Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing (30 page)

‘I think I’m underdressed,’ I said awkwardly to Ray, resplendent in his suit and tie and unnecessary overcoat perched on his shoulders.

‘No, no,’ he looked at me, smiling. ‘You’re perfect. Let’s go upstairs. I want to see if any of the family are in. They’d love to meet you,’ he continued, obviously enjoying himself. This was the first time I’d heard anything about it being a family affair, although I guessed I wasn’t about to meet anyone’s granny.

We walked up two flights of stairs through beautifully decorated hallways with a few bars and a dining area either side of them. There were beautiful women everywhere, dressed as if they were going to a dinner party. The men looked well-heeled and a number of them gave me the once-over. I was feeling very uncomfortable but there was little I could do except follow Ray, who was nodding and smiling at every second person he saw. I’d never been to a place like this and I found it fascinating. I’d always imagined gentlemen’s clubs to be stuffy relics full of old Etonians in smoking jackets reading the
Financial Times
and bemoaning how the Empire had gone to the dogs, but this place was different. It had an edge to it.

Ray took me into a smoking room, where a waiter served me with a large cigar and a decent Burgundy. I’m not big into cigars, I would maybe smoke one every couple of years, but I welcomed the distraction; Ray was making me nervy. He always had great energy and a great sense of fun – just the kind of guy that could get me into trouble in an instant. He left me a couple of times to talk to people at the extremities of the room and I could see them looking over at me. I heard him say, ‘NatWest Three’ and ‘Cayman Islands’, which didn’t help my increasing discomfort. Eventually he rejoined me.

‘Some of the boys want to meet you,’ he said, beaming his mischievous smile at me again.

‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,’ I said, leaning forward, trying to look composed, and wishing he’d never forced the comedy cigar on me.

‘Nonsense,’ said Ray, slapping my thigh as he shouted out, ‘Harry’ to the man he had just spoken to in the corner. ‘You’ll love these guys and they’re desperate to meet you!’ He waved them over.

‘All right, Gal? Pleasure to meet you, my son. My name’s Harry.’ Stocky and well built, Harry clearly had some influence here, as the merest flick of his hand brought a waiter scurrying back a few seconds later with a whisky on the rocks. ‘Heard you’ve been in a bit of bovver, my son,’ Harry observed, pulling up a seat directly opposite me and giving me a friendly smile.

We were immediately joined by four others and Ray introduced them all far too quickly for me to remember their names. They positioned their seats in a circle around our small table, and even though there was a round table there, I felt like I was in the middle. They all seemed to know who I was. When I spoke, they sat and listened as if I was the oracle, assessing me. What could they possibly want from me? Perhaps sensing my unease, Harry turned to Ray and began a side conversation. Soon the wine flowed as the conversation became more easy. The guy to the left of me (Mike, I think) talked mainly to me as the others argued over who was going to win that night’s Champions League semi-final between Chelsea and Liverpool. Mike had less of a ‘threat’ about him, and his face and hands carried none of the telltale signs of a life of violence.

Suddenly the seating arrangements didn’t seem so random. The wine had helped a bit and I was doing my best to relax and hoped I was masking how uncomfortable I felt. Ray had wandered off for a while and, as if on cue, Mike changed the subject abruptly.

‘How much is it you nicked then?’ he asked quietly.

‘I didn’t nick it,’ I responded just as quietly, putting down my glass. ‘Here it comes,’ I thought as I shifted uneasily in my chair. I could sense that Harry was looking intently at me and a quick glance confirmed as much. He smiled at me and in that smile I detected genuine warmth. ‘God,’ I thought. ‘They think I’m one of them.’

Mike pressed on. ‘Yes, yes, of course. You never did it,’ he said, smiling.

‘No, no,’ I said more forcibly and looking straight at him. ‘I didn’t actually do it.’

It always annoyed the shit out of me when someone patronised me either in saying, ‘Of course you didn’t,’ or ‘Oh, everyone says they’re innocent.’ How are you supposed to respond to that?

Mike saw how fervent I was but I am sure he’d seen that before. Everyone says they’re innocent, right? I immediately regretted my emotion. These were not people to toy with. Again, I thought about how to make an exit. It seemed tricky.

‘Sorry, Gal. No offence, mate. It’s just I saw the indictment and the stuff in the paper . . . well.’

‘I know, I know, Mike. No offence taken. The Americans have done a number on us, that’s all. I’m sure it’s not the first time.’

‘Yes, you’re right there. But normally that’s because they want something else. What else could they want from you?’

He said this with a certain assuredness that suggested some experience. He was looking intently at me. Although the place had filled up and there was plenty of noise and talk around us, I sensed some of the others were listening in, but I didn’t want to look. I considered his question. Could that be it? Was that why the Americans were after us? Could they genuinely think that we held the key to unlocking some of Enron’s secrets, that we knew where some of the bodies were buried? Perhaps I was giving the Department of Justice way too much credit. Could they really be that stupid? The thought was an uncomfortable one. I changed tack and pace with Mike. I wanted to see what these guys wanted.

‘I’m no technician, Mike. I can understand the basic mechanics of a structure, but don’t ask me the details. I can sell the benefits, but ask me a day or two later and I’ll be lucky to remember what it was called. My mind doesn’t work that way,’ I said much more assertively.

‘Yes, but your mate Bermingham does,’ he responded. It was a revealing response, as if acknowledging the sparring was over.

‘But I doubt Bermo has much insight into what went on in Enron itself.’

‘But he could deconstruct a lot of their deals . . .’ He had done his research. Who had he been speaking to? I looked at him closely again.

‘Possibly.’ I hesitated, thinking it through. ‘But I can’t believe that they would go to all that trouble just to get us there. After all, they only needed to ask.’

‘What do you mean?’ he responded, seemingly confused for the first time.

‘Well, they only needed to ask and we would have helped. We would have gone over there. We had already told the FSA that.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘When we first went forward, self-reported. They asked us and we told them we would help them in any way we could.’

‘You, you went forward to the FSA? You self-reported?’ His eyes widened.

‘Yes.’

‘B . . . but why? Why would you do that?’

I looked at him quizzically for a moment. Perhaps no one would ever believe us, no matter how often we said it. What is it about the FBI or the Department of Justice that leads people to believe the nonsense they peddle?
Law and Order
has got a lot to answer for.

‘Because,’ I said, emphasising each word. ‘We didn’t. Actually. Do it.’

Mike sat back in his seat. His smile showed he didn’t believe me, but he was intrigued by what I had said. Maybe he thought we were part of some grand double-bluff?

‘You’ve got to admit that was a dumb thing to do?’ he asked eventually, but I just shrugged my shoulders. I’d made my choices. It felt as if the oxygen and energy had been sucked out of the room. Mike stayed slumped back in his seat as I leaned toward my glass and gazed at the table. Going into the FSA was among the worst decisions I ever made, but regretting going forward was the same as regretting who I was.

‘Gal, Gal?’ One of the others – Dan maybe – shouted across to me and broke this awkward reflection. He was about my age, with a boxer’s nose and noticeably large hands and features. Although he was wearing a nice suit, it just didn’t sit comfortably on him. He looked like he was ready to bust out of it at any moment.

‘Gal, you know how to handle yourself, right?’ he asked, a large smile on his face.

I smiled back and shrugged my shoulders.

‘Yeah, you do? Where’s you from, Glasgow right? They’re fuckin’ well ‘ard in Glasgow, right?’

‘Was he challenging me?’ I thought, nervously.

‘Where do you get those scars? You don’t get them for nuffin’!’ he said, looking at my arms. I had rolled up my sleeves when I took my jacket off. I’d long stopped being self-conscious of the numerous scars on my arms.

‘Oh, they came from a woman,’ I said, smiling. (Technically true, as it was a woman doctor who was responsible for a few of them.) That brought plenty of laughter.

‘A woman? Told you he is not so tough!’ said one of the others, who seemed Eastern European, and I thought was called Haider. There followed a twenty minute show-and-tell session that ran from various broken bones, scars and knife wounds to alleged bullet holes, all, allegedly, caused by wronged women – and, surprisingly, in Haider’s case by a wronged man. After the tension of the last few hours, I was enjoying the release.

I noticed at one point Mike had slipped off to have a five-minute chat with Harry at the bar – no doubt filling him in on our earlier conversation. When they returned, Harry was looking at me more intently than ever. Out of the blue, Dan, having suddenly stopped laughing about the tapestry of scars on each of us, turned and said, ‘Gal, what d’you do wif the money?’

‘What?’ I said, still laughing a bit at the latest woman-wound – which looked more like an errant BCG scar than a mortal slight.

‘What do you do wif the money?’ he reiterated in his strong cockney tone.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked calmly, though my heart was racing.

‘When you stole the money from NatWest.’

‘I didn’t steal it,’ I interrupted him.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. But you got all that fuckin’ money, right?’ This was a new Dan, Dan the bruiser.

‘Eh . . . yeah, yeah. I got it,’ I responded hesitantly, wondering where he was going with this.

‘And it was millions of dollars, right?’

‘Right,’ I said uncomfortably.

‘And you ’ad it in the Cayman Islands, right?’

Man, they were well informed. ‘Er, yes. It was in the Cayman Islands.’

‘So what did you fuckin’ do wif it then?’ he asked again impatiently.

Everyone was hanging on every word.

‘Do you mean how did I spend it?’ I asked stupidly.

‘Not ’ow you fuckin’ spent it, you muppet. ’Ow you got it back into the fuckin’ country,’ he said, with a serious expression on his face.

‘Oh, now I get it,’ I said, putting my drink down. Money laundering. I nodded for a few moments, laughing at myself for being so slow up on the uptake.

‘I transferred back into my account with NatWest here in London,’ I said innocently enough.

‘You . . .’ he paused for a moment as he leaned forward and put his glass down. ‘You did fuckin’ wot?’

‘I transferred it back to my NatWest account in London,’ I continued. ‘I phoned them and told them I had made a big off-shore investment with a client and that a large sum would be coming from the Cayman Islands in a couple of tranches.’

Quickly looking around as I spoke, I started to slow down as I realised the significance of what I was saying. I swallowed hard. Bizarrely, I had never thought of that before.

There was a moment’s silence before Dan wrapped his large arm round my shoulder. ‘Mate,’ he said dramatically. ‘That is . . . fuckin’ quality. Fuckin’ genius!!’ he declared to the general approval of the rest of the troop.

‘You’ve got some fuckin’ balls on you, mate,’ he continued becoming much more likeable again.

‘Stealing their money one day, then asking them to ’old it the next. Fuckin’ outstanding!’ he continued, as he raised his glass once more to me.

‘It’s like robbing a fuckin’ jewellers,’ enthused one of the other guys to the rest of the group, ‘and then giving it back a few weeks later and asking ’em to keep it safe for you!!’ he said laughing. ‘Fuckin’ ‘ats off to you, Gal,’ he continued, raising his glass as well.

‘B . . . but . . . but I didn’t steal the money,’ I said almost to myself as the conversation took off again, my legendary status becoming assured. I felt embarrassed, unsure, as the compliments about the ‘size of my balls’ and my ‘cockiness’ continued.

Eventually, thankfully, we went back downstairs to one of the bars. Ray had left earlier, still laughing at me as he said goodbye, and by now the Chelsea-Liverpool game was in full swing with the club’s Slavic contingent seemingly well behind Chelski. The game was very boring, though, and I was looking to make my exit.

‘Harry, thanks for your hospitality, but I have to leave,’ I said, as I approached him with my hand out. He was talking to two other guys who looked like well-dressed businessmen.

‘Give us a minute,’ he said to them as he put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t fancy any of the eye-candy?’ he said motioning to a couple of elaborately dolled-up ladies sitting nearby on a sofa.

‘Are they all hookers?’ I asked naively.

‘How can they be hookers if they’re already paid for?’ Harry asked, with a wink. ‘There’s a couple of rooms upstairs for the members’ exclusive use, if you’re interested.’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Not my thing really. I’m picking my boy up tomorrow and I don’t want to be a wreck for him.’

‘None of this is really your “thing”, is it?’ he asked sympathetically.

‘No, not really,’ I responded looking right at him.

He nodded. ‘Gal, can I give you a bit of advice?’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t go to Texas. Whatever happens, don’t let them get you to Texas,’ he said with some sincerity.

‘I’ll try not to,’ I answered, a bit too glibly.

‘No, no,’ he said more forcibly, putting both hands on my shoulders. ‘I want you to fink about somefing for me,’ he said in a slight change of direction.

‘OK,’ I said, hesitantly.

‘Cyprus.’

‘Cyprus?’ I said.

‘Cyprus. Hundred grand. Special deal for you. Land for you to build on and a new identity. Passport, paper, credit cards, the full boona.’