As soon as the President learnt that he had once again been ‘robbed’, he called an emergency Cabinet meeting.
He plainly could not point the finger this time at his Finance Minister or the Reserve Bank Governor, as they were now both safely tucked away in one of Harare’s notorious prisons. Indeed, nobody in the Cabinet was able to blame anyone with any conviction, although the consensus, if there was one, suggested that it had to be the Government in London. It was clearly all part of a clever plot, rather than a computer fault, and the skills to carry out these raids on personal bank accounts were unlikely to be found in Zimbabwe, where the once-excellent education system was now a mere shadow of its former self.
So it had to be the actions of some overseas power, and the only country likely to be responsible was the UK, since, as the old Colonial power, that was the only country that had anything like a motive. There was always the chance that they were being aided and abetted by the main opposition party, who had everything to gain and nothing to loose from this hitherto rather childish exercise. By no means everyone in Cabinet regarded it as a childish exercise, however.
The Government eventually decided to make a formal complaint to London, but stopped short of demanding the recall of its Ambassador. A statement to this effect was issued to The Herald and other arms of the State controlled media, although the communique failed to state precisely why this action had been taken. For the President to blame London for returning to the Reserve Bank cash which he had only recently removed from it - without Cabinet approval, it had to be said - was plainly not a starter. So instead, London was blamed for ‘fermenting unrest’, which, by this time, was gathering something of a momentum.
The Cabinet then went into private session.
The coterie of Ministers, who had so skilfully been feathering their own nests for so long, was now clearly rattled by the turn of events. They had all suffered grievous financial loss, and the more they thought about it, the less likely it seemed to them that they would be able to recoup their losses. Not in the immediate future, at least. Most of them still owned large but now virtually useless and worthless farms and estates that they had commandeered, and a few had also had the wit to invest in shares in foreign companies. But all of them feared a coup, or that demands for their resignation would become irresistible fairly soon. Such was the mood of the country that some form of civil uprising could not be ruled out, and the continued support of the police and the army could not be ruled in, either.
The loss power was something they all feared. Some had already made outline plans about where they would go to seek refuge or asylum, but for most of them such a possibility had been just too remote ever to be contemplated. Until now, that is, when planning was likely to be driven by panic rather than by rational thinking, and with no cash available to buy favours, or even an airline ticket, many of them felt that they had run out of options.
Most of them, however, had one asset that they could realise.
Diamonds.
It had been the idea of Leo Mutasa, the Minister of Mines and Natural Resources, many years ago, that they should collectively use their power and influence to stockpile diamonds from Sierra Leone. In a series of shady deals with that country’s leadership, they had built up a collection that would be very handy on a rainy day. That day had clearly arrived.
The Minister whose idea it had been, and who had a head start on everyone else, had left Zimbabwe some time ago, having no interest in grabbing any farms or other land, and was now living very comfortably indeed in Nigeria.
The President now suggested to his colleagues that they should prepare for a move, just in case the current situation developed to a stage where push came to shove, and deposit their wealth safely abroad before it was too late. If they agreed, he would make all the arrangements for the safe transfer of their individual collections of stones to South Africa, where he had friends who could organise their safe and secure deposit. In the heat of the moment, and because none of them could begin to think of how to make similar arrangements on their own behalf, they all agreed. The individually sealed leather bags of diamonds would be collected centrally and stored, pending their eventual move, in the vaults of the Reserve Bank. Once in South Africa, colleagues would be able to make their own arrangements for the future of their wealth. The President undertook to invite other colleagues outside Government, in the military and the judiciary and so on, who now found themselves in a similar position, to join them in this scheme.
They all agreed that the former Minister, Leo Mutasa, had been a far-sighted and prudent man, and that the President was showing his usual leadership skills in putting forward this plan to secure the future of each of his Cabinet friends and colleagues.
Most of the stones had been pillaged from the diamond mines in the north east of Sierra Leone, where the alluvial mining was conducted by scores of people scraping away at the surface before washing the gravel to find diamonds. Some of the best diamonds in the world come from Sierra Leone. Kenema, Bo and Freetown are all full of diamond merchants who are almost exclusively Lebanese. The Minister had been put in touch with a trusted dealer in Howe Street, Freetown, called Mohamed Hassan, who ran Allie's Jewellery Ltd. Driving through Freetown was an experience in itself, but fortunately for the Minister, the Sierra Leone Government provided their friend from Harare with a driver. Allie's Jewellery Ltd was obvious because of the civilian security man and very smart 4x4 parked outside. The shop window was full of the most unpleasant china ornaments, while inside were rows of gold chains, very gaudy bangles and, on Leo Mutasa’s first visit, a number of Ukrainian United Nations soldiers, no doubt buying gifts for their local girlfriends. The chap behind the counter immediately ushered him through a 'staff only' door, where he was greeted by a large, unshaven Lebanese, sitting behind a desk.
Mohamed spoke English with what turned out to be a Manchurian accent, which the man from Zimbabwe thought was rather strange, until it had been explained that he had completed his jewellery-making City and Guilds in Manchester and couldn't shake off the accent. He gave the Minister a long briefing about how to spot a good diamond, which are judged by the four Cs - colour, clarity, cut and carat.
Although relatively unusual in Sierra Leone, some pinks and yellows are sometimes found, but are not such a good investment as white diamonds. The cuts vary, said the man, and rely on the cutter being able to produce the largest cut diamond while removing as much of the flawed raw stone as possible. The Minister insisted that only the best white diamonds were good enough for his Government colleagues. Most of Mohamed's stones had been cut in Belgium, although more and more these days were being cut in India, where labour was cheaper. This was of little interest to the Zimbabwean Minister of Mines and Natural Resources, and since the government of Sierra Leone was paying the merchant, as part of the contract for Zimbabwean tobacco and copper at below market prices, he knew that wherever they came from they would be the best, or the deal was off. Naturally, he was able to keep the best of the best, although none of his colleagues, who all suspected it, could actually prove it. By the time of Mutasa’s sudden disappearance to Nigeria, it was too late to do anything about it anyway.
***
Will Bartlett and Bwonqa Mbele had enjoyed a few good days at the Bartlett homestead in the Western Cape. Will’s parents, James and Beatrice, could hardly believe the news that their son had brought with him - indeed they didn’t really believe it until they had a call from the local bank manager to say that a large sum had been deposited in the Bartlett account, and would they like any advice on how to invest it. They hastily organised a party to celebrate, with their friends the Parkinsons, in whose bungalow they were staying, and on whose estate they had been working since leaving Zimbabwe.
The Bartletts had settled well to their new life, but were saddened when Bonkers told them that their old farm, which had been in the family for generations, had eventually been torched by the new ‘owners’, the war veterans, who were growing increasingly agitated about their lot. Beatrice had cried, and James was shocked to think of all the work he and his ancestors had done being so wasted in such a criminal manner. Many of the veterans, and others, had taken to the streets to protest about the government and its corruption, and the fact that, in spite of all the promises, they had no food, no fuel and no money, and were left with a worthless bit of land on which they were capable of growing nothing worth talking about.
The Bartletts, on the other hand, had devoted considerable effort towards making a go of their new life, and had, as the Parkinsons were the first to admit, made a tremendous contribution towards the profitability of the extensive vineyard.
The day after the party, the Parkinsons, who were themselves getting on towards retiring age, gave the Bartletts the opportunity to invest some of their gratuity into the business. They were offered the chance to purchase several hundred of acres of fertile vineyard, together with the freehold of the bungalow and associated outbuildings. It took the Bartletts no time at all to accept the generosity of their old friends, and to strike a deal.
James and Beatrice Bartlett were soon to be in business again on their own account, with their own land to farm and their own house. It was an exciting time for all of them, especially when Will’s father asked him to move in with them to help run the estate. Bonkers was also offered the chance to complete his education, at the Bartlett’s expense, with a view to taking over as farm manager next year.
“Since we shall soon be on our own again,” said James Bartlett, “we have to arrange to run things properly and take responsibility for everything, rather than just help the Parkinsons to run the estate. It means an element of duplication, I suppose, as I shall have to buy my own equipment again, rather than rely on using the Parkinson’s, although I shall probably try to get second-hand. They have said that they will act as a co-operative so far as marketing my harvest is concerned, subject to the normal high standard being maintained. But the land and the vines they are selling me are of a high quality anyway, and the crop has never failed to meet the overall standard set by the estate, so I see no problem.”
“This will be quite like the old days,” said Bonkers to Will, “when my father was farm manager for your father. It’s all very thrilling.”
“Where will you get the farm equipment serviced?” Will asked his father.
“That’s always been a bit of a problem down here, since you mentioned it,” replied James Bartlett, “as the nearest decent maintenance depot cum garage is about fifty miles away.”
“We could set up our own workshop,” suggested Will, “and do work for the Parkinsons as well - at a fee, of course!”
“I don’t know about that,” said his father, doubtfully.
“You have the space,” continued Will. “We could easily convert one of the outbuildings over there into a workshop. It wouldn’t need a lot of equipment.”
“I’m sure I don’t know anyone round here who would want to run it for us, even if we did,” said James.
“We could get Kipling Bangura down here,” suggested Bonkers. “He’s a good mechanic, and I know he’s finding life hard at the moment, like everyone else in Zimbabwe.”
Will’s father thought for a moment.
“Well, I suppose we could ask him,” said James Bartlett. “He was certainly a good engineer, and always helpful.”
“I’ll ask him, if you like,” offered Will. “I need to see him anyway, to collect the old Volvo. If I’m going to live down here, I might as well have the old family car to use.”
“Let’s go and look at the outbuildings,” suggested Bonkers. “It might be possible to convert one of them into a garage and a small house for Mr. Bangura at the same time.”
“It’s the sort of place he lives in now,” agreed Will.
There was suddenly so much to do again, what with all the paper work, and the planning necessary for them to set up on their own, that they quite forgot the turmoil ‘at home’. So it was a bit of a shock when Will’s phone rang one afternoon, and he took a call from one of his contacts in Harare.
Will frowned, as he listened.
“I need to think about this,” he said, after a time. “I’ll call you back.”
“What’s up?” asked Bonkers.
“One of our contacts. Things have taken a turn for the worse,” replied Will. “There have been large crowds of protesters on the streets for the last few days and nights in Harare and Bulawayo, and other towns like Gweru and Hwange and Mutare, apparently. Mostly peaceful protests, it seems, but the Police and Army don’t seem to be doing much about it, and the Government is getting increasingly rattled. There’s even talk of the Army staging a coup and holding early elections, and rumours like that are making the crowds even more excited.”
“I suppose we’d better get back quickly,” said Bonkers. “We’ve both got a few loose ends to tie up, and we need to see Mr. Bangura.”
“You’re right,” agreed Will. “But there’s more to it than that. It seems that the President and other ministers and members of his hierarchy are planning to leave in a hurry if they have to. According to one source in the President’s office, they are gathering together their valuables ready to move out, including millions of dollars worth of diamonds. Apparently, the head of state is organising their collection and will arrange for them to be moved out in one shipment, probably here, to South Africa.”
“Interesting,” commented Bonkers.
“More than that,” said Will, thoughtfully. “They were paid for by money which rightly belonged to the people. Just think! Wouldn’t it be great if we could intercept that shipment, and put the cash back where it belonged, or even add it to what is already being paid out to white farmers!”
“I don’t like the way you said ‘we’,” said Bonkers. “I wouldn’t know where to start organising a thing like that, and it would be very dangerous even to attempt it. I thought my little life had just taken a turn for the better, so don’t expect me to get involved in hair-raising schemes like that!”
“I didn’t mean us personally,” agreed Will. “But there must be a way to hijack those diamonds somehow, with inside help.”
“Where would we start?” asked a worried Bonkers.
Will thought for a moment.
“I think I’ll ring Robin,” he said. “He’ll know what to do.”
“He’ll probably tell you not to be mad, or to ring his friend at the embassy, and he’ll tell you not to be mad.”
“I’ll ring Robin anyway,” declared Will, “and then we’d better get back to Zimbabwe smartish.”
Robin said they were mad even to think about it.
“But there must be some Special Forces about somewhere in Africa, training or something, who could help,” protested Will.
“Ex-special forces might, but not any still serving,” Robin thought.
“How would I find out?” pleaded Will.
“Try Bowman, at the Embassy, if you like,” said Robin. “But he’ll probably tell you you’re mad and to forget the idea.”
“I’ll ask,” said Will. “The point is Robin, if we should get hold of them, could you help put the money back into - shall we say - ‘good causes’?”
“It’s a big ‘if’, but I suppose I could if you should succeed in some way,” replied Robin. “But I’ve got problems of my own to sort out at the moment without worrying about selling diamonds you’ll probably never get hold of. But let me know what happens.”
“That reminds me,” said Will. “Mum and Dad insist that you and Marian come down here for a really long holiday as soon as you can.” He told Robin what the family had planned, and how Bonkers was involved.
“That all sounds very exciting, and I’m really pleased for you all,” replied Robin. “And please thank your parents for their invitation. We’d love to come as soon as we’ve got over our current panic. We’ll be in touch.”
“Bonkers and I are heading north again as soon as we can,” said Will. “Things are hotting up a bit back home, and we have a few things to sort out before the country really goes ape.”
He rang Group Captain Charles Bowman at the British Embassy in Harare on his secure phone link, and told him what was going on.
“I know about the demonstrations, of course,” said Bowman. “I can see them and hear then every evening. But it’s very useful to know that the government is preparing to go into exile. Thank you for that.”
“I’m frankly not in the least interested in what the government does,” said Will. “I want to get my hands on those diamonds if they are moved, and put the money back where it belongs.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” asked the attache.
“That’s why I’m ringing you,” replied Will. “I haven’t a clue how to do it on my own, but I wondered if you knew the whereabouts of any special forces - SAS or something - who might help. I suppose they’d need to be retired, and operating as mercenaries,” he added helpfully.
“There are certainly some about, and it’s possible I might be able to find a couple,” replied Bowman, “but it’ll be a high risk operation and I can’t possibly get involved.”
“A contact will do, and leave the rest to me,” replied Will Bartlett.
“These chaps come expensive, you know,” said Bowman.
“Money’s no object, especially if we get the gems,” replied Will.
“How will you know when and how they are to be moved,” asked the attache.
“Contacts,” replied Will. “One in particular in the President’s office. He knows what’s going on.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Are you still in South Africa?” asked Bowman.
“Yes, but we’re heading north again as soon as we can.”
“Ring me again when you get back here,” said Bowman, and hung up.
It wasn’t long before the Foreign Office in London knew about Will’s phone call, although not the bit about a possible attempt to intercept the diamonds. The Defence Attache kept that to himself. He knew that there was a small detachment of SAS in Kenya, on a training exercise, and he suspected that, if there were any of their ex-colleagues about acting as mercenaries, the CO would know about them and how to get in touch.
He did.
Two days later, Will rang Bowman again, on his way to Chasimu to see Kipling Bangura. It was a brief conversation. Bowman simply gave him a name and a phone number.
***
Will had rung Robin on the very day that Rupert and Marian were at Threadneedle Street giving their presentation about the new encrypted security operating system.
They had met an immediate air of hostility when they arrived in the conference room at the Bank of England, largely engendered, they suspected, by the Head of Security whose account had been tampered with. Rupert and Marian were ranged against a formidable team from the Bank, headed by the Deputy Governor, and a team of computer experts as well as the Head of Security.
“I want to know,” demanded Alistair Vaughan, almost before they were seated, “how the hell you managed to interfere with my personal account.”
“That’s what we’re here to show you,” replied Rupert. “Because what we have been able to do, others less honest will also be able to do in time, when they discover the inherent weaknesses in the present banking security systems.”
“I should also warn you,” continued Vaughan, “that the possibility of criminal proceedings has not been ruled out either.”
“I don’t think it will ever come to that,” said a supremely confident Rupert Bland. “If we had any criminal intent, we wouldn’t be here now, we’d be lining our pockets at your expense and you wouldn’t have a clue what was going on.”
“I tend to agree,” said the Deputy Governor, an older and wiser man. “Why don’t we just let Mr. Bland have his say about our present operating system and what he proposes to replace it?”
A rather red-faced Vaughan sat down.
“Before you get too comfortable, gentlemen, I would like to demonstrate these to you.” Rupert held up the two debit cards. “Perhaps we could visit the ATM machine in the lift lobby, so that I can demonstrate the first weakness we discovered in the banking community’s security system. One of these cards allows me to take cash from the account of the machine’s last user, with knowing his or her pin number, while the other allows me to take cash direct from the bank’s treasury.”
They trooped outside, where Rupert invited Vaughan to use his card to withdraw cash from his own account. Rupert then immediately withdrew a further sum himself from the same account using one of the adapted cards. He handed the notes to Vaughan, who then verified that the money had, in fact, been taken from his account. They stood aside to let another employee use the machine, after which Rupert demonstrated the second card.
“You will see,” he said, “that this card by-passes all the machine prompts, and immediately invites me to select from the on-screen menu.” He inserted the card, selected to withdraw ten pounds, which he then handed to the Deputy Governor.
“This is from your own reserves,” announced Rupert, “and not from any individual’s account.”
When they had returned to the conference room, Rupert explained that it had seemed to them self-evident that if it was possible to directly access a bank’s mainframe computer simply by inserting a card into a remotely sited ‘hole in the wall’, then it should equally be possible to access the computer via the Internet from a remotely sited computer. He explained in some detail how this had been achieved, and demonstrated the methodology using one of the bank’s computers and his own laptop.
“I hope I have managed to demonstrate to you just how vulnerable your present system really is,” he concluded after half an hour or so. “If you have any questions, let me deal with them now, before I demonstrate a possible replacement programme which, you will see, is considerably more robust against possible unauthorised access.”
In all, the presentation and demonstrations, with the question and answer session, took nearly two hours, before the Deputy Governor of the Bank of England brought the proceedings to a close.
“Mr. Bland,” he said, “you and your able assistant have given us a great deal to think about, and I dare say, a great deal to worry about. It seems that for years we have been wrongly confident about the absolute infallibility of our present security arrangements, which you have ably demonstrated to be inherently weak. I think I speak for everyone here when I say how very impressed we have been by the new development that you have shown us. We shall need to urgently consider what next to do, and to consult with others in the industry before reaching a final conclusion, but it seems to me that we really have no option but to adopt your new system, or something very like it.”
“The new programme can, of course, be adapted to suit the needs of individual banks,” explained Rupert, “but the basic operating system, which we have been careful to register, will form the foundation of any modifications of that sort.”
They nodded wisely.
“Perhaps I could conclude by assuring you all”, Rupert turned to Alistair Vaughan, “and especially you, sir, that we have kept the most meticulous records of all the transactions which we have undertaken during the development of this system and in the trials we conducted of your existing system to pin-point its weaknesses. Those records are here and available for your inspection if you wish, although I have to say that in almost every case, we carried out the trials using our own personal bank accounts. Where we used the direct access card, we withdrew ten pounds from five different banks, and donated that to charity. It was hardly possible, I’m sure you will agree, to walk into the banks and hand it back to them over the counter!”
There was a ripple of laughter, as they nodded understandingly.
“And since we no longer need these cards,” concluded Rupert, “you are most welcome to keep them, and the programme which gives computer access to your mainframe.” He handed them to the Deputy Governor. “The new programme can, of course, also be made available, subject to satisfactory negotiations about the price.”
Vaughan needed time to satisfy himself that the Bank was not about to become the victim of a major fraud. His old Scotland Yard antennae were at work, and he was highly suspicious of what was going on, and in particular of Robin Hood and his new organisation. He took the bull by the horns, and rang Computer Solutions. He was eventually put through to Robin Hood himself, a pleasant sounding young man, and obviously well educated.
“I hope you don’t mind me ringing you direct,” began Paul Vaughan, “but we are still considering your colleagues’ excellent presentation to us, and there were a couple of questions I wanted to ask.”
“By all means,” replied Robin. “How can I help?”
“This may seem an odd question,” said Vaughan, “but I wondered if you had ever come across a man called Jim Farlow?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” replied Robin, who was surprised by the question and wondered what was coming next. “We were at Oxford together,” he added.
“Did he ever work for your company?” asked Vaughan.
“No, he didn’t,” replied Robin Hood. “But I’d like to know why you ask and what all this is leading to.”
“It’s just that he used to work for us, that’s all,” replied Vaughan. “Quite good at his job, I’m told, but we had to sack him when he admitted helping himself to funds which didn’t belong to him.”
“I had heard,” said Robin. “At one time, I was rather keen that he should join us, as a matter of fact, but by then he was already working in Threadneedle Street, and he decided he wanted to stay with a big employer and enjoy a regular salary, rather than risk a new venture like mine.”
“Did he say why?” asked Vaughan.
“Something to do with having an elderly mother to provide for, as I recall,” said Robin.
“Ah, yes,” said Vaughan. “He did mention that. Well, thanks for your help. I’m sure someone will be in touch again soon about your proposals.”
“We shall look forward to hearing from you,” replied Robin.
“By the way,” asked Vaughan, “how’s your Aunt Gladys?”
Robin was quite taken aback by this question.
“She died two days ago, as it happens,” replied Robin.
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Vaughan sounded genuinely shocked. “I had no idea.”
“But how did you know about her in the first place, may I ask?” demanded Robin.
“I gather she was quite a wealthy old lady,” explained Paul Vaughan, “and that a couple of million pounds mysteriously appeared in her account quite recently, and then disappeared again. The security chap at her bank consulted me about it, that’s how I heard.”
“Sounds to me,” said Robin boldly, “like yet another example of the lack of security in the present banking system.”
“Quite so,” agreed Vaughan. “Well, thanks again - we’ll be in touch one way or the other.”
Vaughan immediately rang Jan Bergen, Head of Security at the UK Head Office of the Interbank (Nederlandsche) Group.
“I gather,” he announced to Bergen, “that your old lady Ms. Gladys Hood, with the mysterious account, has died.”
“Bad news travels fast, doesn’t it!” exclaimed Bergen. “How the hell did you hear about that?”
“How I heard doesn’t matter, really, but I wondered if her nephew, the one with power of attorney over her estate, had been in touch yet.”
“He has, apparently,” said Bergen. “The lady’s account manager told me only this morning.”
“Why would he do that, then?” asked Vaughan.
“He knew of my involvement over the two million quid,” replied Bergen. “Apparently, the bulk of Ms. Hood’s considerable estate has been left to her younger nephew, Mr. Hood’s son.”
“Name of Robin?” asked Vaughan.
“Right again! How did you know that?” asked an incredulous Jan Bergen.
“Never mind,” replied Vaughan. “What’s the score on the estate then?”
“Well, you may remember me telling you that we had agreed to pay interest on the mysterious deposit while it was with us,” said Bergen.
“I remember,” replied Vaughan. “So what?”
“So apparently, the young Robin Hood has asked that the interest should be paid to the old lady’s hospice, rather than to him as part of her estate,” explained Bergen. “And they thought I ought to know.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Vaughan, now more then ever puzzled by what was happening.
He sat deep in thought. An odd thing to do, he mused, but hardly a crime. Unless it was the man’s conscience getting the better of him, of course. He still had no evidence whatsoever of any crime having been committed by anyone, except Farlow, and even then there appeared to be no direct link with his activities and the mysterious Mr. Robin Hood.
On an impulse, he rang Bill Denning at Global Crossroads. No more unexplained service interruptions. Another blank.
It suddenly occurred to Paul Vaughan that he had no idea how much money they were taking about in relation to Gladys Hood’s estate. He r