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  On the tube, Rafi hid behind Friday’s Financial Times, staring at the pages but taking in little of its news. His head was in turmoil. Act normally, he kept telling himself. His mind was trying to stay rational, but his body was under a different set of controls. He felt his hands shaking and steadied them.

  At last, Moorgate tube station arrived. He got out and made his way to his office round the corner in South Place. At the front desk, Rafi greeted the security guard with a wave and headed upstairs for the coffee machine. He felt like death warmed up. The office was like a morgue. ‘You idiot,’ he had thought to himself, as he recalled the celebratory lunch and the previous evening’s festivities. His spirits rose a little as he realised that at least he would look much better than most of his colleagues.

  The office started to fill up. The open plan floor on which he worked was the quietest he could remember; the telephones were being answered in hushed tones and no one was really in the mood to work. By all accounts, the previous night had been an unreserved success; the bar bills would have been huge and the accounts team would no doubt have to do some creative juggling with the expenses claims.

  By 9 a.m. the office had started to regain some of its momentum and the noise level had moved up a notch from deadly quiet to hush. The coffee machines were in demand, but unlike normal days there was little gossiping going on around them. At one of them Rafi bumped into Jameel’s secretary.

  ‘Did he make his flight last night?’ he enquired.

  ‘’Fraid not! He missed it by a mile,’ she smiled. ‘It was a good session yesterday, though, wasn’t it?’

  Rafi recalled seeing her perched on the edge of a table, enjoying the adulation of a group of dealers.

  To his surprise, she said, ‘Didn’t you see Jameel first thing this morning? He told me he had a couple of things to sort out before he had to rush off to London City airport to catch his flight to Paris. Luckily, I managed to rearrange all his meetings.’

  ‘Is he still due back next Tuesday?’ Rafi asked.

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Why had Jameel missed his evening flight? He’d left the party early and had plenty of time. Rafi wondered what he had been up to.

  His thoughts were interrupted. Seb Warren, a colleague of Callum’s, phoned. ‘Judy Ballantyne of HR asked me to give you a call.’

  Rafi could vaguely put a face to the young individual. He was of a similar age to Callum, but not in Callum’s class.

  ‘Is there any further news?’ asked Rafi.

  ‘Not really. All we can glean is that he’d finished his work and was on his way to Amsterdam. The Luxembourg police aren’t saying much. Callum’s body should be flown home early next week. I understand that his family are arranging the funeral for next Thursday somewhere near Bristol, I think.’

  ‘He was seeing some people for me,’ Rafi said, hoping Seb wouldn’t pick up his white lie. ‘Could you run through who he saw?’

  Seb hesitated briefly, but then went on. ‘Yes, OK. He had a meeting with a REIT, followed by a couple of meetings with tax lawyers. He had lunch with a local investment fund manager and then went to see a contact in the same building for an afternoon meeting… Rafi, I spoke to Callum as he was leaving the afternoon meeting. He was very upbeat, saying, I’ve done some useful research… Rafi will be very interested. I don’t know what he meant. Do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Rafi disingenuously.

  Seb paused and carried on. ‘He was in a hurry, said he was late for his rendezvous with the REIT director.’

  ‘I tried ringing him at around 6.30 p.m. but got put through to his voicemail,’ said Rafi.

  ‘So did I,’ replied the youngster.

  ‘Before you ring off, could you tell me who he had lunch with?’

  ‘I’m not certain if I should, but I know Callum was a good friend of yours so I’ll tell you off the record. He met Hubert Vynckt of CPR Investment Funds.’

  ‘Thank you Seb, you’ve been a great help – I’ll miss Callum.’

  Rafi made a mental note of the name and was just about to go to the firm’s library when the whole building was rocked by a dull thump.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ yelled Gavin, a director who sat near to Rafi.

  ‘Oscar has self-imploded,’ quipped Dominic, to Gavin’s left.

  A voice from across the room said, ‘That was a bomb blast.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Gavin.

  All eyes in the open plan office focused on the office junior. He was seen but usually never heard. ‘Not close, but definitely in the Square Mile. I reckon it went off somewhere to the east of us.’ He paused before adding, and going rather pink, ‘I’m in the TA so I am used to explosions.’

  ‘So now what?’ asked Gavin.

  ‘There could be a follow-up bomb. People should move away from the windows.’

  ‘Gavin nodded. ‘OK, do as the man says and get away from the windows. We’ll wait for some news; it’ll be all over the screens very soon and then decide what to do.’

  Rafi looked at the newsflash on his trading screen. Bombed – garage at Bishopsgate police station, near Liverpool Street Station. The newsflash continued. City of London police are unable to confirm whether there will be any further attacks. The London Stock Exchange and Euronext. liffe have closed. This was followed by, London underground and all mainline stations are shut.

  Gavin stood up. ‘The office is closed for business. You are free to leave for home whenever you like, or to stay put if you wish.’

  Rafi knew that news of the bomb blast would be plastered across the media. He phoned his sister at her university where a colleague answered. ‘Is Saara there? It’s her brother speaking.’

  ‘Not at the moment, she’s nipped out. I’ll tell her you rang.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘Could you put a note on her desk to say that I’m fine.’

  ‘Will do,’ she reassured him and the line went dead.

  Rafi decided it was time to leave. ‘See you Monday. Have a good weekend,’ he called across to Gavin.

  Outside, it was bright February sunshine. In the distance there was the sound of sirens. The streets had an unreal feel. It was the expressions on people’s faces that were different. They had a sense of anxious determination. The buses and taxis were still working but the queues at the bus stops and cab ranks were very long.

  Rafi had considered his options. He wanted to get home. There was nothing for it but to walk and hope he came across an empty taxi on the way. With a stop for a cup of coffee en route, the six mile walk was not too bad. It gave him the opportunity to think things over. He would take a holiday. If he went abroad and Prima Terra was investigated by the authorities, they might think he was escaping from them, so he decided to find a comfortable hotel in Cornwall. He would leave first thing the following morning and being a Saturday it would be a good time to travel.

  Just under three hours later he had opened his front door. It had been a relief to be home. He stripped, showered and with a bath towel around his waist, headed for the dining room table, where he opened up his laptop and went surfing for hotels in Cornwall. Into the search engine he entered: Cornwall +hotel +sea and scanned through the very long list of possibilities. He changed sea to “good food” and looked at the new list. Near the top, the Headland Hotel, Newquay caught his eye. He clicked on the link. Its location looked great and its restaurant had two rosettes. Then he spotted they were doing special deals on stays of over five days – perfect. He opened up another window, pulled up the search engine again and found London to Newquay was a five-hour journey from Paddington and there was a 10.05 a.m. Saturday train.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the Headland Hotel. In the space of a couple of minutes he’d booked himself a small suite with an ocean view for ten days, starting the following night.

  He would travel light and packed some clothes into his computer rucksack and briefcase. He would look businesslike in the hope of concealing his escape plans. Tire
d, he turned in for an early night.

  A few hours later his living nightmare started, when he was dragged from his bed and taken to the godforsaken police station.

  Rafi lurched back to the present. From the memories he had managed to piece together, he concluded that Jameel, his boss, with some persons unknown in Luxembourg were involved in something highly illegal and could even be linked to the terrorist attack. Callum must have found proof of what was going on.

  But why did they want him out of circulation? If Jameel was involved and something sinister was going on with the two companies, what were they up to? But why was he a danger to them, and why hadn’t they killed him, as they’d done with Callum? Perhaps two deaths close to home would raise too many questions, and setting him up as the bad guy achieved the desired effect?

  Rafi’s head ached from the lack of sleep. The absence of edible food and the limited intake of fluids were also taking their toll. The physical side was unpleasant but didn’t overly concern him. It was the mental fatigue that worried him. Without a brain he wouldn’t get out of there, he told himself.

  His thoughts changed tack. How long would it have taken for the evidence to be fabricated against him and the bombing to be planned and carried out…? His conclusion was that the bombing had already been scheduled and it had simply been a convenience to link him to it.

  So, how was Jameel, a finance heavyweight, involved? He was a big picture man: fine print and micro-management were not his strengths. Therefore, he had to be working with, or for someone.

  Next question, mused Rafi. How were Jameel and Prima Terra linked with the terrorist plot? It had to be something to do with the City of London – one of the three great financial capitals of the world. His thoughts drifted back to the research that Callum and he had been working on… The clandestine nominee names and the two companies in which Prima Terra and others were large investors. Might they have thought he was on to them and close to unravelling what they were planning?

  But in practical terms, he had two obstacles to overcome. First, he had to convince his interrogators that the evidence against him was contrived. Then second, he had to get them to believe that he was on their side and could potentially unlock the larger terrorist plot…

  ‘I’ve got it!’ It came to him, out of the blue. What he needed was someone they trusted who could do the persuading for him. Someone who would want to look carefully at the two companies and who would be willing to investigate what Jameel and Prima Terra were really doing. However, in the eyes of his interrogators he was guilty and he knew they wouldn’t be prepared to listen to a word he said as long as he insisted on protesting his innocence. Corporate finance was a blank in their book. Who might they listen to? His mind ached…

  It needed to be one of them! Yes, of course that might work. He needed a police officer who could put his case to them. Furthermore, he needed someone who was familiar with the workings of the City and understood corporate finance. His mind raced. Ideally it would need to be someone from the Corporate or Economic Fraud Squad at the City of London police force. Would they be prepared to help him? Bloody hell, it was going to be a tall order. The bomber he was accused of being linked to had killed three – or was it four? – City policemen. He would be seriously unpopular, but it was on their turf and they might be interested in his story if they thought it would hasten the arrest of those who had masterminded the bombing.

  Rafi thought through the practicalities… He needed to get someone from City of London police to visit him. He could give them the location of the memory stick, but it would be unwise to tell MI5 as they might then block the police’s involvement.

  There was a problem, though. He probably only had twelve hours left before it all became too much for him to handle coherently. In particular, the lack of sleep and water were taking their toll. As he wondered how best to get things moving, the cell door swung open.

  In the interrogation room, Rafi faced his two least favourite people. He had lost track of time and felt desperately tired. He guessed that he hadn’t slept for over twenty four hours.

  Andy started the talking. ‘We passed your laptop to our boffins. They’ve found nothing to do with your two companies.’

  Thank goodness he hadn’t copied the files from Callum’s USB memory stick, thought Rafi.

  ‘Very suspicious if you ask me,’ said Mike. ‘So where is the information Callum and you put together on the two companies?’

  Rafi’s stomach tensed up; he would have to play things very carefully. The information on Callum’s USB stick might just be his passport out of there.

  ‘It’s rather complicated,’ said Rafi.

  Andy looked down his nose at him. ‘Proceed. Do we look thick?’

  Rafi allowed himself an inward grin. He hesitated – time for a bit of financial gobbledygook.

  ‘Oi! Wake up and get your arse in gear!’ shouted Mike as if every second was urgent. ‘You’re here to talk to us, not to daydream.’

  Rafi drew breath and started: ‘Do you understand what I mean by butterfly positions in the forward financial futures markets, when a leveraged investor is speculating on a break out of a trading range, precipitated by new information coming into the market?’ He stopped.

  The two interrogators looked at each other, dumbfounded. It was bullshit, but not total bullshit.

  ‘OK, I’ll go through it slowly. In the futures markets you have two positions: calls when you’re a buyer and puts when you’re a seller of the market. With a call position, you make a profit if the market rises more than is anticipated and in a put contract you make a profit if the market falls by more than is anticipated. OK so far?’ Rafi carried on before they had had the opportunity to respond. ‘Leveraged derivatives are when you’ve borrowed money to finance your positions in the market, thereby making your profits bigger. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Er… Could you perhaps speak English?’ said Andy.

  ‘Where do these butterflies come in?’ asked Mike in a bemused manner.

  ‘They’re a type of trade where you mix call and put contracts together. It’s the information flows that make the derivatives market appealing in highly volatile times.’

  The two interrogators obviously didn’t have a clue what Rafi was talking about. Their faces showed that as much as they wished to follow his line of thought, it wasn’t their area of expertise.

  ‘Perhaps we should have a break whilst you check out what I’ve said?’

  Mike scowled. They chatted between themselves for a couple of minutes. Apparently they’d had enough trouble understanding what an equity was, let alone a futures product.

  ‘By the way,’ said Rafi. ‘I have a USB memory stick with the data on it, which should back up my assertions.’

  ‘You what?’ exploded Mike. ‘You are a sodding awful piece of work! Why the hell didn’t you tell us earlier? ’

  ‘Where is it?’ demanded Andy.

  Rafi remained silent.

  ‘You devious little bastard,’ said Mike. ‘Back to your cell while we decide what to do with you.’

  Rafi was bundled back to his cell. He lay on the bed hoping that they’d make a decision relatively quickly.

  The bolts on the cell door clunked loudly and the door swung open. There, standing in the doorway, was his bete noir.

  ‘They want you back, now!’ the guard said ominously. ‘Come on,’ he barked.

  Rafi struggled to sit up, but his back had seized up as a result of the blows he’d received from the man who had brought his food. He rolled on to his side, slid off the bed and on to his knees. Yes, he could stand up now, he thought, as he straightened his legs.

  Rafi was too slow. Suddenly he felt the vice-like grip of a pair of hands lock around his neck and forcibly haul him upright. He couldn’t breathe and started to struggle, which had no effect other than to increase the pressure on his neck. Rafi felt himself starting to black out.

  The guard was strong, very strong, and with ease he pulled Rafi up
. Then in one movement sent him flying towards the corner of the cell.

  Instinctively, Rafi tried to cushion the impact by stretching his right arm out in front of him – it hit the inside rim of the slops bucket. A nauseating pain shot up his arm from his wrist. Then his shoulder hit the wall with a thud. He slid down on to the floor and in to the spilt contents of the slops bucket.

  ‘You messy little git,’ said the guard. ‘Can’t take you anywhere without you making an effing mess of yourself. Phwaaw! You smell like a sewer rat. Better not keep ’em waiting.’ With that he hauled Rafi to his feet and frogmarched him down the corridor.

  Rafi’s wrist was already swelling up and going a deep purpleblue colour. He tried to move his fingers; they hurt like hell, but he found he could partially move them. At least nothing seemed broken.

  As he pushed Rafi towards his chair, the guard hissed under his breath, ‘You won’t be so lucky next time!’ His distinctive company’s badge – the BlueKnite emblem – was inches away from Rafi’s eyes.

  ‘Silly idjut tried to get here in too much of an ’urry, slipped and put his hand down the karzi. A right plonker, in’t ’e?’ said the guard.

  Rafi laid his swollen wrist and reeking wet sleeve on the table. He looked at his two interrogators and tried to give them his best grin.

  ‘Phew, you stink! Before we go any further we need to get you cleaned up.’ Andy beckoned to those behind the one-way glass window.

  A couple of minutes later there was a knock at the door and a new face appeared. The man was carrying a clean shirt and a plastic first aid box.

  ‘Meet Sergeant Chris Archery. We thought you should be checked over before we continue,’ said Andy.

  Rafi slowly unbuttoned his shirt and then got stuck.

  ‘Could you help me pull it off?’ Rafi sat there, leaning slightly forward in his chair.

  As his shirt came off there was an involuntary intake of breath. ‘Bloody hell, mate!’ exclaimed the sergeant. ‘You’re looking a bit rough aren’t you?’