Keys to the Kingdom (4 page)

‘I know, old friend,’ Gallagher said clasping Nasrullah’s hand. ‘I know.’

CHAPTER 5

London

‘Arthur, wonderful to see you,’ Geoffrey Burfield smiled and extended his hand.

‘Geoffrey,’ Worley took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly. The May temperature in London was twenty degrees below that of Riyadh and he felt it.

‘Take a seat, Arthur old chap,’ Burfield had known his colleague for nearly thirty years.  ‘You look like something the cat dragged in. It’s very much out of character.’

Worley took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘Thanks for the greeting.’ He planked himself down heavily in the empty chair in front of Burfield’s antique wooden desk. The office was tastefully decorated with old-fashioned solid office furniture and a series of Mercator maps of various Middle Eastern countries adorned the walls. The desk was relatively clear with two silver photo frames containing pictures of the Burfield family pointing towards the pater familius. ‘Tired, that’s all Geoff, and if you’ll excuse the expression it appears that I’ve picked up the ‘mother of all flus’.

‘
Non speram te domum tam cito revenire
,’ Burfield said smiling.

‘Oh Christ, Geoff, not to-day. I’m too bloody tired to play the Latin doggerel game with you.’ Worley leaned back in the chair.

Burfield let the smile fade from his face. ‘We’ve known each other since England were capable of winning a cricket match and you’ve never failed one of my little tests yet.’

Worley looked at his colleague’s lined face. They say that every man has the face he deserves at fifty. If that was the case, Burfield had led a very worried life. Nature had cursed him with a skin that no matter how many creams he lavished on it, was still as lined and pitted as that of a centenarian.

‘Okay,’ Worley faked a smile. ‘Have it your way. It translates roughly as ‘I didn’t expect you home so soon.’’

‘Excellent,’ Burfield said smiling again. ‘And there are those who say that a classical education is a waste of time. Just shows the value of a degree in classics and oriental studies from Oxford. Aside from the ‘mother-of-all-flus’ what brings you rushing back to see your old friends?’ He moved a file to the edge of his desk and brought his two hands together linking his fingers.

‘You received my communication about Gallagher?’  Worley sat forward.

‘I thought that we’d agreed that you would forget all that nonsense,’ Burfield’s brow furrowed. ‘You have what I might call the ‘Moby Dick Syndrome’. You’ve taken on the role of Captain Ahab and Patrick Gallagher is your white whale. Remember the end of that story. Ahab destroys all but one of his crew. Gallagher is dead. The white whale no longer exists and it’s time you gave up your obsession with him.’

‘But what if it was him I saw in Riyadh?’

Burfield sighed. ‘After your little escapade trying to find him in Ireland, you promised that you would desist and refrain from any further thoughts about that sordid individual. Those in high places turned a blind eye to you running around South Armagh. That was because your father was still very much alive and capable of influencing the old guard who still held sway here. That time is over. Old Harry is as dead as your brother and the old guard have passed to the elephant’s graveyard. The new management doesn’t look very kindly on personal obsessions.’

Worley saw that Burfield was watching him closely. ‘Let’s say for argument’s sake that I saw him. The big question is what was he doing there?’

‘And where has he been these last fifteen years?’

‘How the bloody hell should I know?’ Worley’s voice was strained. He was aware that he wasn’t convincing Burfield. ‘He could have gone to ground in any of half a dozen countries. The bastard has a gift for languages so he could fit in anywhere. Dammit, Geoff, there are still Weathermen from the Sixties and Seventies who are probably growing organic vegetables in Orange County while the FBI has been scouring the country for them. Gallagher was too clever by half to end in a desert grave.’

Burfield unclenched his fingers and laid his hands palm down on his desk. ‘We certainly are fragile to-day,’ he said. ‘My secretary will have the security mob around if you continue to shout at me.’

‘Sorry,’ Worley said. He hadn’t realised that he had been shouting. ‘It’s just bloody frustrating knowing that I’m right but having everyone think that I’m not quite with it.’

Burfield looked into his friend’s eyes. Arthur had always had the touch of the fanatic in him but he was generally considered to have a ‘safe pair of hands’. ‘When are you going to accept the fact that you weren’t responsible for what happened to Robert?’ Burfield asked. Robert had been Arthur’s Achilles Heel long before he had disappeared in South Armagh. Arthur had been forced to play father and mother to his younger sibling. Their father had created two flawed individuals. Robert was the all-English hero. If he’d had any sporting talent, his chest would have swelled with pride as he stood at the wicket for England. Instead he had dedicated himself to perpetuating his father’s macho image by joining the SAS and shoving British military prowess down the throat of the Irish Republican Army. Arthur was the antithesis of his brother. He was all cerebral activity and sensitivity. A total rejection of the father and a homage to the mother who had died just after he had entered university. Arthur might have managed to bury his baggage if he hadn’t been born the son of Harry St. John Worley or if Patrick Gallagher’s and his paths hadn’t crossed. Now Arthur had dug up his old, long buried bone. He had exhumed it and he would chew on it until he discovered it was futile. The quest had already consumed Arthur’s life and his career.

‘You and I have come a long way since we called each other ‘Sir Arthur’ and ‘Sir Geoffrey’ when we were inducted into this man-eating organisation,’ Burfield said. ‘Back then we were going to preserve Britain no matter what and gain fame, fortune and a knighthood into the bargain. Thirty years later you’re the resident, or whatever they choose to call it, in the arsehole of the world and I am simply defending my wicket here in London in the hope that I will be permitted to retire gracefully. And if that particular wicket wasn’t sticky enough, the Exchequer has decided that the Civil Service is overstaffed, that we don’t require a Secret Service since the Cold War ended and that everyone above the age of forty-five is an old fogey to be pensioned off. The bean counters have taken over and you and I don’t represent ‘added-value’ in the new Britain Plc. Intelligence agents are dinosaurs. The Foreign Office wants us out of their embassies so that they can conduct business for Britain Plc away from the prying eyes and ears of the Secret Service. They want to sell their widgets and supergun parts without let or hindrance. The moral of this little homily, Arthur, is that it doesn’t really matter to Her Majesty’s Government whether you saw the devil himself stalking the streets of Riyadh unless it puts our precious business community at risk. If you find Gallagher and force him to admit that what he’s up to will seriously damage Britain Plc., then I can assure you that you’ll have a wet squad from the SAS in your office in Riyadh quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.
Ecce summam
.’ 

‘That’s the total,’ Worley loosely translated automatically.

‘Not quite,’ Burfield smiled. ‘‘That’s the bottom line.’ take my advice. Forget your white whale and go back to Riyadh. In a year’s time Her Majesty’s Government is going to make you an offer you cannot refuse because if you do they’ll fire you anyway. Take the money and flee to the Highlands or wherever else life might be cheap. I’ve organised to become secretary of my local Golf Club. It doesn’t pay much but the lunches are free and I’ll never have to pay for a round of golf again. I’m not about to jeopardise all that by pushing this Gallagher business upstairs. Gallagher is dead.’ He bowed his head. ‘Recquiascat in pace.’

Worley had a particular liking for one of Voltaire’s quotations - defend me from my friends, I can defend myself from my enemies. He realised that he couldn’t have expected much more from Burfield. What sane man was going to ruin his own career by adding to the madness that had gripped him? Gallagher wouldn’t be the only rotten murderer to escape his punishment. If only he’d left Robert’s body in some leafy Armagh lane. With Robert buried beside his mother and father, the shame he felt at Robert’s death might have been less. But for some perverted reason, Robert had been the only British soldier murdered in Ulster whose body hadn’t been recovered. That had been Gallagher’s final insult.

‘I’m sorry. I’m genuinely sorry but it’s for the best.’ Burfield’s voice was attenuated by what could have been cotton wool in Worley’s ears.

‘I know,’ Worley replied quietly. ‘Can you pull Gallagher’s file for me?’

Burfield sighed. ‘You’re forcing to join the crew of the Pequod.’ He smiled at his friend. ‘No need. It’s all on computer these days. Come back tomorrow and we’ll put our hand in the wound to see whether we can convince you that you’re on a fool’s errand.’

Worley stood up. When they’d been young the common appreciation was that Robert had inherited the courage while he had inherited the brains. He had never disputed that theory but now he prayed to God that it was not the case. Courage was a commodity he was going to need plenty of in the months to come.

CHAPTER 6

Zug, Switzerland

Gallagher piloted his rented Audi A4 through the quiet antiseptic streets of the small Swiss town of Zug. He had arrived at Zurich two hours previously using an Irish passport in the name of Daniel Ryan. After picking up his car, he had immediately headed south through the suburbs of Zurich until he left the City of Banks behind. He skirted Lake Zurich and climbed towards the canton of Zug, the smallest and the richest canton of the Swiss Federation. The town of Zug itself proved easy to navigate. The instructions Gallagher had been given were crystal clear and he left the tiny spotless town and headed in the direction of Lake Zug. It was a beautiful crisp clear day and the sun reflected strongly from the deep blue Alpine waters of the Lake as the road twisted along the shore. At exactly five kilometres from Zug on the clock of the car, the Google maps instructed him to turn left and he found himself on a paved road bearing the sign ‘PRIVAT’. This part of the operation was one that he couldn’t personally control yet it was the element that he knew would be calculated to throw the Saudis into total confusion. If the man he was on his way to see refused to play ball with him, the operation would be stalled until he could locate somebody who could provide a similar service. He drove slowly along the narrow road until he came to a pair of stout iron gates set into a two metre high stone wall. A speaker unit with a button was located on the wall at the left hand side of the gate. He turned into the depression created by the gate and pulled up opposite the speaker unit. He leaned out of the car and pressed the button.

‘Ja, wie ist da?’ A harsh voice came through the speaker.

‘Ich bin Herr Ryan,’ Gallagher said in fluent German. ‘Ich habe eine Begegnung mit Herrn Nielsen.’

‘Ja, Herr Ryan,’ the dissociated voice said. ‘Kommen sie sofort zuHause. Huten sie sich auf die Hunden.’

‘Danke,’ Gallagher said as he watched the iron gates begin to creak open. Peter Nielsen was a man who valued his privacy. And why shouldn’t he. Gallagher had checked Nielsen’s background as fully as he could but the man he was hoping to enlist was, like Gallagher, the kind of person who preferred that people should know as little as possible about either him or the kind of business he conducted. When the gates were wide enough to permit the Audi to squeeze through, Gallagher moved forward slowly. The car had only travelled twenty metres along the driveway when Gallagher became aware of the barking and two large Doberman Pinschers emerged from a stand of saplings to his left. Their brown-black coats glistened as they raced in his direction. They bounded along beside him as he made his way towards the collection of large chalets standing on the top of the hill directly in front of him. He glanced around and saw that Nielsen’s domain was totally enclosed by the stone wall. It covered an area of more than five acres. Since Switzerland boasted the highest land prices in Europe and within Switzerland Zug was the most expensive location, Gallagher’s information that Nielsen was one of Europe’s super-rich certainly appeared to be true. He arrived at the expansive chalet with the dogs still in tow. He brought the Audi to a stop on the gravel path before the front door.

As Gallagher switched off the ignition, the door opened and a man standing over six feet six and weighing more than three hundred pounds came onto the porch.

‘Hans, Susie, geht's,’ he shouted.

The two dogs whirled at the sound of his voice and began to sprint back towards the main gate.

The giant opened the driver’s door of the Audi. ‘It is okay now, Herr Ryan.’

‘Thanks,’ Gallagher got out of the car.

The giant smiled showing a scar that ran along his right cheek to the corner of his mouth and on to his chin. The left side of his mouth formed the full smile while the right side simply twitched.

‘Please, Herr Ryan, against the car. You understand.’

Gallagher spread his legs and leaned forward against the car. The giant frisked him expertly.

‘Please,’ the giant indicated the open door. ‘Herr Peter is busy for the moment but he will join you shortly. Follow me.’

Gallagher followed the giant through the front door and into an enormous hall. The floor of the hall was polished wood and a large wooden staircase ascended from the left side. They went to the right side of the hall along a corridor whose walls were covered with works of art that Gallagher assumed were genuine and expensive. At the end of the corridor the giant stopped at a door and indicated that Gallagher should enter.    

‘Herr Peter is coming soon,’ he said before disappearing back down the corridor.

Gallagher entered the room and saw he was in what must have been Peter Nielsen’s study. The room was all of one thousand square feet and the three solid walls were lined with books. At the end of the room was a full wall picture window that looked out on Lake Zug and on towards the Zugerberg Ridge. The floor was polished wood and here and there silk Persian carpets had been arranged. There were two sets of furniture in the room. Beside the window was a semi-circular desk with a chair on either side. Three IMac computers stood on the desk each displaying a multitude of coloured numbers and graphs. At the opposite end of the room was a settee fronted by a coffee table. Gallagher walked across the room and stood at the window. He looked out at the magnificent view that included a large swimming pool at the rear of the house.

‘Quite extraordinary isn’t it.’ The accent was heavily Scandinavian.

Gallagher turned quickly at the sound and looked on the man he assumed to be Peter Nielsen.

‘Mr Ryan, I assume,’ Peter Nielsen crossed the room and extended his hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Gallagher took the hand and found the handshake firm.

Nielsen would have been a shade over six feet if he had been standing straight. However, he maintained a slightly hunched position making him appear shorter. Gallagher’s research of Nielsen had mentioned a congenital spinal disease that caused a moderate curvature of the spine. Nielsen’s back remained rigidly curved even when he walked. The Dane’s hair was fair and he sported a greying beard on his thin lightly tanned face. Nielsen walked immediately in the direction of the desk at the end of the room. He opened a drawer and dropped a small rectangle of paper on the desk. ‘I don’t normally receive visitors who are not personally recommended.’ He looked into Gallagher’s face. ‘But your method of introduction was somewhat original. If it wasn’t that I agree with you that my time is worth five million dollars an hour, then I might have returned your cheque. As it is I couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn what you wanted to do with the hour you’ve bought.’

‘I want to enlist your help on a project I’m currently undertaking,’ Gallagher said staring into the Dane’s cold blue eyes and seeing no emotion there.

‘Every con man in Europe would like to ‘enlist my help in a project’, Mister Ryan, but not every one of them is willing to invest five million dollars to pitch their project.’ Nielsen sat down awkwardly in the chair behind the desk and motioned for Gallagher to sit opposite him. ‘Every book in this room is a priceless first edition,’ he said looking upwards into Gallagher’s face. ‘Your five million wouldn’t even finance one shelf. I’ve Googled you and I don’t find anything. That intrigued me further although I’ve been asking myself for days why I bothered to invite you here.’ He sighed. ‘What’s your proposition?’

‘I want to give you the chance to earn a lot more than five million dollars,’ Gallagher said looking for a spark of interest in Nielsen’s eyes but finding none. He had learned that Nielsen had no family, that his life was devoted to the pursuit of collecting money by whatever means, either fair or foul. ‘I’m going to give you the opportunity to pull off one of the greatest financial coups of the century. That five million dollar cheque is only the down payment on several roomfuls of books, or paintings or carpets or whatever you might want to own.’

Nielsen’s thin lips parted in what might have been considered a smile. ‘We’ve only just met, Mr Ryan, if that’s really your name and already you love me so much that you want to increase my wealth enormously. You know I’ve been in business for almost forty years and I’ve dealt with every type of con merchant you can imagine. And every one of them began their pitch by telling me how much richer they were going to make me but what they really meant was how much richer they wanted to make themselves at my expense.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Your banker’s draft bought you exactly one hour, Mr Ryan. And the clock began ticking the moment you pushed the button on the gate outside. I suggest you move on quickly if you want to get your money’s worth.’

Gallagher took a deep breath. It was now or never. He had already made up his mind that if Nielsen didn’t agree to join him that he was going to kill every living thing at the chalet. Those who were drawn into his plan and who declined to help him would be counted as liabilities and would have to be eliminated. Nielsen might have felt impregnable in his chalet on the hill but Gallagher already had a mental picture of Nielsen, his bodyguard and the dogs lying dead. It would all be so simple.

‘I’m involved in an operation to destabilize Saudi Arabia,’ Gallagher said smoothly noticing Nielsen’s fair eyebrows rising. That’s got your attention, he thought. ‘The whole operation is multi-faceted. The political establishment will be attacked from every direction. You don’t need to know all the details but suffice it to say that I need you to put pressure on the currency.’

‘And the other pressures?’ Nielsen’s interest was evident.

‘Some of a more direct nature and some indirect. The Saudi state is too well buttressed to fall under one single blow. But if a range of state institutions are put under attack simultaneously, the whole system might just crack.’

Nielsen was punching keys on one of his iMacs while Gallagher had been talking.  ‘Okay, Mr Ryan, you’ve passed the first hurdle. You have my undivided attention. I am certainly interested in your project.’

‘What are you doing?’ Gallagher asked.

When Peter Nielsen was a boy he had learned three things. The first was that people were inherently cruel. His limited disability was not his fault but was due to the cocktail of genes his father and mother should never have mixed. But in the nineteen sixties who’d heard of genes or DNA. Since the age of fourteen, he had been uniquely aware of how people looked on him because of his bent frame. The boys at school had laughed at him and the girls had shunned him. Being socially ostracised had turned him into a studious, introverted young man. The second thing he had learned that what he lacked in physique he more than made up for in intelligence. He had no problem in securing the top place in his class in Copenhagen’s best school and the doors of every university in Europe were open to him. At university he discovered that he had a gift for finance. He received his MBA and Ph.D. degrees from the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania. It was while working for Merrill Lynch in New York that he had learned the third truth, he could spot a phoney a mile away. These three elements of Peter Nielsen’s life had made him rich beyond the dreams of most men. His wealth was measured in billions of dollars but he had still had the drive to show the world that the disabled boy from Copenhagen could outsmart chambers of healthy politicians by manipulating their currencies. When he had clasped eyes on Ryan, he had known immediately that he was dealing with the genuine article. Ryan might be CIA, MI5, KGB, Mossad, it didn’t really matter. There was a plan somewhere to bring down Saudi Arabia and that plan could make somebody an awful lot of money. And for Peter Nielsen making money was what life was really all about.

Nielsen continued to tap the keyboard. ‘I’m checking the financial health of Saudi Arabia. If the patient is very ill, and that is apparently the case, I could very well be interested in helping you pursue your objective. Especially if I can make some hundreds of millions of dollars into the bargain. What do you know about finance, Mr Ryan?’

‘Nothing.’

Nielsen stopped and looked up from the screen. ‘But you know enough to feel that a run on the Saudi Riyal should be an integral part of your plan. How very intuitive of you.’

‘I’ve read one economics book in my life,’ Gallagher said. ‘And from that book I remember only one quote. John Maynard Keynes said, ‘
There is no subtler, no surer means of overturning the existing basis of society than to debauch the currency. The process engages all the hidden forces of economic law on the side of destruction, and does it in a manner not one man in a million is able to diagnose
.’ That statement made an indelible impression on me.’

Nielsen’s craggy face lit up with a smile. ‘I think that I am going to enjoy working with you, Mr Ryan. I don’t normally connect with those on the other side of the law but in your case I’m willing to make an exception.’

‘I wasn’t aware that anything I had suggested was illegal,’ Gallagher returned the smile. ‘What I’m asking you to do is no different from what you and Soros did to the European currencies. The Saudi market is smaller but it’s also a lot more vulnerable than that of the members of the European Union.’

Nielsen’s brow furrowed for a moment. The name Soros was enough to raise his hackles. He had spent half a lifetime in competition with George Soros. Neither would recognise the other as an equal on the financial markets and both had made huge sums of money from jumping on the bandwagon created by the other. Nielsen hated Soros because he was so public and because he felt it incumbent on himself to dispense his gains as largesse. ‘Don’t mention Soros, if you please. The man is a media performer not a financial genius. Let’s get back to the matter at hand. From your limited economic perspective, how am I going to make money on debauching the Saudi currency?’