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  ARBITRAGE

  COLETTE KEBELL

  ARBITRAGE

  A SKITTISH ENDEAVOURS BOOK:

  Originally published in Great Britain by Skittish Endeavours 2019

  Copyright © Colette Kebell 2019, All Rights Reserved

  First Edition

  The right of Colette Kebell to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  PROLOGUE

  Albert Romanov stayed in his office later than usual. No more monthly reports to the Board of Directors. Definitely not that night. Waiting for all the employees to leave the building, including his secretary, he kept looking at the clock and at the attendance register on his own computer, until he was finally sure he was the only person left inside the building.

  He again read the Mortcombe dossier, consisting of various folders opened onto the modern burl wood desk, as he couldn’t grasp how things had gone from bad to worse. It had started as a game several years before. Requests to open offshore bank accounts, then the money transfer to Luxembourg, which commenced initially as a subterfuge to avoid taxes, as Mortcombe would have said, and then, later, a much larger operation of money laundering.

  He hadn’t suddenly become a moralist, but if everything had a price in this world, the bill he had found himself liable for was far too hefty. There was no point in delaying further. For the past weeks, he kept accumulating substantial amounts of money in various offshore accounts.

  During the years, he had taken bribes, received undeserved bonuses, and even made illegal transfers on one of his bank accounts. The same Mortcombe, the owner of the private bank, had no doubt subtracted his share too. Romanov got carried away by the events, year after year, continuing to play the game because he didn’t know what else to do. Stopping and thinking about his own life would only further highlight the oppressive void he had created around him. Not that things were better for those who had decided not to play the game. People suddenly disappeared, others had been found days later drowned in the English Channel, a few kilometres outside Brighton.

  Whatever decision he took, it inevitably led to an error.

  But when the accident happened to William Digby, Head of Investments, if it was an accident, had changed everything. Now Romanov was no longer willing to continue. What could barely appear acceptable if done with an old friend, became immediately horrid and unbearable if handled in isolation. Jesus Christ, a bad investment could have happened to anyone, but with the Russian mob, there were no margins for discussion. Old Digby lay in the morgue; they found him hanged at his home by the sea. The investigators had closed the case quickly, suicide, but Romanov knew that things were different. They had planned to rent a boat on that same day, and in Romanov’s mind, nothing in Digby’s behaviour was suggesting suicide. Indeed, Digby was meditating revenge. They had accumulated several enemies over the years.

  Laundering money for the Russian mafia, drugs, arms trafficking; Romanov found himself being a senior executive in an organised crime bank and the sudden loneliness had made him collapse. He had sought refuge confiding with an old friend and mentor some time before, but what his friend had to say about Mortcombe had intimidated him further. Then Digby’s death.

  He was living a solitary life, his best friend had passed away, and his only interest in life had been his work, apart from getting his hands on as much money as possible. Romanov had given up living years before, saying too many times Just one more year and I shall quit, deferring dreams of a boat in the Caribbean, a villa on an isolated place, and why the hell not, some female company. It didn’t matter if he had to pay for it.

  He had had a long talk with Mortcombe’s son-in-law a few days before, and despite the latter’s attempts at persuasion, eventually, Romanov was back to square one with his doubts. He stalled. I have to ponder, he had repeated over and over to himself, but the decision had already been taken.

  He put together the dossier, ready to be shipped to Scotland Yard, and to two or three newspapers, just to be on the safe side, then he would disappear to Switzerland. Maybe to South America at a later stage. With money to spend, a hiding place was easy to find.

  He put four copies of the dossier in different envelopes, and he was ready to leave the office, but before that, he had one last thing to do. He opened his bag and took out the USB drive given to him by the hacker. That program could make him disappear forever from the bank logs, or at the very least, obliterate all traces that could lead to his secret accounts. He inserted it into the laptop, plugged into the bank’s network, and pressed enter on the program. The hacker would do the rest.

  Romanov had also organised an ‘insurance policy’ in case he came to be in danger, another idea in collaboration with the hacker. The slush funds he had just stolen would remain suspended in an inaccessible limbo unless he logged onto a website every twenty-four hours.

  This measure seemed excessive to Romanov, but overall it was part of ‘the package’ paid to the hacker, and so he obliged. He could always disable that function at a later stage.

  Vengeance. That was the only word that continued to haunt him in those days. Romanov knew he was guilty, but he had been dragged into that mess a long time ago. It was time to rebel.

  He ensured the program was running, left the computer turned on, and walked out of the office. He took the secondary exit at the back of the bank, towards the parking lot.

  He had just reached his car when a voice called him, ‘Albert Romanov?’

  He turned and saw an individual coming out of a black limousine. He couldn’t see his face; the light of a torch was dazzling him. The man pointed what, to Romanov, appeared to be a nine-millimetre Beretta and fired repeatedly. Shot in the chest and the face, Romanov slumped to the ground, and the last image he saw was of the assailant collecting his briefcase before leaving the scene at high speed. It started to rain while the wet face of Romanov remained motionless while his blood was mixing with the rain.

  The limousine headed towards London Road. ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ asked Bruno Mortcombe.

  ‘Dead as Charon. These are the documents he had with him,’ he said opening the briefcase he had just taken from the victim and passed a folder to Mortcombe.

  ‘The little bastard Romanov was going to the police; then planned on screwing me, after all I’ve done for him. Luckily, Robert warned us in advance. I didn’t think he’d have the guts to do it.’

  ‘May I ask a question, Mr Mortcombe?’ asked the head of security without looking in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Fire a
way, Matt.’

  ‘How come you are dealing with these matters directly and don’t leave them to Mr Price?’

  Bruno Mortcombe thought about the question for a minute, pondering an answer. ‘Robert Price is too ambitious for his own good, and too eager to prove himself. He acts on instinct and doesn’t think about the consequences of his actions. I’ve seen him doing it before. You don’t climb the ladder by just marrying the boss’s daughter. He will get there eventually, but not before I’ve kicked the bucket. Let’s just make sure it doesn’t happen anytime soon and he doesn’t facilitate it. Keep an eye on him, will you?’

  ‘I will, Mr Mortcombe.’

  They remained silent until they reached the A23. The inside of the car was suddenly illuminated by a bright light. The crash with the 18-wheeler instantly killed the assassin. The impact threw Mortcombe, who was not wearing a seat belt, out of the windscreen. The driver was less fortunate, burnt alive and trapped in the fire that had followed.

  ****

  Mortcombe woke up in a hospital room. From what he could glimpse from beneath the bandages, he shared the room with four other unfortunates; the last bed was vacant. The artificial light was soft, and it took him a long time before he could identify the window, from which he could barely see other buildings outside and the night.

  Mortcombe wasn’t sure how he had ended up in that place, his mind was still too fuzzy, and every movement caused him excruciating pain in both the head and chest, despite the heavy dose of sedatives and some other drug that was sliding through his veins through a tube connected to the back of his hand. He couldn’t see it, but he felt it, a small faint voice hidden by the screaming pain from the rest of his body.

  A woman was arguing and shouting with another person in the corridor, behind the closed door, although the content of that animosity was not understandable in the mists where Mortcombe was.

  He tried to turn around without success, oppressed by the pain that kept him pinned to the bed. A new stabbing sensation, this time to the abdomen, made him almost lose consciousness for a second time.

  After a few minutes, he tried again to look around, without success.

  What had happened? he wondered sighing in the semi-darkness of the room. Before he could answer, a man and a woman in doctor’s coats entered the room; the man shut the door behind him. He ensured that the remaining occupants of the room were asleep and, as a precaution, he closed the curtains, which served to separate the people and provide additional privacy. He came closer and checked the medical records at the foot of the bed. He seemed to read for an eternity. Mortcombe failed to utter anything due to his injuries. The man examined his eyes, he then turned to the woman and, without caring whether he was heard by the patient, said, ‘He is a mess, I don’t think he will make it through the night. Give me a dose of Diprivan.’

  ‘Do we know who he is?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Yes, the police have already informed the family. They traced his name from the car’s registration plate.’ Then, directed to the patient, ‘Mr Mortcombe, if you can hear me, we need to put you in an induced coma.’

  Mortcombe wanted to answer, or at least nod, but failed. He hadn’t a God to pray to, and he spent his final moments thinking about Romanov’s death, about the fact that he did not deserve to be in the hospital, and about his two daughters. One of which he hadn’t spoken to for years. He watched the man preparing the syringe.

  The injection lasted a second, the fluid injected in the same pipe connected to the back of his hand, and then there was nothing.

  ****

  The phone rang six times in an office in Quai Charles de Gaulle in Lyon before a burly man ran to answer it.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he swore while the hot coffee which fell on the desk was absorbed by many documents, carefully stacked one on top of the other. It was the private line. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I received the documentation. Are you sure that’s everything?’ asked a baritone voice on the other end of the phone.

  ‘That is the latest information I managed to get. In these matters, there is always room for doubt,’ said the burly man, stretching to take a package of paper towels, trying to limit the damage on his desk.

  ‘You assured me they were professionals,’ continued the second man.

  ‘Of course, of course. The best around, no doubt about it. Romanov’s death is complicating things to a new level though.’

  ‘It was unexpected, that’s for sure. So we had to change our plans. Without Romanov, we have to start again from scratch. Almost.’

  ‘How do you think they found out about him?’ asked Jordan.

  ‘He blabbed to the wrong person if you ask me. He was extremely worried recently. I’m sorry, I should have foreseen that.’

  ‘Those con artists you suggested, are they still in London?’

  ‘Yeah, the capital is where they operate most of the time. You found the address in the documents I sent you?’ said Jordan. ‘How do you plan to contact them?’

  ‘I have a half-baked idea in my head, although in the dossier you sent me, I didn’t find much that could help me. This Marcus Splinter, for example, he looks like a pensioner.’

  ‘Those are ghosts, my friend, it’s not easy to put salt on their tails. They appear when you least expect them, and in no time they have vanished into thin air. Don’t misjudge them. Splinter is their boss, and he could fool anybody with that upper crust look he has. If they catch me passing this information on the outside, I’m in trouble.’

  The man on the other end of the phone paused. ‘There is nothing at the moment that could lead back to you, Jordan, we talked about this. And you’ll be rewarded for your services.’

  ‘Of course, if we don’t get caught red-handed. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail, even though it would have some advantages.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Visits to the jail once a month, I would get rid of my ex-wife once and for all. Sorry, dear, but I can no longer pay you alimony, force majeure,’ said Jordan.

  The two laughed loudly. ‘Is your ex still after you?’

  ‘Don’t tell me. That damn lawyer did not completely close matters, and now, after ten years, she wants more. This time she is in pursuit of my pension, or at least half of it. I either pay, and when I retire, I live in misery, or I run away somewhere abroad. I knew she was a bitch, everyone told me so.’

  ‘I told you myself. There is always a price to pay for our mistakes, that’s why I try not to make any. Not lately, I mean.’

  ‘May I know how do you intend to proceed? It’s not that you’ve given me a lot to work with. And in such a short time…’ Jordan stood, a dozen coffee-soaked paper towels in his hands which he threw in the bin next to the desk. Some documents had absorbed the drink and now showed a beige halo on the edges. He opened a couple of drawers, but he couldn’t find any other handkerchiefs or tissues for that matter. He decided to sacrifice his notepad; he tore away a few pages and laid them where he could still see drops of coffee.

  ‘Better not at this point. Plausible deniability, the less you are involved, the better things are,’ said the man on the other side of the phone.

  Jordan sighed, unable to even grasp how he had allowed himself to be persuaded so quickly, but it was a matter of money. Money that he desperately needed.

  ‘I’m already involved. It is a complex plan, if you ask me, lots of things can go wrong.’

  ‘I realise that, but I see no other options. When was the last time you felt that kind of adrenaline flowing through your body?’

  ‘Far too long ago. I heard about the accident Mortcombe had…’

  ‘A problem, no doubt,’ said the man on the other end of the phone, ‘but also an opportunity, that’s why I called you. We need to act quickly.’

  ‘I don’t like it, there are too many variables and unknowns.’

  ‘Plans never survive the first encounter with the enemy. Relax, we’re going to be okay.’

&nbsp
; Jordan hung up the phone and walked towards the window, from where he could see the Tête d’Or park. He had been lucky in getting this job in Lyon, though the pay was far from being decent and he could barely see the pond from his office. The park was his favourite place and at noon, instead of going to the cafeteria like everyone else, every rainless day Jordan went to the park. Over the years he had acquired a taste for French cuisine, although a little too rich for his cholesterol, and spending a half an hour walking in nature was what he really needed. The trees around the pond were coloured yellow, ochre, and reds in the fall. Or, perhaps he had already grown old inside and was training for when, in retirement, he would go to the park to feed the pigeons, he thought. No, he wasn’t finished yet. If what his interlocutor was promising was right, there would be a change in his life. A radical one. Some waves needed to be ridden, despite the risks. If not now, when?

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  1989

  Ryan Logan was heading toward London in his new black Jaguar XJS. He had never been a petrol head unlike most of his colleagues, but nonetheless, that car made him feel like he had achieved something in life. Logan briefly stroked his hand across the leather passenger seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Years earlier, while still a penniless student, he had been in love with a London girl, as beautiful as the sun and with two breathtaking long legs. They often spoke about cars, one of the girl’s dreams – What was her name? Monika! – was to own a black Jaguar.

  In Logan’s mind, owning that very car had become a point of arrival, he could finally say, ‘Look at me, I made it.’ Not that Monika could see it at that moment in time, the two had split up several years before, but nevertheless, that dream had been handed down to him. Too many things had changed since then. The law degree and a second in economics taken almost in parallel, a job in one of the most prestigious London law firms that had led him to be the youngest partner, a mansion in the Surrey stockbroker belt.