Skin in the Game, page 11
He looked down into the water. The sun shone and the air was now still. He gazed at his reflection as Sofi approached his side. She moved in closer, looking straight at him, unaware he was watching her reflection in the water. Her hair fell back behind her shoulders, and shone in the sun.
“Sam was my brother—my biological brother. We were both adopted at a very young age. It was a happy upbringing. We were a very close family.”
“I’m so sorry, Joe.”
“I’m the last one. First my mother, then my father, now Sam.”
“Did you ever get in touch with your biological parents?”
“No. I knew something about them, things my mother explained. She was Native American. He was of Irish descent, I believe. But they were just … I knew who my parents were.”
They sat on a bench next to the river.
“You look like your brother. Taller, calmer.”
She held her hands on her lap.
“My parents, my adopted parents, were a mixed couple of sorts too. Dad had an English background and my mom Iranian. Both were born in the States. They met in college in the sixties. They were hippies, free thinkers. Dad went on to become a Wall-Street lawyer, but managed to stay pretty open-minded. Mom taught sociology at NYU. Got involved in social causes from time to time.”
“It must have been wonderful growing up with such liberal-minded parents. Even in New York, it mustn’t have been so common to have a mixed family like yours.”
“They were pretty hip. They taught us to open doors. Any door we wanted we could open, if we just believed in ourselves. They taught us how to do that, to believe in ourselves. Both of them were very independent and strong; they didn’t feel any need to fit in or belong.”
She looked away.
“My dad is like that.”
She took a deep breath and watched a group of mallards on the river spring into flight.
“My mother was mugged and killed when I was twenty. I was backpacking in India.”
His hands gripped the bench.
“I missed the funeral. Sam never forgave me.”
She raised her hand to her mouth, looked behind him toward the meadow and then turned to him.
“Yes, he did. He did forgive you. He had forgiven you. He reached out to you when he was in trouble. He wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t let go of any grudges he may have had.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
He bit his lip.
“I have to get to the bottom of all of this. I’ve got to find out what all this means. I have to find who murdered my brother.”
He felt the fierce, primal rage return in the back of his head. A burning hate lit at the top of his spine and raced down through his insides. Why am I here? Reconciliation? Escape? Whatever it was, it’s now something else.
“Joe, did they talk to you about Carl? Carl Frazer?”
“They asked some questions. How I found him. Why I was there. They told me they want to speak to me again.”
“We’ve told them about our meeting with you, Joe. Our investigation.”
He looked up at her, his eyes stinging, his vision blurry.
“This is a surreal nightmare. I came to England to make amends with my brother, to get away from the insanity that my life had become. And what has it become now?”
“What insanity?”
“Politics. I worked for the government. I found myself involved in things I disagreed with, things that went against my beliefs.”
“What beliefs?”
“It’s simple, really: right and wrong. What is acceptable for a government to do in the name of the people it represents. It’s stuff I can’t talk about.”
She sat up.
“We’ve arranged for a crime-scene forensics unit to assist the local police investigating your house and your office at the college. Joe, when we last spoke, you mentioned there was something you needed to tell me.”
“Do the local police think Sam and Carl … their deaths are related?”
“It is a possibility they are considering.”
“Come on, it’s more than a possibility. There is no other possible, rational explanation.”
“Joe, why did you go to see Carl last night? If there’s something we need to talk about …”
“Carl and I shared an office floor at the college. We hit it off when I arrived, and he helped me get to know the place. He was a kind man. I received a package from Sam. I asked Carl to put it somewhere for safekeeping.”
He gritted his teeth.
“I brought all of this on him. This is my fault. All of it.”
“You couldn’t possibly have known there would be this kind of danger involved. When did you receive the package?”
“Monday, but I only opened it yesterday. Before we met. I wasn’t sure—”
“You weren’t sure if you could trust me?”
“That’s right. But I made my mind up last night when we talked. I realized that whoever broke in must have been looking for the package. So when I couldn’t get hold of Carl, I ran to our office. I found him dead. I was knocked down by his killer. The killer left with copies I made of the documents Sam sent. The originals are still in their hiding place.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“No.”
“What did Sam send you, Joe?”
He felt her touch his hand, and the anger inside gave way to sadness.
“I haven’t reviewed it in detail. I need your help with that. They look like some kind of financial records and legal documents. Density documents.”
“Joe, you’re going to need to give me—”
“I know. Sofi, I want to be involved in your investigation. I need to be. The cops here won’t let me, but you can. We both know Sam’s death is linked to Density.”
“I can’t do that, Joe.”
“Whatever is going on, there is some kind of terrorist connection. It’s an area in which I’m considered an expert. My experience with the State Department could help provide some perspective. I also know my brother better than anyone.”
“Even if I could …”
“At least agree to have a look through the documents with me and tell me what’s in there. Then you decide.”
“I’ll need to have some time with the documents in advance. Can you trust me with them?”
He sat up and leaned back, away from her.
“What’s your story? Why are you here?”
She placed her hands on her knees and faced him.
“I was fond of your brother. And I’ve started talking to you, trying to piece all of this together. I don’t know. Is it so strange that I might want to help?”
“I’m here, alone, an expat in a foreign country. I need help.”
“So let me help.”
She smiled.
They walked back toward the college. Joe thought of Sam’s body sinking in the river, lying lifeless in the morgue. He looked up and saw the longhorn cattle in the meadow, grazing, the outer wall of Christ Church looming like a medieval castle in the background.
He took a deep breath and caught a glimpse of Sofi’s face in the sun, the delicate outline of her nose and the subtle curves in her cheeks. A lifeline had been thrown his way. She was alive, a connection back. From being half-dead, he felt something stirring.
*
Sofi left with the box and her reassurance that she would contact him as soon as she had a chance to review the documents. Joe staggered up St. Aldate’s, past Carfax, through the Covered Market and home. He had almost forgotten about the mess his house had been left in until he entered and found the crime scene investigator packing up his things. He nodded at Joe and scrambled away.
Joe walked through the ransacked living room and sat on the couch. He thought for a moment of taking a stab at cleaning up, but sighed instead and stared at the detritus of his life strewn around him. He looked out the front window and saw a black Audi parked across the road. Polished, sporty, tinted windows. He looked back around him and trod up the stairs.
He walked into the bathroom and pulled the bottle of sleeping pills from the cabinet. He dished out two tablets and drank them down with some water. He folded himself under the covers of his bed and fell fast asleep.
Chapter 11
Cadan Blake scooped the beluga caviar with a small spoon onto his plate and forced it onto a blini. He raised it to his mouth, devoured it and then dashed back a frozen glass of Kauffman vodka. He tossed the spoon back into the silver container, still half full, and wiped his mouth.
He rose from the lunch table set up in his room and stood by the office window. He watched the crowd parade across London Bridge. Not a sound could be heard as placards floated over a river of protestors heading for the City: ‘Globalization for People NOT Corporates,’ ‘HUMAN Rights NOT Corporate Rights,’ ‘99 to 1—The Odds are in Our Favor,’ ‘Dirty MNCs,’ ‘Cut Down the Oligarchs,’ ‘Corporatism DOES NOT = Democracy.’
He ran his index finger across his brow and smiled.
“Look at them. Do they really believe they can change anything? As if some sort of blind solidarity is going to alter in any way how real power impacts their lives?”
Laith Khaldoun stood regal in the center of the room in his navy-blue Savile Row suit, white herringbone shirt and pink-and-royal-blue striped tie, his warm, light-brown skin the only earth tone in a room of black-and-white minimals, gray glass geometrics and cold dry air. He glanced up from his mobile phone and nodded to Blake.
“Evolutionary misfits,” continued Blake. “They still believe in the smallness of things, as if a single life could stand up to global forces.”
Khaldoun smiled and continued with his mobile. Blake observed him. He wasn’t one to adulate those who held influence around him, never had been. At all times he appeared focused on his own agenda and unaffected. It was a positive quality, if mystifying at times.
Blake inserted a toothpick into his mouth. He sat at his desk and stared at his reflection in the black computer screen in front of him. He smiled to check his teeth had no fish eggs caught between them.
“Well, what say you?”
Khaldoun placed his phone in his breast pocket.
“Of course. They are idiots.”
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in the Pollock chair in front of Blake’s desk.
“I have reviewed our affairs in Zurich.”
“What’s the damage?”
“One per cent of our inventory has been moved out. Not much in absolute terms, maybe $10 million. Most of the bars taken from the vault are non-good delivery. We’re missing copies of our internal accounting records for the trades.”
Khaldoun studied his manicured hand.
“And the originals of commission and security contracts.”
“I see.”
“I suspect all this remains with our depositary, held under a different account name.”
“And we can’t trace it.”
“You know the rules. We need the key.”
Blake studied Khaldoun as he removed his mobile phone again and checked an incoming message. Khaldoun leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“OK. Back to business. I’ll be meeting with Baexter and Mandrake later this week. I’ll agree everything with them in advance. Then you will agree everything in Uzbekistan. All of this is best kept outside of Samarrai’s view. I want him focused on the benefits of the deal.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Khaldoun.
His head bowed forward, Khaldoun peered up. He set his eyes on the caviar dish left unfinished on the table. Blake smiled. Shipped in direct from the Caspian Sea, it was one of his weekly favorites for lunch. Blake returned his gaze to the protesters below.
“Make sure there are no weak links. The numbers on this trade are astronomical.”
*
Claire Nelson was sitting at her desk when Khaldoun appeared in her doorway. She waved him in as she finished up some paperwork. He walked up to her desk and stared down at her, running his eyes over her face and cleavage. She leaned her shoulders back, her smirk revealing her dimples. His eyes flat and somber, he sat in front of her and focused on the bookcase behind her.
“I’ve just been to see Cadan.”
“Yes, I saw him this morning.”
She removed her glasses and lowered them along with the pitch of her voice.
“How can I help you, Laith?”
“Where are we on Passage?”
“There really isn’t anything to worry about from a legal perspective. We’ve got all the share transfer documentation and approvals in place for the initial portfolio. Mercier has a list of investors circled. We’ve represented that our owns funds and DIA will go into the deal.”
“Our own funds?”
“Affiliated funds. Discretionary money from the US. We need to firm up DIA on their commitment.” She frowned. “I trust you will take care of that.”
“What about the underlying contracts with Baexter and Mandrake?”
“Of course, it all hinges on that part. The docs are easy. It’s up to Cadan to agree terms, then it’s all smooth sailing. Is there anything more I should know?”
“You know all you need to know at this stage.”
“Cadan will fill me in on the rest of the details.”
She clamped her teeth down on her pen.
“Don’t play your games with me,” said Khaldoun
“I’m sure I have no idea—”
“We need to focus on getting Passage printed. I think that’s where—”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job. Why don’t you focus on whatever it is you do.”
Khaldoun narrowed his eyes, and he watched Claire as she leaned forward, head slightly back, her blouse hanging loosely, as if to provide him with a better view of her cleavage.
“Watch yourself, Nelson. Don’t think I would hesitate for a second to sink a whore like you, if need be.”
“Go ahead and try, you fucking Neanderthal. I know who you are, so keep your distance.”
She opened a document on her computer screen.
“Listen to this, ‘Liberal democratic thought, the separation of religion and politics, is …’”
Khaldoun took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Where did you get this?”
“Oh, I had it transcribed. The original, your journal, is locked up in a special place for safe keeping.”
He rapped his knuckles on the desk.
“What do you want?”
“Just stay out of my way. And do your job.”
“Do you think I’m going to let you get away with this?’
“You let me? Calm down and stay focused on the deal.”
“The firm can rely on me. It’s you I’m not so sure about.”
Khaldoun pressed his hands onto the desk and stood up. He focused on the space in front of him and above her head. Claire frowned and stared impassively at her computer screen. He turned, nose in the air, and walked slowly out of the room.
*
Laith Khaldoun entered his penthouse near Waterloo Station. Dusk hung over the City and the lights of Westminster Palace were coming in to view. The flat was open plan and spread out over one floor. He could see west, north and east, across the Thames, as he sat at a table with an open book under his pen.
His journal had become his manifesto ever since he had clarified his objectives. They had been muddled for some time, like a reflection in shattered glass. The glass had shattered when his parents were killed in an Israeli bombardment of south Beirut. Up until then, his image was the predictable result of his efforts at self-improvement.
His father had made enough in the restaurant business to send Laith to Paris for graduate studies in finance at the Ecole Polytechnique. From there, he wrote his own ticket into the London banking market where he met Cadan Blake. At Density, he was a rising star, an unstoppable force of nature, blessed with an intellect enabling a view of markets that few with his level of experience could claim. He also had an innate feel for the deal, setting him apart from the pack. His ability to influence colleagues, clients and adversaries was unique.
There were no exterior signs, no changes in behavior, when his purpose collapsed. His focus was absolute. But inside, a war raged as he remolded his life view to take into account the tragedy of his parents’ death. He immersed himself in the writings of the spiritual leaders he adopted: Taymiyyah, Wahhab, Mawdudi, Rida, Qutb. His journal entries became a nightly meditation on his objectives, leaving him centered after the slings and arrows of the day. As he wrote, his breathing slowed, his mind eased. He felt his heart purify:
We engage not in a political or economic conflict, but a war of ideas. Either true belief or infidelity must prevail. We face not the end of history, but its rebirth. Only by returning to the sacred, to a divine order, can we rescue humanity.
The West is bankrupt. Din wa dawla. Unity of state and religion will replace popular sovereignty. Our efforts aim at the re-sacralization of the state. Secularism and modernity have been foisted upon us as a colonial strategy of dependence and exploitation. We reject the values of modernity. We declare God’s sovereignty over all human matters.
Only permanent jihad can create world revolution. The end we seek is pax Islamica, a world order that will topple the Westphalian conspiracy. Social justice and religious salvation shall come hand in hand. Total faith in life and death.
Jihad is the just war of the oppressed against their oppressors. Jihad is the revolutionary struggle to seize power for the good of all humanity. Jihad is a war of defense.
My first contribution, my first milestone, now comes upon me.
Chapter 12
Early evening and Joe was on tenterhooks. Sofi had been with the documents all day. He took the train to Paddington and called.
“I need to see you.”
He showed up at her door shortly afterwards. Her flat was the second floor of a converted house off Westbourne Grove in Notting Hill. She opened the door, decked out in jeans and t-shirt, hair tied back.
“I haven’t got a clear picture. There’s not much we can accomplish tonight. Perhaps—”
