So when the police and security service operatives assigned to cover the Zorn Global launch discovered that Bandekar Technologies had hired the Wax Chandlers’ Hall for three days they saw no obvious cause for alarm. The company itself checked out. The executives invited for interviews by the headhunting company all appeared to be genuine: UK citizens with no criminal records and impressive CVs. The security men who met the interviewees at the front door and checked their identities before letting them in all came from a reputable firm that only hired individuals with spotless records. The receptionist who then made sure that the new arrivals were comfortable while they waited to meet Mr Bandekar had an equally respectable background. And every one of those individuals sincerely believed that they were involved in legitimate business with Bandekar Technologies.
Two anti-terrorist officers, accompanied by a sniffer dog, arrived at the hall and were greeted by Bandekar’s aide Sanjay Sengupta and a member of the hall staff, both of whom were highly cooperative. The officers had no reason to know that Sengupta did not actually exist: his identity had only ever been a cover for Ahmad Razzaq. They were shown through the many areas of the building that were not in use. They saw the conference room where the interviewees waited before their appointments. A series of display panels had been set up there, presumably to impress the prospective executives with the scale and ambition of the company they were seeking to join. Each panel proclaimed a different aspect of Bandekar Technologies’ activities. A Perspex case in the middle of the room contained an architect’s model of the corporate campus planned for a site outside Milton Keynes — the symbol of Ashok Bandekar’s commitment to his European operations. A lighting rig on lightweight trusses illuminated the whole set-up. (The flight-cases in which the lights and all the display materials had been transported to the hall were neatly piled in one of the unused rooms.) At the end of the room a door led into a smaller office, suitable for private meetings like the ones Bandekar was currently conducting.
The officers were told they would have to wait for a few minutes before they could see Bandekar himself. He did not wish any of his interviews to be interrupted since that would be unfair to the candidate he was meeting at the time. But it was not long before the office door opened and a well-groomed young businessman in an expensive suit strode out, giving the small group waiting outside a confident, snowy-toothed smile as he passed. A few seconds later, Bandekar himself emerged. He was a large man, whose substantial girth was carried as elegantly as only the finest Savile Row tailoring can manage.
‘Come in, gentlemen, come in!’ he insisted. ‘Have you been offered drinks? Some snacks, perhaps? We have excellent chocolate biscuits.’ He patted his paunch. ‘Too excellent, perhaps, for my good. Now what can I do for you?’
The officers explained that this was purely a routine check. Their dog panted happily, far more interested in the chocolate biscuits that its nose had detected the moment it walked in the conference room, than in any explosives. It hadn’t had the faintest whiff of those. A couple of minutes later, the officers and their dog were gone, escorted out by the hall staffer.
‘Well done,’ said Ahmad Razzaq to the semi-retired Bollywood actor playing the part of Ashok Bandekar. ‘You’re doing well.’
‘Maybe I should stay as Mr Bandekar,’ the actor replied. ‘I’ve spent so long talking about his business I actually think I could run it now.’
Razzaq laughed politely. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Just another day, and then you’ll be done.’
He left the office and approached the receptionist at her desk. ‘You may show in the next candidate now.’
On the way out he could not resist making a detour to the room where the flight-cases were stored. At the very back of the room was a case that had a false bottom. In the secret compartment beneath it were two packages, covered and sealed in heavy-duty plastic wrap. The wrap had been washed in antiseptic bleach, as had the airtight boxes beneath it. The wrapping and washing of each layer had been done by different individuals, neither of whom had touched the contents of either box. And if the sniffer dog had ever smelled those contents, it would have been very interested indeed.
Ahmad Razzaq took the tube from the City to Waterloo, changing trains twice along the way. He was reasonably certain that he was not being followed, but he wanted to make absolutely sure. At Waterloo he caught a train to Sunningdale, losing himself among the commuters crammed into his carriage. From there he made his way to the modest house on the edge of Windsor Great Park where Malachi Zorn was staying. ‘It’s just me,’ he’d said when Razzaq had questioned why his boss had chosen such humble quarters. ‘Why the hell do I need anywhere bigger?’
The door was opened by a man with almost shoulder-length black hair and a heavy black moustache. ‘I go see if Mr Zorn he can see you,’ the man said in a strong Polish accent.
Razzaq kept a straight face as he came through the door and closed it behind him. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘You’d have had me fooled if I hadn’t seen the look before.’
‘Yeah, it’s not bad at all,’ Zorn agreed. ‘And you got me a job at the catering company for tomorrow night?’
‘Well, I practically had to buy the company, but yes, you will be reporting for duty, complete with all the paperwork and proofs of identity you need. But still, I must ask you, are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Yeah, I am, absolutely.’
‘But the risk of discovery is so great.’
‘Sure, but that just makes the challenge even better. Look, I have to know who’s turned up at the launch. It makes a big, big difference to my financial calculations. Plus, I’ve got to admit, I really want to see how close I can get to Drinkwater. I mean, serving booze to myself: how insane is that?’
‘It is, indeed, quite crazy,’ said Razzaq. ‘But if you must attend the reception, can I not persuade you at least to get well away once you leave?’
‘No. I want to see it happen. I want to see those bastards go down. I’ve spent years on this. God, all the time, the planning, the money… I admit, all right, it’s obsessed me. And I’m not going to sit on my arse a thousand miles away, watching it all play out on TV. I want to be there, in person, front row centre, for the start of the show.’
‘Well, you will do it without me. I am leaving in the morning. By the time the first shot is fired I will be safe and sound in Karachi.’
‘It’s OK,’ Zorn assured him. ‘I understand. And you’ve already contributed more than enough. But before you go, will you do one thing for me? Just run through the getaway one more time.’
‘Of course, that would be my pleasure.’
Razzaq pulled an iPad from his briefcase and called up a map of the City of London. ‘So, the key to the whole plan is the abandoned underground railway tunnel that runs under the Thames from here, at King William Street, to London Bridge Station. The entrance to the tunnel is in an office building called Regis House. It is a little over one kilometre from where you will be, right here. So…’
Zorn listened intently. He asked questions, all the time, never being afraid to show his ignorance or go over something more than once; that way, he made sure that nothing was missed. By the time Razzaq left the house, almost two hours later, Zorn was absolutely confident that he could take on the security establishment, just as he had taken in the financial one — and outwit them just as comprehensively.