Bank (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 2) Page 5

  Tim sat beside Jackie’s Dad as they drove back to Muswell Hill. Tim got the distinct impression that her Father rather thought him a bit of an idiot and was concerned for his daughter’s future. “Don’t worry, getting married is very stressful” he said, “no harm done.”

  Tim walked up the drive followed by her dad. He walked over to the sideboard and to his relief their passports were there. He checked them. The tickets were in two names Burr and Routledge as Jackie had changed her name back to her Father’s and Mother’s name after her divorce, not wishing to carry the brand of her abusive ex-husband around with her.

  “There’s an undelivered parcel card here,” said her dad.

  “We’ll pick it up from the sorting office when we get back.”

  “It says here that they return it to the sender if it’s not collected in eights days. Shall I collect it for you?”

  “Won’t you need ID or something?”

  “I have done it before for Jackie when she was at work. It is addressed to J Routledge. They aren’t that particular, I usually show them a credit card with J Routledge on it for John.”

  “That would be brilliant,” said Tim

  They finally let out a sigh of relief as they arrived in their room at the Gatwick airport hotel. Tim put his arms round Jackie and pulled her close. “Mrs Burr,” he said as he kissed her.

  Chapter 10

  Mel Levy sat in his office in New York. It was a grubby one roomed office, but it was in Manhattan and just off of Wall Street. He thought back nine years when he had been one of the Masters of the Universe who could do no wrong and was the darling of Governments and Investors alike. He was an unimposing man, five foot eight inches tall with thick glasses and a slightly balding head.

  Just those few short years ago he had it all, an uptown apartment valued in the millions and a beautiful house in the Hamptons. His wife had been a former Miss Arkansas and he had been on everyone’s guest list, from Presidents to wannabes. He was the head man at the bank and lorded it over Wall Street. Then came the credit crunch. He knew they had been riding their luck and the bank was over extended, but money was cheap and they borrowed and took advantage. Then the money dried up as the banks tried to cover their asses. He was still that bit smarter and saw it coming sooner, so he started making sure he was not going to lose personally. The judge later called him a common thief. He, at the time, had seen it as his rightful due. So he had taken it.

  He received four years in prison and the money was almost gone. What he did not pay in fines his wife took and divorced him. She had made her feelings clear as soon as the heat was on. “I do not want to be married to a loser and certainly not an ugly one at that,” was her parting shot as she left.

  He had two things left when he got out of prison after eighteen months. He still had his brain and he still knew some remaining potential clients that were more crooked than he - Russians. Following the intervention, by Russia in the Ukraine, American lead sanctions had been forcing a decline in the Russian economy and making it hard for the elite to launder their money. They were still siphoning wealth from the State to themselves, but were finding it harder and harder to get it out of the Country.

  Levy had the solution. Prior to his career break in the penitentiary, he had been working with the Icelandic Banks to see what could be done to stave of their collapse and default. Iceland had a population of only three hundred thousand, but its banks had borrowed billions. On his release he had shown the Russians how to get their money out and laundered and at the same time giving the Icelandic banks a way out.

  The scheme was simple in essence. The Russians, using a variety of companies, would open a bank in Iceland, the Baltic Bank. The Icelandic banks would allow the Baltic Bank to offer their customers the option of transferring their deposits to the Baltic Bank, who would hold them and allow the customers to free up their money by drawing down loans from Baltic Banks parent in Vanuatu. The Russian criminals got clean money in Iceland and the dirty money was used to repay the depositors. Ofcourse, the depositors only got eighty percent of their money back. Levy had negotiated with the Icelandic Regulators for the deposits to be released later in the year. The deal was, the Icelandic Treasury would need to take thirty five percent of all deposits, if its banks were to survive. Effectively the Russians would be paying fifteen percent to launder the money. The market rate was more like fifty cents in the dollar, so they were happy and Levy would be a billionaire from the commission he received of one and a half per cent from the Icelandic banks.

  Things were working out beautifully and the Russians had washed six billion dollars so far. Now things were changing for the worse. Levy was part crook and part banking genius, but he had never been a murderer. The death of Maurice Lee on the glacier had frightened him. He had known the Russians were dangerous, but he comforted himself in the fact that he was only dealing with financial matters and what his clients did, did not bother him.

  It all could so easily have been avoided, but the Russians, with their natural distrust for foreigners and their entrenched anti-Semitism and he being Jewish had insisted in putting one of their goons in the Baltic Bank. Through rank incompetence and stupidity the Russian had dropped the whole scheme names and all into Maurice Lee’s lap. There had been no need for any of the sensitive information to be anywhere on the Baltic Bank’s data base. It was pure laziness on the part of the goon in maintaining easy contact with his oligarch bosses, that had created the whole shambles.

  The main problem was that the idiot had allowed the scanned documents, with the Russians’ true signatures on, to get into the Bank’s system. The US and the Europeans were not stupid and of course knew of the vast wealth being stolen by corrupt officials and the inner circle. But knowing and proving it in an international court is not the same.

  Now, there was a dead man on the ice and a parcel somewhere in the UK, which would see Levy back inside prison and the US and Europeans seizing billions under the financial sanctions.

  On the plus side the goon was out of his hair for a bit, as he had taken a plane to the UK to see if the parcel could be recovered. On the downside, Levy had a feeling that the recovery of the parcel was not going to be handled with a delicate touch.

  Chapter 11

  The bank of the River Nile, where the SS Misr was moored, was bustling as Tim and Jackie arrived by coach from the airport. She had always wanted to sail down the Nile, after seeing the Agatha Christie character Hercules Poirot’s, adventures on a paddle steamer. Tim had found a cruise on a small twenty four cabin boat built in 1910 which had recently been restored.

  “It is amazing, it looks like Poirot could be on board,” said Jackie, giving him a big kiss on the cheek.

  “You can see where our cabin is. Right at the front with the balcony,” he pointed to the second of three decks. The top deck had a plunge pool and was surrounded by Sun beds. People where already on board. “Let’s hope there are no murders.”

  The boats were moored three deep and they had to cross two other boats before they arrived at the reception area of the SS Misr. “Welcome, welcome, my name is George. I am here to do every thing for you. You want something, you ask George. “

  The reception area was small and darkly painted with a table and chair. On one side, leading to the stern, was the dining room. Food was laid out buffet style with drinks being served by a young lad. “After you have been to your cabin, please come back here for refreshments and some useful information about your cruise,” continued George.

  They were shown to their cabin by another young Egyptian wearing the traditional gallibaya. “Do you usually wear that?” asked Jackie

  “No, only today, I usually work in the bar and wear the usual white shirt and black trousers.”

  “You speak very good English,” observed Tim

  He smiled. “I did French, German and English at University and then a Masters in tourism, but bad timing with all the problems here. There has been a massive slow down and no jobs.”<
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  He showed them to their cabin. The room was small with a double bed, prepared with their towels folded to form a swan and rose petals scattered on the counterpane. There was a door that opened onto the balcony facing forward to the bow. They walked outside onto it. Below they could see what were obviously the cooks having a cigarette break. The balcony was just wide enough for the two small chairs and the tiny round table. The two of them could sit and watch the Nile go by in privacy, or alternatively there was, of course, the Sun decks towards the stern.

  Tim opened the door to the ensuite toilet and shower. It was very compact. He had never seen a shower tray so small, or a basin that small for that matter. If you sat on the toilet your feet would be in the shower tray. “We certainly won’t be showering romantically together,” he said to Jackie, as she poked her head in and laughed.

  There was a din from hell which made them both jump. Their helper threw the door open and began clapping, as George and two other cabin boys entered. George was carrying Champagne and glasses and his entourage were banging on drums and shouting at the top of their voices.

  “Happy wedding, happy honeymoon, welcome to the Romantic Nile,” shouted George, as he popped the cork and poured the champagne.

  They linked arms and took a sip of the wine. “It’s wonderful,” said Jackie.

  The boat got underway at around midnight and they stood on their balcony, as it pulled slowly into the centre of the Nile. Ahead of them were a number of cruise boats. It was almost a convoy as they made their way up stream.

  “Life could not be more perfect,” thought Tim, as he pulled Jackie close and kissed her.

  Chapter 12

  John and Anne Routledge were used to looking after their Grandson Daniel in the school holidays, but school time involved a whole different routine. Their morning started chaotically, shoes couldn’t be found and pencils were missing. The project was not quite finished. Daniel had been up too late, was very grumpy and did not want to go to school, suggesting that he would learn more by going fishing with his Grandfather. His Grandfather had no intention of going fishing, which he explained five times to Daniel, before he reluctantly accepted it and agreed to go to school.

  John had only done the school run a few times before and was totally unprepared for the ruthlessness that parents employed in order to get their darling little ones to school on time. He now understood why the school run chariots of choice were selected from a narrow range of motor vehicles. Anything other than a Range Rover, a Cayenne or a Jeep stood no chance of keeping the other late, harassed parents at bay. John realised, as he faced a four by four heading towards him on the wrong side of the road in order to pass the parked cars. The woman driving, with her daughter in school uniform, had no intention of pulling in to allow him to continue.

  The inevitable happened and the two came face to face as he stuck to his right of way, “Get out of the way, you stupid old fat bastard.” The woman was livid with rage at having her progress impeded and screamed at him.

  John could not help himself and knowing he should not respond he did anyway. “Madam you are only fifty percent correct. I am neither stupid nor a bastard. I should like to point out that we drive on the left in England and you, madam, are on the wrong side of the road.”

  “Get out of my fucking way,” she was trembling with rage and John could see she was beyond reason or humour. The pressure of getting her daughter to school, then getting to work and modern living had reduced this human being to a feral animal. John reluctantly backed his car up, while she intimidatingly drove forward, staying within inches of his front bumper and revving her engine loudly.

  Finally, he reached a gap in the cars parked on the opposite side of the road to him and she could pass. She raised two fingers in the air and screamed, “Wanker,” as she drove off.

  “That went well,” he said to Daniel.

  “Mum would have punched her lights out,” Daniel observed.

  John decided that he would let his Anne do the school run for the rest of the period that Jackie and Tim were on honeymoon. He dropped Daniel at the school gates.

  His next stop was the wedding venue. He parked up and walking inside. He checked his watch. He was on time, having fought his way through the traffic. He was surprised, but he was on time. The planner, who had organised the reception, was nowhere to be seen as he entered the lobby, where he was to meet her. He double checked his watch.

  He stood there aimlessly. After five minutes, his phone vibrated and gave off the incoming text message ring tone. He took out his phone. The message was from the Wedding Planner. “Running late, be there in forty five minutes.”

  John could see how you could become as angry as the woman diver he had encountered earlier. Apparently, this Wedding Planner thought her time far more valuable than his. He was definitely getting old. He could not understand why people now thought it perfectly acceptable to turn up late for appointments, just because they had sent a text informing the person waiting that they were delayed. Before mobiles, if someone did not turn up within ten or fifteen minutes of the scheduled time, you left and they had the embarrassment of having to phone to apologise for wasting your time. Now you merely texted “running late” and it was supposed to be fine.

  He waited for an hour until she finally turned up. “Sorry I’m late, school run problems,” she said breezily without further explanation. He noted she drove a massive off roader, fully equipped for the school run battlefield.

  “Glad you felt you could make it,” he said pointedly.

  She looked at him as if he was insane to be annoyed at being kept hanging around for an hour. “You did get my text?”

  “Silly me, that makes all the difference,” he said.

  She was becoming angry at his comments and he realised she was just about to launch off at him. He pre-empted her, “Please just give me the items and we can be on our way.”

  She opened the office next to the reception desk in the lobby, “Here you go,” she said.

  He left carrying the bottom tier of the wedding cake, some place settings and two of the decorations as keepsakes for Tim and Jackie.

  The Post Office sorting office car park was jammed with what appeared to be half of North London collecting post. He sat in the car for ten minutes waiting for some one to leave. He then had to race another driver for the space. He felt a sense of satisfaction at forcing the woman in the four by four to concede the space. Revenge for the school run incident. He was beginning to get the hang of the road wars of North London.

  The queue for the post pick up window snaked out of the door and it barley moved. One Post Office worker, clearly disinterested in the whole process and moving as slowly as he could reasonably do without actually standing still, methodically and mechanically dealt with each request,

  “Card,” he took the card and went off through a door for five minutes.

  He returned with the item, “ID.”

  The ID was presented and promptly ignored.

  “Sign”

  “Next”

  Then the inevitable hold up when a change in system was required. I have three items,” said one person

  “Card,” said the postal worker. Three cards were given. Two were given back without a word. Five minutes later he returned, “ID,” He handed the parcel to the customer.

  “Card,” he picked up the second card and went off.

  “ID”

  “I just showed you my ID,” said the customer

  “ID,” said the worker. The ID was presented and duly ignored. “Card”

  This was repeated a third time. “Next”

  Finally John handed over his card and after the mandatory five minute wait, the parcel of documents addressed to Jackie that had been sent four days earlier, by Maurice Lee in Iceland, had reached their destination. “ID,” John handed over a credit card that was ignored. “Sign,” He signed.

  John made it to Jackie’s house in Muswell Hill feeling like he had done a morning’s
hard labour. He actually managed to park outside her house on the road. Things were looking up.

  He retrieved her house keys from his pocket as he walked up the short path to her door. The cherry blossom tree had shed petals all over the small front garden and the path. He thought that he would pop round before they got back from honeymoon and do a quick tidy up of the front.

  He was about to put the key in the lock, but as he tried to push it home, the door just swung open. He entered cautiously and his fears were confirmed as he opened the glass inner door from the lobby to the living area. They had been burgled.

  There were items strewn everywhere. Every drawer and cupboard had been opened and emptied onto the floor. Even the contents of every packet in the kitchen had been scattered onto the ground, Flour, cornflakes and even gravy granules were dumped from their respective containers.

  He phoned the police. The said that they would send someone in the next few days and to make the building secure. They asked that John make a list of items that had been stolen.

  He soon realised absolutely nothing was missing. Cash, TVs and Jackie’s jewellery had not been taken, but had just been emptied onto the floor. The thieves had clearly been looking for something, but obviously, that something was not stuff to steal in order to sell to raise money.

  John phoned and then waited for the locksmith to come and fit new locks. He decided not to spoil Jackie’s and Tim’s honeymoon by telling them. He and Anne would come over and clean it all up before their return. He drove home with the cake, place setting, table decorations and parcel in his boot.

  Chapter 13

  Trist was overseeing the operation personally. Rojas had been good to his word and the DEA had received the tip off eleven hours ago. Trist had made sure that he was hands on. So far he had his gambling debts put on hold, but he knew that he would have to deliver the hit man, known as Annubis, who had killed Rojas’ Father, if he were to get his hands on the big bucks.