The Interbank (Nederlandsche) Group had its UK headquarters in London. It took up several floors of one of the new tower blocks of offices in the Canary Wharf area, near enough to the City and other financial institutions with which it dealt, and handy, too, for the City airport in Docklands and its regular flights to Holland. Not that there was really a need for much commuting between the two capitals, since most of the work carried out between London and the Amsterdam site of the bank’s world headquarters, was done electronically. But some of the staff who could afford it, liked to take advantage of the cheap and frequent flights to get home for the odd weekend now and then.
The bank’s Head of Security, Jan Bergen and his wife, had been home for a long weekend to attend a family wedding, but were back in plenty of time for Bergen to be at the regular weekly board meeting. It had been a pretty routine affair and, in all honesty, more than usually boring until the end, when, under ‘any other business’, the Customer Affairs Director, Pierre van Hague, had mentioned what he called ‘a small problem’
“It seems, Mr. Chairman,” he said, apologetically, “that we are having an unusual difficulty with one of our UK private accounts. It’s not the sort of thing I would normally bring to the attention of the Board, but in the circumstances, I felt you should be advised of it at an early stage, just for your information, you understand.”
“What circumstances?” asked the Chairman of the London operation.
“Well, what makes this rather unusual is the sum of money involved,” said van Hague. “It frequently happens, as you all know, for money to go adrift from time to time in the odd account here and there, normally due to some clerical error or other, and the matter is usually cleared up quickly once the customer has brought it to our attention.”
“How much money?” demanded the Chairman, getting impatient for his lunch.
“Um, well, Chairman,” said an embarrassed Customer Affairs Manager, shuffling his papers, “in this case it seems to involve about two million pounds.”
“Two million pounds?” bellowed the Chairman.
“Yes. sir,” said the man. “Two million pounds. Or, depending on how you look at it, um, perhaps three million.”
“Three million!” The Chairman leant forward, red faced. “And you call that ‘a small problem’? What the hell’s happened, man?”
“We surely can’t have many private accounts with that much on deposit can we, Pierre?” asked the Finance Director.
“No; quite; very few indeed actually,” admitted Pierre.
“I think you’d better start at the beginning and give us all a proper explanation,” said the Finance Director.
“Yes, of course,” said Pierre, cursing his luck. This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. He shuffled his papers again.
“Come on, man”, said the Chairman, losing his patience. “We haven’t got all day. Whose account is it, anyway - anyone important or well known?”
“No, sir,” replied van Hague. “The account belongs an elderly lady, a Ms. Gladys Hood. She is quite a wealthy lady, and holds many investments, judging by the details of her account, which I have seen. But she also keeps a large sum of cash on deposit - something in the order of one and a half million pounds. We have, on a number of occasions, sought to persuade her to invest the money, but she has always refused, for some reason, enjoying the interest we pay.”
“Get to the point, man,” demanded the Chairman. “What’s happened to this wretched woman’s account?”
“An extra two million pounds suddenly appeared in it, that’s what,” van Hague retorted, getting equally irritated. “And we have so far been unable to trace where it came from.”
“Clerical cock-up somewhere, I’ll be bound,” said the Chairman, gathering his papers. “Get it sorted, quickly.”
“Hang on a minute,” said the Finance Director. “I thought you said it was three million, ‘depending on how you look at it’. What did you mean by that?”
“Well,” explained Pierre, wishing he’d never mentioned the business, “no sooner had the money appeared in her account, than a million of it was withdrawn again. The problem is that we don’t know who withdrew it or where it went.”
“But that’s not possible, surely,” commented the Finance Director.
“That’s exactly what I would have thought,” agreed van Hague, “but at the moment we have been unable to trace the source of the funds, or the destination of the withdrawn sum. Neither do we know who withdrew it. Which is why I thought I should mention it,” he concluded, wishing again that he hadn’t.
“Sounds to me as if this old lady is playing about with her money,” said the Chairman.
“She is no longer able to do that, as a matter of fact,” said Pierre. “She has given power of attorney to her nephew, since she is judged to be no longer mentally, or physically, well enough to look after her own affairs.”
“Well, there you are, then,” said a very cross Chairman. “The man’s obviously trying get his hands on her cash.” He turned to Jan Bergen. “Sounds like a job for you, as Head of Security. Get on to it straight away,” he demanded, and, there being no other business, declared the meeting closed and strode off for his lunch.
Bergen had already started to take an interest, as it happened. He said to Pierre, “Let’s go to my office, and talk through this again, in a calmer atmosphere.”
The Finance Director had moved round the table and sat next to them. “Surely,” he said, “if Miss Hood’s nephew has power of attorney, and had taken the money on her behalf, we would know that, wouldn’t we? And why would he put such a large sum into her account only to take half of it out again?”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” replied Pierre, “and, as you say, if he did, we would have immediately known about it. And I can tell you that he is furious! I have spoken to him personally twice now, and, like the rest of us, he wants to know where the money came from and where it has gone.”
“Well, you two had better get it resolved soon. The old man’s not in the best of moods at the moment, as you can see! Let’s just hope this isn’t a case of money laundering, which really is the Chairman’s pet hate!”
The Customer Affairs Manager and his security colleague left the Board Room for Bergen’s office, along the corridor.
“Let’s get the lady’s account up on my screen,” said Bergen, “then we can see what we’re talking about.” As he entered his password, he said to van Hague, “Are you doing anything for lunch, by the way, or shall I get some sandwiches and a bottle of wine?”
“That would be a good idea,” replied Pierre. “We can work through, then, and hopefully between us come up with a solution to this mystery.”
Eventually, Gladys Hood’s account appeared on the screen.
“If we scroll back a few years,” suggested van Hague, “you’ll see that she has invested quite large sums of money, mostly in fixed interest bonds, but also sometimes in shares.”
“Always kept a huge balance in her account, though,” Bergen observed. “It also looks as if she has worked on her own, rather than through a financial advisor.”
“Yes, I noticed that, too,” agreed Pierre.
“So there’s no third party there, to investigate,” concluded Jan.
“You’ll see, too,” Pierre pointed out, “that the frequency of her transactions has slowed down considerably in recent years.”
“As she got older, and less able to cope, no doubt.”
“Quite possibly,” agreed van Hague. “But look how quickly her balance built up.”
“I always thought we paid too much interest!” said Bergen.
“What’s interesting is the payments into her account,” observed the Head of Security. “Frequently, very large sums indeed - certainly by our standards - but always the source has been identified.”
“Either the sale of shares, or, more often, a bond maturing,” said Pierre.
“But never, apparently, any anonymous payments.”
“Until last week,” said van Hague, ruefully.
“But there must be some clue or other,” protested Bergen.
“Nothing that I can spot,” replied van Hague. “It’s an electronic transfer, which seems to have appeared simply out of the blue. It’s from a bank, and possibly one of the big UK banks, but don’t ask me which one.”
“Yes, it’s a bank all right,” agreed Bergen. “Finance companies and investment advisors leave a trail a mile long usually. There’s no record I can see of the lady making any investment that would suddenly mature at this figure, and in any case, it’s too neat a sum - no odd pounds or shillings anywhere. Yes, it’s from a bank, all right,” he repeated.
“If a bank somewhere suddenly lost two million quid, wouldn’t they kick up a fuss about it?” asked the Customer Affairs man, chomping into a chicken and coleslaw sandwich.
“Probably not,” replied Bergen. “If they spotted it, there would be a sharp intake of breath internally, as there was here this morning, but it’s a flea bite compared with their total turnover every day. They might not even spot it until the next audit, and even then it would be within the margin of error.”
Suddenly, the Chairman appeared in the doorway.
“Mind if I join you?” he said, “My bloody lunch has been cancelled.”
“Have a sandwich then,” offered Bergen, as the Chairman helped himself. “Glass of wine?”
“Thanks,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the desk. “How are you two getting on? Is it really a mystery, or something simple?”
“Mystery, I’m afraid,” replied van Hague.
“You were right to raise it, then,” acknowledged the Chairman. “What do you make of it, Jan?”
“Not a lot at the moment,” replied the security man. “This is Miss Hood’s account, on the screen,” he pointed, “and there’s no sign of an investment maturing that would produce that sum of money. In any case, it’s too neat a figure for that, and investment companies always leave a trail, as you know. More than likely, it’s an electronic transfer from a bank, and probably one of the big UK banks as it’s in pounds sterling. But to be honest, there is no sign of where it came from.”
“Or why,” added the Chairman.
“Or why,” agreed van Hague.
“The real worry, though, is trying to explain how a million quid was taken out,” said Bergen. “Again, an electronic transfer, but absolutely no trace of where it went or who took it out. And that, Chairman, is supposed to be quite impossible.”
“That’s what worried me, too,” agreed the Chairman. “We have a layered security system, like everyone else, with every level guarded by encryption devices, passwords and God knows what. And we paid millions for our encrypted operating system, like nearly every other bank worth talking about, and nobody is supposed to be able to get into it.”
“Somebody has,” observed Bergen. “But who and how - that’s the question.”
“Quite,” agreed the Chairman. “Check out that fellow who has power of attorney,” he demanded. “At the moment, we owe Miss Hood a million pounds, since we can’t account for it. I’ll leave you to it.”
He downed the last of his wine, took the remaining sandwich, and left them to it.
Bergen’s secretary appeared.
“Shall I get some more?” she asked, nodding towards the empty plate.
“Yes, please,” replied Bergen.
“He scoffed nearly all the prawn mayo,” complained Pierre, “and they’re my favourite!”
“Tell me,” asked Jan. “Who exactly has power of attorney over the lady’s affairs? Does he sound OK?”
“Retired RAF Group Captain,” replied van Hague, “now working in industry, selling aeroplanes. Very respectable, large house in Surrey, son just out of Oxford, and all that. Not short of the odd bob, I should say, with a good military pension and an even better income.”
“Doesn’t sound like a suspect to me,” said Bergen, “but I’ll check him out anyway. I know someone who might be able to help. How did he react when you rang him?”
“Cross, he was! Said he had no idea whether or not his aunt might be expecting such a sum to be paid in, and couldn’t ask because she was gaga, so we’d better find out where it came from and whether it was legitimate. Then later, when I had to tell him we’d lost half of it, and he went ballistic! Demanded that we continued to pay interest on it all, and pointed out that we would have to make good the loss. I’m under orders to report progress,” concluded van Hague.
“Things like that don’t happen in the military, by the sound of it.”
They sat in silence for a minute or two, deep in thought and prawn sandwiches.
“Where the hell can that money have gone to?” said Bergen, almost to himself. “It can’t possibly be a hacker.”
“Inside job?” asked Pierre. “Someone inside could have got the codes and passwords,” he suggested.
“But why would he put all that in first, that’s what I don’t understand, only to take half of it out again the next day? And where did it come from in the first place?”
“You’re assuming it’s the same chap,” commented van Hague.
“It would be too much of a coincidence for it to be two people, unconnected,” he said. “No, it has to be the same chap.”
“I wonder what he plans to do with the million he’s left in the old lady’s account?” pondered Pierre.
“Leave it alone, I hope! But why pick on her account? There has to be a connection between Ms. Hood and whoever is playing about with two million quid, don’t you think?” asked Jan Bergen
“Quite possible, I suppose,” agreed Pierre van Hague. “On the other hand, it could just be some lucky hacker somewhere, hitting all the right buttons.”
“You don’t really think so, do you?” asked Bergen.
“No, I don’t” replied the Customer Relations man.
They sat in silence again.
“What about money laundering? It’s a nice round sum,” suggested Pierre.
“Possible, I suppose,” replied the security expert. “But it arrived from somewhere electronically, over the Internet, and went again the same way. That sort of thing is supposed to be impossible.”
“But someone’s just done it,” protested Pierre.
“Maybe they have, but if you had two million quid to get rid of, from drugs or something, would you fart about trying to hack it into an old lady’s bank account, and then go to all the trouble of doing it again the next day just to move it out?” asked Jan Bergen.
“Probably not,” agreed van Hague.
The two men sat in silence again, staring blankly at the screen displaying Gladys Hood’s account.
“So what are you going to do now, then?” asked van Hague. “The boss wants you to sort it, don’t forget.”
“Thanks for reminding me!” replied Jan Bergen. “I suppose I shall have to do something, just to keep him quiet.”
“I’ll let you know what happens when I next speak to the Group Captain,” said Pierre.
“Retired,” Jan reminded him. “I’m inclined to have a word with him myself, at sometime, but I’ll do a bit of digging first. The problem is that I don’t know anyone with a military background who might know the gallant Mr. Hood. I suppose, sometime, I should have a word with my opposite number at the Bank of England. He’s a retired Serious Fraud Squad man from Scotland Yard, and he keeps his ear to the ground. He may know someone who knows someone - know what I mean? I’ve got a feeling his predecessor was in the RAF. But I don’t really want to alert the boys at Threadneedle Street yet. Not officially, anyway. Perhaps I’ll buy him lunch.”
***
One of the bank’s senior accounts clerks knocked gently on M. Gilbert’s door, and went in without being summoned.
“Sorry to bother you, monsieur,” said the clerk, “but I thought you should be informed of something rather odd.”
“Odd?” enquired the manager.
“Yes, very odd as a matter of fact,” responded the man, “although of course I am sure that everything will be satisfactorily explained very soon.”
“What exactly is it that you find so ‘odd’, may I ask?”
“It’s Mr. Hood’s account,” said the clerk. “The one that was opened earlier this week.”
“What about it? Nothing wrong, I hope.” Monsieur Gilbert looked worried.
“Probably nothing at all,” replied the man, “but I thought you should know of something rather odd.”
“Odd?” enquired the manager again. “What’s odd, exactly? His deposit was paid in as he said it would be. I checked it myself.”
“Oh, yes, M. Gilbert,” said the clerk, reassuringly. “Yes, the money’s there, all right. But that’s what so odd.”
“Don’t keep saying that, man. Tell me what’s odd for heaven’s sake.” Monsieur Gilbert was getting cross as well as worried.
“Well, the odd thing is,” said the clerk, getting to the point at last, “the odd thing is that although the money is in the account as promised, we can’t - at the moment, that is - quite tell where it - er - came from.”
“But you must know where it came from,” exploded the normally placid M. Gilbert. “Go back and check again, at once.”
“Very well, monsieur, of course I shall. It’s probably some clerical error and nothing else,” spluttered the clerk, wishing he’d never mentioned it. “Of course I’ll check again - straight away. But the fact is that we have already checked, and checked again several times, but for some reason, we have been unable to trace the source of the money. That is what we found so odd, Monsieur Gilbert, and although, of course, we shall check again as you said, we had wondered if perhaps, well, since you know M. Hood, if perhapsà well à”
“What is it, man?” demanded the manager. “Perhaps what?”
“Well, Monsieur Gilbert, we wondered if perhaps it would save considerable time and further effort if, perhaps, as you know Monsieur Hood, if perhaps you could ask him the source of the money which he arranged to be deposited?”
Monsieur Gilbert looked as if he was about to explode.
“What!” he shouted at the poor accounts clerk, who had dared to make such an outrageous suggestion, having singularly failed in his duty. “What!” he bellowed again. “Are you seriously suggesting that I should ring a valued new customer to thank him for depositing a million pounds with us, and ask him if he would mind telling us where it came from? What sort of impression would that make, do you think? What sort of bank would he conclude he had joined who could ask him such a thing? What sort of idea would he gain about our efficiency do you think, if I told him we could not trace the source of his deposit?”
“I’m sorry, monsieur,” said the clerk. “It was obviously a foolish idea. I will go and search the records again,” he said backing to the door.
“Wait a minute,” demanded the Manager. “You are one of our most senior accounts clerks, which is why I asked you to look after the business brought to us by Monsieur Hood. So far as I can see, he has done precisely what he said he would do. He deposited a million pounds with us, he then moved three quarters of that, as he said he would, and later still, re-deposited £250,000 as he also told me. That leaves us with half a million pounds on deposit, simply to open his account with us. Do you agree that this is what has happened?”
“Of course I agree,” confirmed the clerk, “but this is also very odd indeed, since we have been unable to trace where the money went when it was removed from his account, and neither have we been able to find where it came from when he moved some of it back into his account. You must agree, Monsieur, that it is all very odd. I have never known anything like it in all my experience.”
“The transactions were conducted using the Internet, were they not?” asked M. Gilbert.
“Absolutely correct,” confirmed the accounts clerk. “Through the clearing system.”
“And no clue from studying the email records or any of the other monitoring systems which we have in place?”
“Nothing.”
Monsieur Gilbert sat, puzzled, lost in thought. The wretched accounts clerk, who had not been invited sit in front of the great man’s desk, stood miserably before him, waiting for a further reaction.
“Opening a new account with half a million pounds is in itself, most unusual,” M. Gilbert eventually said.
The clerk nodded.
“But there will soon be many more deposits made into this account - large deposits, so I believe,” added the manager. “M. Hood’s business is already valuable to us, and will become more so.”
He leant forward. “Eventually,” he continued, “we shall be asked to manage a portfolio large enough to run an equity fund capable of paying regular sums to up to four thousand individuals. That is big business, and I dare not put it at risk by admitting to M. Hood that we, one of the biggest and most respected of all Switzerland’s private banks, cannot discover the source of his initial deposit.”
“I quite understand,” said the clerk.
Monsieur Gilbert sat back again, lost in thought.
“I am not so concerned,” he said, almost to himself, “about the origin of M. Hood’s deposit, although I would suggest that it originated somewhere in Africa, and was routed through a clearing bank in the UK, since it was paid to us in pounds sterling. That must be your first line of enquiry,” he said to his accounts clerk.
“Very good, monsieur,” replied the man.
“But it is not so much the origin of M. Hood’s deposit which bothers me. It is his apparent ability to move money out of our bank without our knowledge that is of concern. Grave concern. That is supposed to be impossible, given our security systems.”
“Quite so,” agreed the accounts clerk.
“Keep on checking,” demanded M. Gilbert, waving the man away, “and keep me informed of your progress.”
As the man scuttled away, greatly relieved but now increasingly concerned, he heard Monsieur Gilbert, the Manager, say to himself, “This is all very odd indeed.”
***
Across Montreux, on the edge of the old town, a similar conversation had been taking place in the modern office of Monsieur Renoir.
Having personally authorised the opening of M. Hood’s account, in rather unusual circumstances, he had to admit, M. Renoir had naturally taken it upon himself to confirm that the deposit had been made as planned. Of course, it had.
So he had been surprised when an account manager had asked if he could ‘have a word’ about the new account. His colleague had reassured M. Renoir that everything appeared to be in order, that the money had been deposited as promised, and that the subsequent withdrawal, which M. Hood had anticipated, had also taken place. The problem appeared to be, if indeed it was a problem at all, that it had so far proved impossible to determine where the deposit had come from, or how the withdrawal had taken place and where it had gone.
Like M. Gilbert across town, M. Renoir was terrified of getting caught up in any money laundering deals, and that was the immediate fear that went through his mind. He quickly reassured himself, however, that M. Hood and his charming assistant were the last people on earth who would ever participate in any shady deals. There must be some other, simple explanation, which would soon be discovered.
Since the transfers had both been made electronically, it was quite possible that there was some fault or other with the Internet system. Wherever the deposit had come from, it had been paid in pounds sterling, so that should indicate a UK bank, probably one of the larger ones bearing in mind the sum involved. His accounts clerk undertook to make that his first line of enquiry although, as M. Renoir admitted, he was not so concerned about the source of the cash, as he was about the fact that the withdrawal had apparently been made without any trace being left as to how it had been transferred or where it had been transferred. That was plainly impossible, according to what he knew about the bank’s security systems. So the second thing the accounts clerk was charged to do was to brief, thoroughly, their head of security. Finally, he demanded that every care was to be taken not to alert M. Hood to their temporary difficulty. His was a valuable new account, which promised to be very lucrative to the bank, and he insisted that nothing should be done that would put the anticipated future business at risk.
The account manager left to begin his further investigations, and M. Renoir sat back in his leather swivel chair, perplexed. Altogether very odd, he thought.
***
Will and Bonkers were at the airport to meet them when Robin and Marian eventually arrived in Bulawayo, after what had turned out to be a long and tiring journey. They decided to get the bus into town - the bus station was only a short walk from their hotel, The Grey’s Inn on Robert Mugabe Way.
“There’s quite a good little bar we’ve found, just round the corner from here,” said Will, when the couple had dumped their bags in their room. “Let’s go there if you’re not too tired, and you can relax over a drink, and they do good food, too, if you’re hungry. We’re busting to know what all this is about, and why we had to get all this information for you so quickly.”
“Shall we be able to talk there, without being overheard?” asked Robin.
“No problem,” replied Bonkers. “We can sit at a table outside - it’s warm enough.”
When they were settled, Robin turned to Bonkers.
“This is all your fault, y’know,” he said to the man.
“What is?” asked Bonkers, mystified.
“Well,” replied Robin, “let me start by telling you that a few colleagues and I have at last been able to do what you asked me to do all that time ago, when you came across to speak to us outside the New Stanley Hotel.”
“You haven’t cracked the banks’ computer security systems, have you?” asked Bonkers.
“That’s exactly what we’ve been able to do - not all banks, but those with the most commonly used encrypted operating systems,” replied Robin.
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Will. “Now I know why you wanted the information you asked us to get.”
“It’s been very hard work,” said Marian, “and poor Robin is quite exhausted by it all.”
“I always said he was a genius with computers,” claimed Bonkers. “What with this and the cards you developed as well - quite brilliant.”
“If it works over here,” cautioned Robin, “and it may not. We shan’t know until we try it, and there’s more work to do first, before we can even attempt to put it to good use.”
“I’ve got all the information you asked for here,” said Will, pulling a large envelope from his pocket.
“Let’s have a look,” said Robin, as he removed the contents.
He was silent for a few moments, as he scanned the pages.
“How on earth did you get all this?” he asked Will.
“Contacts!” replied Will. “Some in the banks, some in government offices, some working for Ministers, and one even working in the President’s office.”
Robin turned the pages again, looking at the detail. He turned to Marian.
“Jim’s going to be busy, but this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he said to her. “It seems as if most of the hierarchy have all done the same thing, more or less. There are some accounts offshore - Cayman Islands and Bermuda - a few in Switzerland, all at the same bank, and more in South Africa, again all in the same bank.”
“How much are we talking about,” asked Marian.
“Can’t tell from this,” Robin replied.
“You’ll see that, in a few cases, we know how much is deposited,” replied Will, “ but not in every account.”
“We’ll just have to look for ourselves, then,” said Robin.
“Is it really that easy?” queried Bonkers.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult, if my colleague in London can do his stuff,” replied Robin.
“And then what will you do?” asked Bonkers.
“Move it in to a special account I’ve opened in Switzerland, and then pay it out from there to the victims of this regime’s corruption - or at least, to those farmers we can contact.”
“I told you about Justice for Farmers, didn’t I,” said Will. “They may co-operate when they know what’s going on, but won’t pass on the names and addresses of their members.”
“I can understand that,” replied Robin, “but I would like an urgent meeting with them - someone in authority.”
“They’re happy with that,” replied Bonkers, “and their Chief Executive is waiting a call from us to fix it.”
“Excellent,” replied Robin. “You two really have done well.”
“And given us lots more work to do,” said Marian.
“Let’s try to meet the farming chap tomorrow,” said Robin. “The sooner I know they can help with this, the better.”
“I’ll fix that right away,” said Will, taking his mobile phone from his pocket. “I’ll stroll down the road to do that, away from the crowds.”
They arranged to meet Wilfred de Burgh from the farmers’ organisation early the next morning, but not in his office, which he thought could well be bugged. They met at the Selbourne Hotel bar instead. As soon as they had their