is that there is certainly a Dubai connection. That is a fact. I should not like us to pass up such an obvious link only to find out later the money was used against our national interests, when perhaps enquiries at high-level could either confirm or rule out such a threat at an early stage.” Manders gave a deliberately long and reasoned argument, delivering the words slowly and with clarity. “I was thinking that an approach by a senior Treasury official to his counterpart in Dubai might bring forth some answers.”

Roberts saw the trap. If this turned out to be a plot and he had obstructed an enquiry which might have prevented it, his already difficult relationship with the government would be impossible and he would have to resign. On the other hand, he could not use his position unless he was certain there was reasonable cause. Treasury ministers are close to the Prime Minister and so whatever he decided carried a certain amount of risk.

“OK. Give me the details in a typed-up, formal note referring to this conversation and precise details of what information you want from Dubai. I will do my best.”

“I have already taken the liberty of doing that, Commissioner. Thank you.” Manders withdrew an unsealed envelope from his jacket and passed it over. Roberts laughed.

“And if I had refused, did you have another one for me?” Roberts asked.

“No Sir, of course not,” Manders lied.

When he returned to his own office he took out the second envelope and shredded it. Sir Neil Roberts wasted no time. He made an immediate, brief phone call to the Financial Services Secretary, whose remit included national and international financial crime, and then arranged for a courier to deliver the note by hand. At 6pm a formal request for assistance was sent by the British Treasury to the Financial Administration Bureau of the Dubai government. There was little more that Manders and Ritson could do but wait. They were still waiting at 9pm when they decided to go home and leave the duty officers to notify them if any information was forthcoming.

Ritson carried out his normal summer Saturday routine of helping his wife with the shopping in the morning before mowing the lawn in the afternoon, but all the time his mind was elsewhere. He had become increasingly frustrated and worried as the day passed, with still no word from the office. It was the fifth anniversary of 9/11 and he was desperately concerned lest his enquiries were being made too late to stop another terrorist outrage to mark the occasion. He kept telling himself that the money was being moved far too late for it to be anything to do with a 9/11 follow-up, but the worry remained until he fell asleep several hours later. It was not until 2:30pm on Sunday that Ritson's mobile sprang into life and he was informed that a telex from Dubai had been sent to the Treasury, a copy of which was being forwarded to the ATU. A quick check on the news channel told him that no atrocity had been carried out abroad overnight and he was soon heading towards New Scotland Yard.

Manders was already in his office reading the copy telex when Ritson came in. “This is what we wanted, Bill. This is it. I suggest you call in the team and get cracking.” Manders rubbed his hands and spoke with obvious glee. There is nothing a seasoned detective likes better than being on the chase of a suspect, and for Manders the remoteness of high-level promotion had denied him that frontline opportunity for too long. Many times he had wondered if he had not sacrificed the very best part of the job – the part he was good at and liked – for the Queen's shilling, but he had never been allowed to dwell on these thoughts for too long by his status conscious wife and an extravagant lifestyle. As he passed Ritson the paper, Manders quipped, “There's a lot to be said for the way the Dubai and some other governments in the UAE go about things; if they want something they just go and get it!”

Ritson was stunned. He read the telex over again.

‘This
has
to mean something… but what?' he pondered quietly to himself. Who were Yasmin Hasan and Fadyar Masri and what was their connection to Halima Chalthoum? He went to his whiteboard and wrote in the details beside the relevant action point. There was no need now to seek OFAC's assistance, and he was at the point of sending a message withdrawing his request when the telex clicked into life again. It was from OFAC, confirming the Egyptian account holder being one Halima Chalthoum and also giving details of the transfer of 75,000 Egyptian Pounds to the Aden Bank in the Yemen. All he was missing was the information regarding the Swiss account, but he knew he was not likely to get any information from that source. He had already asked OFAC and the British Treasury to monitor transactions from the Banque Privee del Solegit SA, but unless a large sum was moved that corresponded to about €140,000 it was not a line of enquiry that he was expecting would yield a positive result.

At 5pm on a dull, warm September Sunday afternoon, Ritson stood before his team, bringing everyone up to speed with the telex information. “No one goes to these lengths to transfer out of England a large sum of money, pass it through several Middle Eastern banks, bring a much smaller sum back into France, deposit the balance in a private Swiss Account – all within the space of a few hours – unless they want to obscure the audit trail. This is deliberate. It has been planned. It's all happened on the same day. I want to know why. Why transfer it on the 7
^th
September? We have the list of all significant events for the next month. Double-check them. Renew security advice to the organisers. Above all, I want to know about Fadyar Masri, Yasmin Hasan and Halima Chalthoum. I would proffer a guess these are not their real names, but they have to exist and live somewhere. I will be speaking with our French colleagues seeking their help in tracing these people, but our own boys at MI5 and MI6 need to be very much in the picture and working on this now”.

As he spoke he looked towards the two liaison officers whose role was to keep Britain's secret security services updated. They both nodded. Ritson moved across to the wall where the moveable panel whiteboard had been repaired and now hung on sliders alongside two others. The first board was full of scribbled notes and he pulled across a second clean panel and added some more details before setting his men to work on the tasks. He then called over Doug Ongles.

“Dongle, I'm becoming more and more convinced that to counter terrorism we need computers. Everything we have got on this case so far is because of computers, or at least what people like you can do with them. You have free reign on this case if you need greater authority for any systems that you wish to, what do you say, interrogate? Is that it? Anyway, speak to me if you have any problems otherwise do whatever you want, but I need more information on those names.”

Dongle visibly swelled with pride, his expertise finally being recognised instead of being regarded as playing second fiddle to the virtues of ‘good, old fashioned policing' that he had grown tired of hearing about. He spoke deferentially to his senior officer.

“No problem, Sir, but it's now after seven. No one is going to be around at this time of evening on a Sunday – even Five and Six will have only the duty people at work. Sure, I can start a few searches of databases but, just a suggestion, there's a full week coming up and I can see this job for all of us being twelve hour days and possibly some working shifts. Only a thought, but it might be better to make a real crack at this tomorrow morning, early.”

It was actually a constructive point and Ritson admired Dongle for making it. Only a computer nerd would have the gall to suggest it. Dongle did not have aspirations for high office nor a managerial promotion. He loved his keyboard and his computers and never wanted to be taken away from them, which gave him a freedom to express what others might only think. It had been simply hell for him when, at the age of sixteen, he had spent three months at a Young Offenders Institution for hacking into the computer systems of several major corporations, even though he did no actual damage. His conviction, however, was principally because he had managed to infiltrate the computer system of the Rosworth Observatory. Although only ever used for the genuine purpose of astronomy, for some perverse reason it was still owned and operated by the Ministry of Defence, who did not view kindly his action of moving the seventy-six metre telescope five degrees west of where it should have been pointing. The Government did not wish to publicise the inadequacies of their own system, so settled instead to pressure the commercial organisations to pursue a prosecution based on his exploits in the private sector.

“You're right, Dongle. Good suggestion.” Then in a louder voice, he shouted out across the room. “Dongle thinks you lot would prefer to go home now and work your bol… ” he broke off, remembering there were two female officers on his team “… work your socks off all next week, so let's pack up here. See you all tomorrow. Early.”

As the team gradually gathered up their belongings and filed out past his office, he noticed the two female officers on his team walking across the room, giggling. One, Sergeant Jean Hill, put her head around his door and said, “Glad you said ‘socks' Sir. I don't know anyone here capable of working anything else off.”

He laughed, the stress of the day relieved and he went home happier than when he arrived. Tomorrow would be a Monday morning he would actually look forward to.

On the weekend that Ritson was worrying about the money transfers, Cindy and Gordon were preparing Mealag Lodge for the visit of Dean and Paulette Assiter who had confirmed that they would be arriving on Tuesday as planned. Gordon had insisted that Mrs MacLean prepare one of the grander guest chalets used when Gordon entertained a number of friends for several days, even though he was hoping Assiter and his wife would stay in one of the guest rooms at Mealag. These chalets were in fact quite large A-frame dwellings, and Gordon had made certain that they were comfortable, but he was anxious that if Assiter or his wife wanted real privacy then they had an alternative to Mealag. The principal guest room at Mealag was lavishly equipped and furnished, and Cindy was absolutely certain she knew where the American and his model French wife would sleep. Cindy was delighted that Gordon involved her so much in the preparations for the visit. He asked her opinion on virtually everything: the rooms, the meals, the sorts of entertainment and activities they could undertake – it was obvious that Gordon was relishing having a woman's opinion other than Mrs MacLean to rely on. During their joint discussions of how to entertain the Assiters, Cindy suggested that perhaps one day, she and Paulette might go to Inverness, unless it was clear that Paulette was the type that always wanted the outdoor life.