At the next workstation two group-members were constructing a crude steel framework, split into twelve compartments — four long by three wide — like an oversized wine rack. Each compartment was big enough to take one of the large cylinders, with a little room to spare. The whole structure was about as big as a coffin, but twice as deep.
The fourth member of the group was perched on the roof of a white Toyota Hiace camper van that looked far older than its X-registration plates suggested. He, too, had a plasma torch, and was using it to cut a large rectangular hole in the vehicle’s roof. The concrete floor behind the van was piled with the cupboards, bed, cooking gear and chemical toilet that had been stripped from its now-empty interior. Only the old window curtains remained, discreetly drawn to prevent anyone looking in.
Every single one of the Vehicle Identification Number stickers and tags scattered about the camper van had been located and either removed or rendered illegible. The plates belonged to a completely different car that had been bought at auction two weeks earlier, disposed of, and then reported stolen.
‘This is another old PIRA trick,’ said Smethurst, looking at the scene before him. ‘The way they hit 10 Downing Street is the way we’re going to blow a large hole in Pembrokeshire.’
Back at the hay barn, Uschi Kremer sighed theatrically. ‘I need a cigarette,’ she said.
‘Not here!’ one of the other women cried in alarm. ‘You’ll kill us all.’
Kremer laughed. ‘Thanks, but I’d already worked that out for myself! Don’t worry. I will make sure I am much too far away to set fire to anything here. Would either of you care to join me?’
The other two grimaced. Neither woman smoked, and if there was a choice between watching Uschi Kremer have a cigarette or having a good talk about her behind her back, they both knew which they preferred.
Kremer knew it, too. ‘Please yourselves,’ she said with a sly smirk.
Five minutes later and four hundred metres away, she got out her phone and speed-dialled Derek Choi’s number. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to let you know that everything is going well.’
‘Are you confident that these people are capable of executing their plan?’
‘Yes. The planned initiative far exceeds what would be required to create the desired effect. If we only achieve a twenty-five per cent success-rate, that will still have a major effect. If the rate is one hundred per cent… well, then there will be a fireworks display that the whole world will see.’
‘We Chinese invented fireworks, of course,’ said Derek Choi.
‘I promise you never saw fireworks like these,’ Uschi Kremer replied.
Beverly Hills, California: five months earlier
In the luxuriously appointed office of his surgical suite, its walls lined with framed certificates proclaiming his medical proficiency, and large colour photographs illustrating his artistry with a scalpel, Dr Arpad Karvakian was dictating a letter to his personal assistant Sherilyn, who was herself a walking advertisement for his work.
‘ I am sure you will agree that the operation has been a complete success,’ he said. ‘Do not be alarmed… no, forget that, it’ll only alarm him… do not be concerned… yeah, that’s better, concerned that, ah, there is considerable bruising under the eyes and swelling to the forehead, nose and jaw. This is an inevitable result of surgery, and will subside considerably over the next six weeks. Any remaining swelling… no, any small amount of remaining swelling, will disappear entirely within four to six months. The surgery involved some reduction of the bossed area of the skull across the brow, implants to the cheekbones and also reshaping of the jawbone and chin. These procedures, as well as the mid-facelift, may impact upon nerves in the affected areas, causing a degree of numbness. Again, this is completely normal, and the regular range of sensations will gradually return over time. In general, the healing process appears to be going exactly as I would expect, and provided that all the protocols I have suggested are observed there is no reason to be concerned in any way. I hope you agree that the results are everything you desired. Yours… etc. Got that?’
‘ Uh-huh,’ Sherilyn replied. ‘But I still don’t understand. This was the guy with the cancer, right…?’
Karvakian nodded in confirmation.
‘ So what’s he doing having his face fixed, when he’s not going to live long enough to enjoy it?’
‘ I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe he’s hoping that death won’t recognize him when the time comes.’
Sherilyn giggled. ‘Or maybe he just wants to look cute at the funeral.’
6, Gresham Street, London EC2: the following day
The Wax Chandlers’ Hall has stood on the same site in the City of London since 1501. Originally built as the home of the Worshipful Company of Wax Chandlers — the merchants who sold the fancy beeswax candles used in royal palaces and aristocratic stately homes — it was burned down in the Great Fire of London, bombed out in the Blitz and rebuilt five times in total. The wax chandlers don’t shift so many candles these days, but they do good business renting out their hall for business meetings, product launches, parties and receptions, along with every type of food and drink any client could require, from elevenses to a banquet.
On a freezing afternoon in late January, with the pavements crusted in hard-packed snow and more falls forecast overnight, an elegantly dressed Indian businessman arrived for an appointment with a senior member of the hall’s management staff. His card gave his name as Sanjay Sengupta. He explained that he represented the interests of a very prominent, but very discreet Bangalore-based industrialist, specializing in computer manufacturing and software, who was interested in establishing a European base in London. A firm of City headhunters would soon be hired to find candidates for key executive positions in this new venture. They would come up with a shortlist of individuals whom Mr Sengupta’s client would interview in person in late June or early July, when he was in any case planning to be in England for social reasons. To this end, he wished to hire the entire Wax Chandlers’ Hall for three full days, evenings included.
‘ My principal will not be requiring more than very light refreshments for himself, his assistants and the interview candidates,’ Mr Sengupta explained. ‘He appreciates, however, that this will cause you considerable loss. He is therefore willing to compensate you. Let us assume that the profit margin for yourselves and your caterers is thirty per cent. We will pay you, in addition to the hire cost of the building itself, thirty per cent of the full cost of food and drink, lunch and dinner included, for one hundred people.’
There is, of course, no such thing as a free lunch, particularly in the catering trade. So when a slick operator acting for an unnamed client suggests a deal of improbable generosity, requiring minimal effort from those who will be paid, suspicions are bound to be aroused. Sengupta, however, was able to provide copious references in India, the UK and the US. When he paid half the total cost up front, the money went through without any problems at all. After all, the days when India required British aid were long gone. Indian entrepreneurs today owned Jaguar and Land Rover cars, Typhoo tea and almost all of the UK’s steel production. If one of their number wanted to hire a City hall, who could possibly object?
19
Monday, 27 June
Long Island, New York, and Wentworth, Surrey, south-east England
Malachi Zorn left Italy immediately after his dinner party and headed back to the States. He’d agreed to be the subject of the next edition of HARDtalk, BBC World’s interview show, and the producer wanted to tape the conversation with him on Zorn’s own territory. So the interview took place in the office of his house on Lily Pond Lane.