LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Read online

  LATENT HAZARD - on the edge is a revised version of Piers Venmore-Rowland’s debut novel Latent Hazard. The author is most grateful to all those who gave him helpful feedback and encouraged him to write this amended version, in which those parts of the original book relating to matters financial have been simplified and shortened.

  “A thrilling story of political and economic intrigue - A thinking persons thriller.”

  Comfortable in the highly-paid world of the City of London, Rafi Khan is a successful fund manager, but his life changes forever when a nearby police station is bombed and three policemen are killed. Convincing evidence, coupled with Rafi’s race and religion, link him directly to the suicide bomber.

  While Rafi maintains his innocence; British Secret Service - MI5 - interrogators are convinced of his guilt and are spurred on by senior politicians, who want a high profile and speedy conviction. Just as he fears that no-one will believe him or even listen, an apparently unrelated piece of information comes to the attention of the City of London police. Detective Inspector Kate Adams and her team from the City’s economic crime unit gain access to Rafi and soon realise that this information is the key to a terrorist plot which threatens the financial markets.

  Together with her team, Kate and Rafi soon find themselves involved in the adrenaline filled world of counter-terrorism. Working against powerful vested interests and no longer sure who they can trust - they face a race against time to unravel an intricate conspiracy. The stakes are high. The terrorists have a score to settle with the British Government and have invested years in careful planning. In their sights is the weakened UK economy... And a multi-billion dollar bonanza.

  www.latenthazard.com

  Praise for LATENT HAZARD

  City types fleeing their own woes by perusing even bigger ones will love new financial-market thriller Latent Hazard. Mail on Sunday

  This spooks-meets-financial-markets story comes with a dash of real estate. Our verdict:- Unmissable. Estates Gazette

  Across the globe, governments wrestle with unparalleled financial collapse. Meanwhile, the terror threat is ever present. Sound familiar? These are the foothills of a novel by Piers Venmore-Rowland. Two years in the writing, the former City man would appear to be as much soothsayer as author... Piers has put to good use the knowledge gleaned from keeping a weather eye on the financial sector from his various perches down the years. The Sentinel

  Latent Hazard is set against the background of a banking crisis and market turmoil. Venmore-Rowland uses his knowledge of the City to weave a tale of “conspiracy, suspense and political intrigue”. Express

  A terrifying world where terrorism and the credit crunch come together... It is a thinking person’s thriller. The book is packed full of action and suspense, but it also gives you something to think about and has a plot that keeps you guessing. Mercury

  An extremely modern and topical thriller made all the more interesting by the current ongoing economic crisis... Fast paced, informative and action packed. Assistant Manager, Waterstone’s, Newton Abbot

  Scarily convincing! This book is a mesmerising read! An innocent man is whisked from a brutal MI5 interrogation into the heart of the biggest terrorist conspiracy to hit the Western world... the sheer detail, breakneck pace and terrifying accuracy of the story make this book an absolute must-read for all! If any politicians read this, please take this thankfully fictional story to heart and make sure it never happens here. The Fiction Guru -Amazon Customer Review

  PIERS VENMORE-ROWLAND

  LATENT HAZARD

  - on the edge

  Galleons Green

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or localities is purely coincidental.

  Published in 2009 by Galleons Green.

  1

  English (UK) Edition

  Copyright © Piers Venmore-Rowland 2009

  All Rights Reserved

  Piers Venmore-Rowland has asserted his right in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Galleons Green Ltd

  PO Box 278, Woodbridge,

  Suffolk, England, IP12 9BS

  www.galleonsgreen.com

  ISBN-13 978-1-906960-33-9

  Typeset in Bembo Book by Belinger Blue Ltd.

  Cover David Freeland Design. Image © BigStockPhoto

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or means without a license or the written permission of the publishers, except in cases of brief quotations.

  Dedication

  To the memory of my father, Owain Venmore-Rowland.

  His love, encouragement and all the happy times

  he bestowed upon me will long be

  remembered and cherished.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Lorna for all her help, attention

  to detail, and assistance with the changes.

  My love and thanks go to my family: Lorna, Nina,

  Robyn and Sasha for their understanding, patience and

  ability to laugh; to my mother who has unfalteringly

  continued to be there for her children and

  grandchildren, and to Mark and

  Henry for their input.

  My thanks also go to Tom, Bruce, Alex and Stewart

  for their help and suggestions

  relating to the revisions.

  Index

  About LATENT HAZARD - on the edge

  Praise for LATENT HAZARD

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The splintering crash of the front door hitting the floor woke Rafi Khan with a jolt. Terrified, he sat bolt upright, but was too slow; before he could get out of bed, a harsh voice barked, ‘Don’t move, or we shoot.’ There was no escaping the bright red dots dancing on his chest.

  ‘Move your hands to where we can see them.’ Rafi slowly lifted up his arms, but at that second the wind was knocked out of him. Under the weight of his assailant, he fought for breath. His hands were pulled behind his back in a vice-like grip, and in a matter of seconds he was expertly trussed up, blindfolded, gagged, dragged off the bed with a bump and left lying on the floor.

  ‘Suspect apprehended and in our custody. Flat secure. You can come up,’ the same stern voice called out.

  Rafi was bewildered and scared of what might happen next. He couldn’t move and the blindfold across his eyes was painfully tight. It took a full minute for his mind to catch up with everything that had just happened.

  ‘He didn’t give any trouble,’ said the curt voice. ‘His front door was a piece of cake; when will people learn?’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said the man in charge. ‘What have we got here? Cases packed; ready to leave. It’s lucky we got here when we did.’

  The tone of his voice changed. ‘Rafi Khan, I’m arresting you under the powers conferred under section 41 of the Terrorism Act. You will be held in detention and informed of the charges against you within the prescribed period.’

  The man paused. Rafi sensed he was standing very close to him. ‘Put those guns away and take him down to the van, then search this flat from top to bottom. Let’s see what’s hidden here.’
>
  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A pair of strong hands grabbed Rafi and, forcefully dragged him across the floor, like a sack of potatoes.

  What the hell was happening? Everything had taken place so fast. Three flights of stairs later, Rafi felt like damaged goods. He was manhandled out of the building into the cold February air, where, from his blindfolded world, he could hear the sound of an idling diesel engine.

  The man pulling him shouted, ‘Help me lift him into the back.’

  Rafi landed with a thud onto the metal floor. His expletives were muffled by the gag and came out as little more than irate grunts. The tape across his mouth held firm. He was dragged on to the side bench. The doors slammed shut. A bang on the side of the van signalled it was time to go and it lurched forward. In his dark world he heard the police sirens blaring. The van was travelling fast through the deserted streets of London. And then, just as he was becoming accustomed to his environment, it came to a sudden halt.

  Rafi was untied and hauled out. Fresh air washed across his face. He was now sandwiched between two men.

  ‘Start walking.’

  Rafi moved forward. His shin bumped into a solid object. Sharp pain shot up his leg. He stopped.

  ‘Oi! Keep moving!’ bellowed one of the men next to him. ‘Keep moving!’ he repeated.

  Rafi tried to proceed in a straight line, but his sense of balance had deserted him. He staggered along in an ungainly manner.

  ‘Stop! Stand still!’ came the stern order.

  To the best of his ability Rafi tried to obey. There was no warning of the ripping sound that came next. Pain seared across his eyes as the sticky tape removed chunks of his eyebrows and eyelashes. He’d hardly drawn breath when the gag was ripped from his mouth. ‘That hurt!’ he yelped.

  Rafi screwed up his eyes in the bright fluorescent light. Either side of him were two muscular policemen in full protective clothing.

  In front of him, behind a tall wooden desk, was the duty officer, a pen in his hand. ‘Name?’ he inquired in a no-nonsense manner.

  ‘Rafi Khan.’

  A series of quick-fire questions followed. ‘Address…? Date of birth…? Nationality…? Personal effects: pyjamas, watch…Yes, sign for them ’ere… Stand ’ere. Height: 175 centimetres.’ The duty sergeant read off the measure on the wall. ‘Turn to face me.’ The flash of the camera surprised Rafi. ‘Turn sideways.’ Another flash. ‘Hands out.’

  In a whisk he was fingerprinted. The whole process was like a moving along a production line.

  ‘Come over ’ere! Remove your pyjamas! Bend over!’ Unceremoniously, Rafi was strip-searched. His dark-skinned legs showed a selection of new purple bruises. The one on his left shin looked particularly spectacular.

  ‘Been clumsy, ’ave we?’ enquired the duty sergeant. No reply was sought. ‘Get dressed in these.’

  Rafi awkwardly put on the drab clothing. It swamped his slight frame.

  ‘Take ’im away.’

  He was led to a claustrophobic and dingy basement cell. Its desolate overhead light shone starkly. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

  Rafi hardly had time to take in his surroundings before the metal door swung open.

  ‘Follow me,’ said a guard. ‘Don’t get any ideas! This way!’

  Rafi was led down a bare corridor to an interrogation room; like everything else in the police station, the room was devoid of character, bleak and utilitarian.

  Two interrogators sat on the other side of a narrow desk in a steely silence. Their manner made him uncomfortable: one smirked, the other scowled.

  The guard pointed to the chair opposite them. Rafi looked carefully at the two men, his stomach knotted with apprehension. They looked truly intimidating and as hard as nails.

  ‘Sit down!’ ordered the dark haired man. Rafi recognised his cockney accent. It was a sound he had grown up with.

  The blond haired man turned on the recording device and stared at Rafi with his steely blue eyes. ‘We have a number of questions to which we would like truthful answers.’ His voice was business-like and lacked any emotion.

  ‘Who are you?’ enquired Rafi cautiously.

  The dark haired man frowned. ‘Cheeky little sod isn’t he?’ his penetrating eyes stared at Rafi. ‘I’m Mike and he’s Andy. And for now, that’s more than enough information.’

  Andy studied Rafi carefully. His craggy face was framed by slightly over-length wavy hair. ‘Let’s get started.’

  ‘Aren’t I entitled to a solicitor?’ asked Rafi.

  ‘Sod it! No!’ said Mike firmly. He looked like a jackal sizing up his prey. ‘You are a terrorist suspect. You don’t even get a telephone call and no one gets to see you.’

  ‘Me a terrorist suspect? How the hell… no way! How have I broken the law?’ asked a bewildered Rafi. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong… And what about my human rights?’

  ‘The rules are different. You have absolutely no rights. No calls, no visits, nothing,’ replied Andy.

  ‘Surely I should at least be told why I have been locked up?’

  Mike leant forward. ‘No! You’ll get nothing from us.’ In contrast to his colleague, he had black crew cut hair and a scar running across his left temple into his hairline.

  ‘The law makes it very clear. Terrorist suspects can be detained without charge,’ said Andy, ‘For rather a long while, as it happens. So don’t get your hopes up. You’re going to be cooped up here for weeks or until such time as you tell us what we want to know!’

  ‘Mr Khan,’ said Mike, with menace. ‘You can either help us and make this painless - or you can be difficult, which would be very unwise,’ his scowl deepened. ‘Being uncooperative isn’t your best option. We have evidence that puts you in the middle of a major terrorist conspiracy.’

  Rafi couldn’t believe his ears. He opened his mouth to say, ‘You what?’ but nothing came out.

  Their questions rained down and became increasingly intrusive. Rafi tried to answer Andy and Mike as they interrogated him on his religion, contacts, reading habits and favourite websites, but they were seemingly dismissive of all of his answers. Their fierce questioning was frightening him.

  ‘I’m a law-abiding British citizen. I’m innocent! Tell me what you think I have done and I will prove my innocence,’ said Rafi in desperation.

  ‘That’s not the way it works. Sod off back to your cell and think about the dangers of not cooperating fully,’ barked Mike.

  Rafi was frog marched back to his cell, where he sat on the corner of his bed, shaking. He was cold and his nose was running, but he had nothing with which to blow it. His mind was in turmoil - he’d been accused of being a terrorist. It was all incomprehensible. He was scared. What the hell did they think he had done?

  Andy and Mike stayed in the interview room. They were frustrated. They agreed that they had got nothing out of their suspect. It was as if he had been expertly tutored in the art of interrogation. He gave answers, but they revealed nothing relevant to his crime. And yet the evidence they had against him was substantial.

  ‘He’s a slimy bugger,’ said Andy, ‘And a first class actor.’

  ‘Gives the impression that he ain’t got a clue why he’s here,’ replied Mike. ‘Obviously he’s been well trained.’

  ‘He is going to be a hard nut to crack,’ said Andy. ‘When do you reckon we move on to the Bishopsgate police station bombing?’

  ‘As I see it he knows damn well why he’s here, so I reckon we don’t need to tell him,’ replied Mike. ‘Anyway, we’ve got weeks before we have to charge him – my instinct is to use the time to break him.’

  ‘But time isn’t on our side,’ argued Andy. ‘Our intelligence suggests there could be a follow-up bombing. We have got to get information out of him, or more lives could be lost.’

  ‘If he isn’t going to crack soon, what’s the hurry? Shouldn’t we go for a confession, add it to all the evidence we have and secure a conviction?’ countered Mike.

  Andy looked conce
rned. ‘But we need information, now!’

  ‘He’ll break given time. Who wouldn’t in these surroundings? Just think of the praise we’d get,’ said Mike.

  ‘So you let another bomb go off just to prove a point and suck up to our political masters?’ replied Andy uncertainly.

  Mike relented. ‘It’s an option, but… bugger it! You’re right! We’ve got to bring things to a close as quickly as possible.’

  ‘OK, let’s see if we can’t tie this up in record time.’

  Rafi was sitting in his cell. He’d asked for a blanket, but did not get one. He was reflecting on his helpless predicament and his utter lack of rights, when his cell door suddenly swung open.

  ‘You’re wanted. Now! Get a shift on!’ bellowed the guard.

  Moments later, Rafi sat down opposite his two interrogators. He sensed they were impatient and keen to start.

  ‘We have evidence that puts you in the frame for the Bishopsgate police station bombing. We’ve got you on CCTV talking to the bomber next to the cashpoints in South Place, on Thursday lunchtime, the day before the bomb blast,’ said Andy.

  Rafi was dumbfounded. He couldn’t recall speaking to anyone. He’d been in a hurry.

  ‘Watch the tape,’ demanded Andy.

  A grainy but unmistakable picture appeared on the wallmounted screen opposite the one-way glass window.

  ‘The City of London has cameras everywhere now. The camera on the corner of Moorgate and South Place picked you up.’

  The screen showed a row of five cashpoint machines on the return frontage of the nearby Barclays bank. Moments later, there he was, joining the back of a queue in a smart suit with his neatly cut black hair. His turn came; he withdrew his money and turned. Behind him, to one side, was a man dressed in nondescript clothes with a hoodie largely obscuring his face. They talked for a minute and then the man gave him a hug. His hoodie slipped back off his head, revealing a tanned, ordinary-looking face. The CCTV footage stopped, framing the man standing right in front of him. Rafi was passing something to him, but it was largely obscured from view by the other man’s body.