Pakhan's Bluff

By Darren Bell

In the Scottish Highlands an enigmatic billionaire and private investor masterminds a perfect crime – the theft of The Royal Orb. Two hundred years ago a Duke and his friend hid this precious object from a King. Recently discovered, its public display in a museum gives the man known as Pakhan a chance to take it for himself.

In Edinburgh, Ken Lacey is a fine art expert and former military intelligence officer who works with the police to prevent illegal trade in rare and expensive artefacts, and their counterfeits. When Pakhan’s thieves steal the Royal Orb, Ken’s nephew Rob and best friend Alex stumble across its temporary hiding place and are kidnapped. The only person who can help them stay alive is a double agent working under deep cover for the Italian Guardia di Finanza.

In Venice, six months later, a cache of Jacobite Gold appears on the open market and Ken is back on Pakhan’s trail. Pakhan plans to buy the treasure legitimately and Ken’s brief is to attend the auction then follow the money to lure Pakhan into the open. Ken doesn’t believe the plan will work and changes the mission. If he fails, his bold stunt will cost Ken not only his job but his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookPartnership.com
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783014477

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

The man in the grey suit stepped in to the shadow of the building and checked his phone. Nothing new - no change of plan; one more hour and he’d be free of his tormentors. They said he’d be watched all the way to the rendezvous and with no way of disproving them he was following every instruction to the letter.

Shouldering a heavy work bag he walked along the busy street towards The Royal Mile. His cover was perfect; nobody would think his behaviour strange - as a senior official at the museum with a remit for international liaison, he regularly worked a twilight shift. His current project was an exhibition in New York and he’d been working in their time zone – some five hours behind the UK- for a number of weeks.

Pausing as he reached his first destination, he entered a cluttered shop and bought a rucksack, two souvenir hats and a waterproof jacket. He came out with a bulging plastic carrier and walked slowly down the Mound. On this mid August evening the sun was still bright but low in the sky. From behind his dark glasses he scanned the faces of the hustlers and beggars until he found his man. Anyone observing the lightning exchange that followed would think he’d simply taken pity on a soul less fortunate, as he handed over his new purchases and some cash. Within minutes later he was on a 23 bus, heading north. The down and out had already disappeared into an alley.

The old close was narrow and lined with city council dumpsters. It was currently also shut off at one end – a result of fallen masonry. The former tramp reappeared as a man transformed, now dressed in a magenta cotton jacket, Panama hat, loafers and dark jeans. He was known in certain circles as ‘The Fixer’, and the Jakey disguise had served its purpose. The Fixer switched the small leather holdall he was carrying from his left to right hand and pulled out his mobile. He pressed speed-dial. It was answered immediately – the short exchange was in Russian,

We have The Prize. Is everything ready?

All good. Have you dealt with the final loose end?

On it now. We meet tomorrow as agreed?

Yes.

He ended the call and joined the short queue for tickets on the next available open top bus. Choosing to sit upstairs with the sweating tourists The Fixer took out a camera and pretended to join in the frenzied recording of the city’s landmarks as they pulled away from the kerb and headed towards the New Town. The summer sunset tours were proving lucrative for the operators, and were marketed on the spectacular skyline and twilight silhouettes of landmark buildings.

Twenty minutes later The Fixer got off at the stop for the Royal Botanic Gardens, but hung back as the small crowd who’d alighted with him entered the carbuncle that passed for the visitor centre and gateway to Eden. The place was running a pilot of late open evenings as the hot summer –and media pressure - had demanded more than niche botany projects and quaint public access hours. He looked left and right then crossed the wide avenue and entered the adjacent municipal park, strolling past the tennis courts and swings en-route to the old sundial garden. The replacement of high beech hedges gave ideal cover for the next few minutes, as the garden was closed until the new plants were fully established. At this time of night hardly anyone was about – perfect. The Fixer’s research was always impeccable. He moved the large sign on the heavy old gates that stated the area was closed, opened the padlock and slipped through, carefully relocking them before he stepped inside. The place was deserted except for two people. One was dressed in the uniform of the local gardening department. He was clean shaven, tall and blond. The other man had ditched the remainder of his earlier purchases and stood, nervously swinging his briefcase by the shoulder strap. Approaching their bench The Fixer put down the bag and took off his jacket, the warmth of the evening finally penetrating his cool demeanour,

You put the fake in place last night, unobserved? It is all quiet in the press, so I presume no arse up?

Yes. We’ll run the fake theft with the other guys tonight, and I’ll keep to the bluff. We are the only people who know the real plan, as instructed. Now give me my money and the clone of my hard drive,

The Fixer gave a nod to his partner, who stepped forward and pulled out a knife. It was only then the third man realised the other two were putting on latex gloves.

In ten minutes it was all over. Wearing disposable coveralls the pair placed the dead man on some plastic sheeting they’d hidden in the large hedge, before the blond chopped him into pieces using a portable electric saw. The Fixer could not stand paedophiles, and when his research confirmed their inside man at the museum was depraved, he had the perfect reason to dispose of a weak link. The blond swiftly divided the body parts into three piles then stuffed the majority of pieces, plus the man’s bag, inside two nearby yellow grit bins he’d emptied the night before. A couple of hours earlier he’d prepared them with quicklime. It was an urban myth that the chemical compound dissolved bodies, but it was superb at concealing odours, and they only needed a short time to clear the scene.

The last item was put into a biodegradable carry sack – the same one the man in grey had picked up earlier along with his shopping. Some sick version of eco-friendly recycling, if you want the weirdo take on what happens next. The grim pair then shook hands and parted. They’d done a few jobs like this in recent months, and always had perfect exit plans.

The big blond pushed through a gap in the hedge into the parks department yard, opened the door of a shed he’d unlocked earlier and ducked inside. He reappeared minus the wig and carrying an expensive camera. He was now dressed in dark jeans and a long black leather coat. He put on a pair of sunglasses and walked briskly past the bowling green towards a car he’d boosted that afternoon, ready to play his part in the bluff.

The Fixer walked down the steps at the far end of the enclosure, carefully replacing the temporary barriers preventing public access into the garden. He cut along the dank path behind the cricket pitch, and lobbed the dead pervert’s head into the dense undergrowth, hoping for foxes.

Chapter One

Pakhan knew he had taken a risk coming to Scotland at this time, but the lure of golf – his second obsession – coupled with the perfect opportunity to add to his collection of Royal treasures had proved irresistible. Pakhan reached into his jacket and taking out his smart phone pulled up the article he’d found in this month’s edition of ‘Scottish Country’; the billionaire was particularly taken with the author’s romantic and yet accurate description of the object Pakhan had codenamed ‘The Prize’. Sitting back on the comfortable leather chair in the bar, he sipped from a glass of champagne and re- read the now familiar narrative,

The recently discovered Royal Orb is genuine. Eight international experts have confirmed the treasure is the real deal.

Yesterday this distinguished panel were joined by some renowned auctioneers and dealers from the world of fine art and antiques to decide how much The Orb is worth. In historical and cultural terms it’s obviously priceless, but what’s the value in hard cash? After much debate, the final votes were cast and the result was staggering. Based on the provenance and superb quality of the unique artefact, the amount at today’s prices was confirmed as sitting somewhere between eight and twelve million pounds sterling. The valuation and lunch took place in the refurbished Assembly Rooms on Edinburgh’s George Street, jointly sponsored by Historic Scotland, The National Trust and Scotland Now Media Group.

After the meal I spoke exclusively with two of the specialists who have spent the past few months working together to test allegations that the object was a fake. Professor Sir William Burt is a world authority on Royal Regalia. Dr Jessica-Jean Avon is an academic with a formidable reputation in both palaeography, the study of ancient writing, and carbon dating of documents. Sir William, barely able to contain his excitement at their result, said, "It’s been an honour and a privilege to be part of this project. We’ve also had tremendous fun, just like a modern treasure hunt! We’ve had to keep quiet mind, until now. Not unusual in our fields though, when so much rests on evidence gathering, plodding through data and the occasional lucky break. Did you know we all swore an oath of silence at the start of work? We couldn’t risk some twit using that Twitter thingy to blab with any premature speculation. We had to be one hundred percent certain of the provenance. Equally enthused by their findings Dr Avon added, Yes, hush hush stuff! We had a code name for the object, so that any communications between us would be harder to hack or leak. We called it ‘Edinburgh’s Apple’!"

Readers will remember The Orb was found last winter during renovation works in Holyrood Palace. It had been buried in a simple wooden casket made of Scots Pine. Lying alongside the treasure was a diary. Both items were individually wrapped in Paisley patterned scarves made of wool and silk. The author of the journal has now been indisputably confirmed as Alexander, the tenth Duke of Hamilton, seventh Duke of Brandon and hereditary Keeper of Holyrood House. The handwritten entries on the brittle paper, which is bound in the finest calf hide, are fascinating reading. The pages have been damaged by water and age, but the group of genius historians and boffins have now deciphered the script. This is the story they told me during their well earned lunch.

The Duke’s notes state The Orb was commissioned by him and Sir Walter Scott in 1820. Their original scheme was a closely guarded secret, with a plan to present the orb to the new King, following his coronation in 1821. Their inspiration was Scott’s successful mission of 1818. In that year, Scott and a small team of military men had recovered the fabled but long-lost Crown Jewels, known as ‘The Honours of Scotland’, from the depths of Edinburgh Castle. The Honours had last been used to Crown Charles II but during the years of the Protectorate under Oliver Cromwell they had been hidden away, then forgotten. The Prince Regent had been delighted with the success of this real life treasure hunt, and gave Scott the title of Baronet. The Orb was to become a modern addition to ‘The Honours’, sitting alongside The Crown, Sword of State and Sceptre. That was Plan A. The diary entries describe how contemporary events changed their plans. In particular, the Scottish Insurrection of 1820 had re-invigorated ordinary people to demand reform, not surprising in a country where at that time only one person in every two hundred and fifty had the right to vote. The Duke and the Baronet had quietly put aside their original scheme. When The King gave Scott less than a month to organise his entrance to Edinburgh in 1822, The Duke came up with Plan B. The Orb would be a surprise for George IV from the Scottish people, to be presented during his visit as an enduring symbol of peace and unity. Just prior to his departure, The King would receive The Orb in a final ceremony. The Duke and Scott had scripted a response for the Monarch, where he would thank The People, then ask The Keeper to hold it safe, in Scotland. On his next visit the ritual was to have been reversed with George IV presenting The Orb back to the populace. We know the history books confirm Scott pulled off a remarkable spectacle worthy of modern Hollywood for The King’s visit of 1822. None mention a Royal Orb, or its fate.

Scott and The Duke were no fools and they were undoubtedly aware of the growing contempt for George IV’s extravagant lifestyle. The potent mixture of heavy drinking, love affairs, possible laudanum addiction and general debauchery is well documented. It’s clear from the manuscript that Scott and The Duke had the sense to check out their revised scheme with some contemporaries, albeit at the eleventh hour. The notes in the journal end with the following lines, translated here from early nineteenth century vernacular into modern English.

As I write the sun is rising. Scott and I dined last night with six good men and true. They are wholly in our confidence on the delicate matter we met to discuss and entirely trustworthy. After a hearty dinner we debated long into the night. Some exceptionally fine whisky, port and brandy were our only refreshments. Scott and I listened carefully to their sensible counsel. The decision was unanimous. We will keep the magnificent gift safe and hidden until there is a monarch worthy of such a symbol. The six wise men are not identified. This is the last entry in the journal and dated just a week before The King’s arrival at The Port of Leith on his yacht ‘The Royal George’.

The picture accompanying this report shows The Orb. No reproduced image can do the object justice. It is a near-perfect sphere, crafted from blue hone granite with a diameter of twenty centimetres and a weight of around eight kilos. The stone is covered with four wide bands of silver and gold. These broad strips of fine metal intertwine and are heavily embossed with fresh water pearls and precious stones. Amethysts, sapphires, emeralds and rubies all dazzle the eye. The globe is topped off by a large Maltese cross made of solid gold. Each arm is studded with four diamonds, said to represent England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. There are two Latin phrases engraved in to the gold, repeated on each side and clearly legible; ‘Semper fidelis (always faithful)’ and unus populous sub dues (one nation under god).

The Princess Royal will unveil The Orb later this month at The National Museum, where it will be on display for a year. Next June it will move to The Crown Room at Edinburgh Castle, which is currently being refurbished. During a special service The Orb will be installed by The Queen in its final resting place.

Pakhan put his mobile down on the table and knew that by tomorrow morning the real Prize would be with him. If his plan worked, it would be a further twenty four hours before the public would know there had been a theft at all. He smugly thought how clever an idea it had been to commission a convincing ‘fake’. It had cost him tens of thousands of Euros and the discretion of a superb silversmith on the continent, but worth every cent if it served his purpose. It would be this duplicate that was destined for the media frenzy that would follow the robbery. The authorities would be so absorbed trying to recover the treasure – plus repair any collateral damage that might ensue – that they’d never work out what had happened until it was too late. He was even willing to sacrifice his current gang and the copy to ensure his own freedom with the true Orb. If he got to keep the copy then he would have a bonus prize from the scheme. Smiling to himself as he considered his own brilliance, he checked the smaller of his two phones, which had buzzed discreetly from his shirt pocket. The text message was succinct;

Weather is lovely. Your house had been cleaned. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.

Pakhan clicked a short reply and reached for the plate of hot appetisers which had just been placed on the small table at his elbow. He demolished six of the haggis and whisky filled filo bites before picking up his second mobile and pressing number one for speed dial. It rang only once before being picked up,

Darling, it’s me. How are you? Looking forward to our reunion?

The sultry voice at the other end of the conversation replied,

Si, Il mio amore, I am packed and will catch the train to Milan tomorrow. Some shopping there of course and dinner with friends before I meet you at our favourite hotel the following day.

After some particularly cringe worthy declarations of eternal love, the pair rang off. Satisfied with the plans for each half of his double life, Pakhan signalled to a waiter for the bill, and then walked through to the restaurant where his golf crowd were already seated at a discreet table. The group of five had no idea about his alter-ego. His public narrative was well known and mainly true. Pakhan had made the legitimate part of his wealth in energy supply during the 1990’s, and now played the international stock and business angel investment markets, when not helping his wife enhance their collection of fine art and antiques. Less well known was how he’d facilitated unrest and disruptions of the global supply chain in oil and gas to leverage a fortune for himself and his associates. Pakhan raised a hand in greeting as he walked over to the semi-private table set in the bay window. He sat down and picked up his glass. It held a perfectly aired 1990 chateau Margaux.

Finders Keepers

Chapter Two

Rob had first noticed the slightly sinister guy on the way to dinner when he shoved past the school group, nearly knocking Rob on to the road outside The National Museum. The man was wearing a long black leather coat that reached almost to his ankles and muttering in to a cell phone in what sounded like Russian. No one else seemed to see what had happened as the crowds from various Fringe and Festival venues in the area hit grid lock; people moving between performances competed with the groups rushing from the parked coaches to the Castle Esplanade for the early evening performance of The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo.

A couple of minutes later the trench-coated figure cut ahead of Rob once more, this time at the junction next to the statue of Grey Friar’s Bobby. Rob got a clear look at the left hand side of his face, which had a zigzag scar running from the cheek to the neck, and Rob’s over active imagination and enthusiasm for James Bond style villains subconsciously christened him Scarman.

Rob looked round for Alex, his height enabling him to easily see across the heads of people spilling off the pavements. Rob was tall, with dark brown almost black hair. Wearing his newest jeans, blue shirt and brogue style shoes, plus a tweed jacket he’d bought in a second hand shop at home, he was currently channelling a look somewhere between young fogey and a couple of his favourite characters from T.V. and films. Rob lived mainly in his head, and firmly believed many writers of mysteries and thrillers had only scratched the surface in their adventures into the unknown. His bright blue eyes scanned the swarms of people, and quickly spotted his friend’s neon orange hair and wiry build.

Alex was shorter, with brown eyes, masses of freckles and a smile that was already starting to charm some of the girls in school. Talented in various sports, he always dressed to be ready for action at a moment’s notice, just in case any of the major national or international teams needed his talents; today he was wearing a school football top, matching hoodie, black jeans and brand new trainers. Rob didn’t get a chance to point out Scarman to Alex; just as they caught up with each other on the crowded old town pavement some of the others from the school group called to them across the road.

Rob, Rob, Alex, we’re over here! Come on, can you take a quick photograph of us with the famous dog? Puleeze? It was Rob’s twin sister Lisa. In addition to her loud voice and the dark looks that mirrored his own, she was obsessed with two things; animals and photography.

OK, no problem. Rob was happy to oblige. For once, the hassle of having a twin sister in the same year at school was compensated for by the fact she and Jo were best pals. Rob had fancied Jo since the start of the year, but so far had not progressed beyond ‘friend’ on Facebook and the occasional awkward comment in the Library. He’d thought about following her on Twitter too, but felt that was a bit too obvious and might be misconstrued as some sort of stalking. During his encounters with Jo he inevitably said something that had sounded cool in his head when rehearsing his next chat up line on the bus to school, but which crashed in to cyber space when uttered out loud. He hoped this school trip would give him the chance to show Jo his brilliant intellect if not manly charm. However, some brutal feedback from Alex, who had been sitting next to him on the bus coming over the Forth Road Bridge, suggested the Lynx effect could be overdone.

He dodged through the hordes of Festival goers, closely followed by Alex, and joined the growing crowd of students and teachers, all standing