Skin in the Game

By Tomas Byrne

TRAPPED IN A MAZE OF SECRETS AND LIES
WHAT IS THE “TRUTH” WHEN THE NUMBERS GET BIGGER?

When Joe Hawkins left the US State Department, he left international intrigue behind and took a prestigious position as a professor at Oxford University. His younger brother’s disappearance upends his tranquil academic life and plunges him into a world where covert government intelligence meets international high finance. His search for Sam will uncover his brother’s ties to a shadowy London investment firm and an insidious network of international corruption.

CAN YOU TRUST YOUR MEMORY AND SENSES?

MI6 psychiatrist Kate Farrow has cracked some tough cases, but when faced with a suspected terrorist suffering from torture-induced amnesia, she knows she’s in over her head. The clock is ticking, and Kate must unlock the secrets in his battered psyche to prevent the loss of innocent life. Only by discovering what lies at the core of her own identity will Kate find a way to separate the truth from a shell game of greed and exploitation.

MYSTERY, SUSPENSE AND UNEXPECTED ROMANCE

Skin in the Game is an intricately woven story of international political and corporate wrangling that takes readers on a fast-paced journey across Europe and the Middle East.

EDITORIAL REVIEWS

'The Bottom Line: A breathtakingly intense conspiracy thriller ripped straight from the headlines. Brilliant characterization and a riveting global puzzle will have Jason Bourne fans clamoring for Byrne's next installment in the series.' -- bestthrillers.com (ranked: The Best Thrillers of 2015)

'Tomas Byrne's first novel is an ingenious and seamless blend of fast-paced, page-turning, mainstream, at times almost Bondian fiction and something rather more mysterious, even weird and highly literary. This is an outstanding, richly entertaining, effortlessly smart and very promising debut. Skin in the Game is a book that deserves to be widely read and Byrne, already an assured talent, is an author to watch.' -- Karl French, book and film critic, author and editor

'One is reminded of Orwell's dystopian nightmare Nineteen Eighty-Four ... Byrne's vision is of such a world. He warns us not to fear the enemy "within" so much as the horrifying truth that the enemy is actually all around us, governs us, knows and controls everything we do and is prepared to do anything to preserve its power. One immediately recoils at such a thought, and attempts to deny the implications, but the insistency of the writing and the thrust of the unfolding plot make it impossible but to draw the same stark conclusions.' -- Jeremy Sheldon, screenwriter and author

'A very superior thriller ... Byrne adroitly manages the tension and confusion ... entertaining and informed.' -- The Morning Star

‘VERDICT: Touchdown’ – The Wisconsin Lawyer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tomas Byrne
• Release date: Jan 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9789198223217

Tomas Byrne

Canadian author Tomas Byrne is a native of Ontario, and received his education at McGill University, York University and the University of Oxford. For twenty years, he worked in London as a lawyer and banker. His novel, Skin in the Game, is a thriller that raises questions about today's controversial political and social issues. Byrne's writing has roots in his extensive study of philosophy, mythology and religion. He counts Joseph Conrad, Thomas Mann, James Joyce, John le Carré among his literary influences; Friedrich Nietzsche, Gilles Deleuze, Charles Taylor, Murray Bookchin among his philosophical influences. Byrne resides in Sweden with his wife and two sons.

Book preview

Chapter 2

What are the causes of terrorism?

Joe Hawkins rubbed the back of his neck and peered out at his students. An evening lecture. A hundred or so had gathered in the sleek TS Eliot Theatre at Merton College, one of Oxford’s oldest colleges. Inside, there were no remnants from the past, no indication of the institution’s distinguished history, just new, polished oak against rows of gray auditorium seats rising to the back, with the overhead lights set too brightly.

The class was ‘Terrorism, Theory and Policy.’ Hawkins had come to Oxford on secondment. It was week three, but he was still not settled. Time had slowed down, but he was not yet relaxed.

We’ve looked at various ways to define terrorism. I think we’re at least agreed that terrorism is politically motivated, involves violence against innocent people, and is usually intended to influence an audience. I want to spend some time now focusing on causes …

He’d made nightly excursions to the local pub where he’d consumed too many pints, but he had gained no more insight into why he was here or what he needed to do. He stared out into the space in the middle of the room.

Number one. Social and political injustice causes terrorism. People commit acts of terrorism when they are trying to right what they perceive to be a social or political or historical wrong. People resort to terrorism when they have been stripped of their land or rights or economic welfare. When they believe there is no other course of action …

He had spent two years at Columbia and then put in a request for temporary residence at the Department of Politics and International Relations, University of Oxford. He could think of no specific career-related reason. He just needed to get out of New York for a while.

He shifted his eyes and pulled at his red turtleneck sweater. As he scanned the room, his gaze landed and briefly fixed in turn on two men in dark suits and trench coats who had walked in, one at the side door and the other on the side gallery. They were wearing discreet earpieces and seemed to be talking to one another. In the context of a university lecture hall, they couldn’t have stood out more.

Number two. Ideology causes terrorism. Terrorism must be justified by ideas, socially and psychologically, before it can be executed. Most people would never kill an innocent person to make a point. You can only turn into a person who would do that if you believe you are doing the right thing or a morally acceptable thing. You can only get there if you subscribe to an ideology that gives you the moral justification to kill …

New York was not Washington, but it was still too close. The US Department of State brought Hawkins credibility, but at a price. It seemed like every day he was accosted by someone reminding him of his experience at State. He stroked the back of his hair. He wasn’t running away, just looking for space to breathe.

They were standing in exactly the same square position, hands clasped behind their backs. Not regular plainclothes cops. Better dressed. More aware.

Number … three. Terrorism is organized crime. All the ideology and social theory surrounding the question of terrorism is a diversion, a smoke screen. Lots of people live in unjust circumstances but don’t resort to terrorism. Or believe in radical political change, but don’t resort to violence. Terrorists cause social disruption, social disruption creates fear, and this leads to weak states. Weak states allow organized crime to grow. Terrorists deal in drugs, extortion, commodity extraction, human trade for a large profit. It’s all economics. Terror is big business. Any questions so far?

Credibility, he thought. Open policy analysis. And debate. Diplomacy. Consensus. Versus … intelligence. Counter-terrorism initiatives. Covert military action.

They must be service guys. How on earth did I ever get involved in government work when I’m allergic to this kind of thing? He cracked his knuckles.

One well-dressed student toward the back of the theater stood up confidently to speak.

It seems to me that the term ‘terrorism’ is overused in the world we live in today. You can’t open a newspaper without reading about some act of terrorism being committed somewhere. Is that because there is just more terrorism exposed today, or is the term being used more broadly now?

Interesting question. Lots of terms are used when referring to political acts of aggression: freedom fighters, clandestine groups, guerrilla warfare, insurgencies, rebel fighters, rogue states, civil war. Terrorism is a political term. In the world we live in today, it’s probably one of the most politicized terms out there. And there is, of course, the tendency to classify acts by the ‘other side’ as acts of terrorism. One of our tasks here is to wade through the double-speak to get at what we think is an unbiased approach to assessing it all. But even if we’re successful in this, we’re unlikely to agree in the end.

After the lecture, he took some questions. The two men then simultaneously gestured for a word. He watched as they approached from separate angles, closing the triangle. The room was hot, his mouth dry.

Mr. Hawkins, how do you do? I’m Detective Inspector McLeod, said the taller one as he passed him his card. We were hoping to have a few moments of your time.

McLeod was standing too close.

Sure.

Hawkins pointed to the front-row seats. McLeod and Hawkins sat, while the other officer stood and watched.

We are from the Economic and Specialist Crime Department of the London Metropolitan Police, said McLeod. We’ve come about your brother. Have you seen or spoken to him lately?

The officer who was standing rocked back and forth on his feet, toes pointed outward. Hawkins crossed his arms and swallowed in an effort to counter the burning, nauseous sensation in his throat.

No, not for some time. Is something wrong? What’s happened? Is he in some kind of trouble?

No, nothing to be alarmed about at this stage. It’s just we’ve been trying to find him for two days without success.

Why is the Specialist Crime branch looking for my brother?

His stomach twisted. He bit the inside of his left cheek to distract himself, to help him focus.

We’re part of the team investigating money laundering. What we’d like is for you to come to our offices tomorrow, and we can fill you in on the details then.

McLeod raised an eyebrow at Hawkins.

The relief of ending the meeting outweighed the frustration of the wait.

Sure, he said uncertainly.

The two men nodded and left.

He stepped outside the theater, lit up a Marlboro and walked through the quads and cloisters of Merton College. The cool air and the warm smoke hit his lungs. He gazed up at the gargoyles and dragons on the College Chapel sneering down on him. From a distance, the bells of Tom Tower chimed through the night. Sam is always pushing the limits, he thought. What kind of trouble is he in?

He made his way down Merton Street, across Oriel Square to Bear Lane and the Bear Inn public house. A very old pub. Even at 5’10", Joe had to duck to enter. He walked in and found Carl Frazer at the window table with two freshly poured pints of ale.

Joe, I did the honors. I only have time for a couple, so I thought I’d give us a head start. London Pride OK?

Carl was the quintessential Oxford professor, elderly, larger than life and more than a bit eccentric. A longstanding member of Christ Church College, he had gone out of his way to make Joe welcome.

You read my mind. Where are you off to tonight?

Supper, he said, with a smile playfully masquerading as a frown. Good friend of mine, Tariq Muhammad, Balliol, computer science. He heads up the Oxford Virtual Security Institute. You know the institute is making quite a name for itself internationally, and the university can’t seem to stop giving him money to do more.

What do a metaphysics professor and a cyber-security guru talk about over, let me guess, a decent bottle of claret?

Reality. He grinned. Actually, that’s the problem, Joe. When he talks shop, I’m with him until about half-way through the first sentence and then I’m floating somewhere outside of space-time. Without the claret, that part of the evening would be a total disaster. He was banging on the other day about variable-length encryption keys and randomly generated passwords on demand. Mean anything to you?

No. Hawkins took a deep glug from his pint.

But he’s a lovely fellow, and after the shop talk is over, there’s always some good banter. I meant to tell you, there were some rather serious-looking chaps asking for you today at the porter’s lodge.

He crinkled his owl-like eyebrows.

I think I just met them.

Asking all sorts of questions, where you were from, when you arrived, where you were staying. Asked for contact details. Anything to worry about, Joe? If you are having any visa issues or that sort of rubbish, please do let me help you sort it out.

Joe focused on the candle on the table, watched it flicker as the pub door opened and another customer stepped up to the bar. The door creaked shut. He felt the walls of the pub closing in on him, his mind spinning. Then he took a deep breath and smelled the mixture of beer and oak wafting throughout the pub.

No, but thanks, Carl.

No high-jinx espionage or anything like that?

I really don’t know what it’s all about. All they told me was my brother has gone missing, and they would like to ask me some questions.

Is this the investment-banker brother you’ve mentioned?

Private equity, or merchant banking, something like that, yes. He’s flying out somewhere every week, so I’m sure it’s nothing.

Joe stared at the floor to the side of table.

But it does seem a bit of a coincidence.

Coincidence? Ah, I think you mentioned you had some unfinished business with your brother.

Younger brother. Sam and I were … close when we were very young. But we drifted apart.

Joe shifted in his chair and smiled at Carl.

Another pint?

Indeed. Listen, before I forget, there was a package for you at the porter’s lodge. I dropped it off at your office before coming over.

Joe went to the bar and leaned against it, noticing on his right the grad student from his Wednesday seminars. She flicked her blonde hair and smiled. He made a half-assed effort to smile back, then returned to the table.

Carl nodded.

She’s been eying you since you walked in, Joe. Drifted apart, you say. How so?

Maybe not drifted … more like a rift. It’s messy. My mother died many years ago. My father passed away just two years back. So now, it’s just the two of us. I’m hoping to break down some walls while I’m here.

Joe stared at the grad student at the bar.

You know, Joe, Schopenhauer could offer some guidance with this, with your brother, that is.

Joe held his right hand up.

Carl, I—

Carl continued, undaunted.

For Schopenhauer, all nature, including man, is the expression of the insatiable will to life.

The grad student trained her eyes on Joe.

And while things we experience out here in the world are separate and different, our inner experience is this undifferentiated will to life, which is the same will that thrives in all other living things.

Carl tapped his finger on his temple. Joe, almost entranced, awoke to Carl as if he’d snapped his fingers.

And here’s the point, Joe. If we are all derived from this same source, this same universal will to life, then all our dealings with each other can be reduced to one simple idea—compassion.

He held his hand to his chest.

Joe closed his eyes for a moment, feigned a smile.

Sounds very Buddhist.

Compassion is the golden thread that runs through all of the world’s great religions. You just need to separate the wheat from the chaff. You must make amends with your brother, Joe, sort out whatever differences there are. You will find a way, of that I am sure.

Joe widened his eyes. Carl Frazer, a dying breed. He looked back at the bar. The woman was gone.

*

Walking home. Schoolyard. Wire fences. Three blocks up the East Side. Sam following two yards back. Eyes on the candy and everything around him. Not inside, like Joe. Sam looking for the next thrill, while Joe debated in his head the principle of things, anything that happened, on any particular day.

Seven and nine years old. The currency: marbles. A game, played only to accumulate, good for nothing else. Together, they had amassed a marble fortune, Sam cutting every corner to get there, inching the marbles closer to the pot, adding his winnings to the chest. The lectures Joe gave Sam on playing fair. Sam shared everything with me.

Sixteen and eighteen. Joe, long hair and scruffy beard, retro gear, party crowd. Sam clean-cut, athletic, ambitious. The principles of rebellion. The will to lead. Joe relaxed into the path of least resistance. But Sam craved something more. It was always about the reward.

Both had the grades. Joe packed in college and traveled through Southeast Asia for a year. Sam graduated early and was accepted into an undergraduate program in math at Princeton.

The year everything changed. The importance of belonging. The shape of time.

He was walking home. One foot in front of the other. Thoughts hitting from behind, racing ahead, vanishing behind dark corners. Joe looked up to check his location. Broad Street. It wasn’t the shortest way home.

He stopped at Martyrs’ Memorial, pulled out a smoke and lit up. The nicotine fired its way through synapse, leaving no record, nothing new. He looked down and read, To the glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His servants … who near this spot yielded their bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church of Rome …

A headstone for the faithful. A golden thread, Carl, perhaps … but so much chaff.

*

He turned the key to his front door, dropped his bag on the staircase and his jacket on the balustrade. The college townhouse was small but had a modern, open design with the living and dining rooms toward the front and a kitchen to the rear. There were two bedrooms and a study upstairs. As he made his way to the kitchen, his mobile phone rang. He was startled: only a handful of people had his new UK number. It was Frank Clemens, a CIA operative within the National Clandestine Service while Joe was with the State Department. He didn’t know much about Frank’s role within NCS, but suspected he had led covert initiatives as part of the Special Activities Division.

Hey, Frank.

Joe the man. Say, how are things across the pond in jolly old England? Do you have your ’brolly with you now?

Frank could do many things. Morphing his Louisiana accent into an English one wasn’t one of them.

I’d kill for a porterhouse, but other than that, good. How are you? How’s the family?

All good, man, all good. Semi-retirement. Teaching a course in international security at Georgetown. Out, but still inside, you know how it is. Now, Joe, let me ask you a question. Why the hell are you over there?

You know the story, Frank. I’m trying to reinvent. It was too claustrophobic at Columbia. Crazy stuff. I think I was starting to get paranoid. I needed to get out for a while. Just breathe, you know?

You’re thirty-six. If you slow your breathing down just a notch more, you’ll be flatlining. Is that the plan?

It’s hard for me to explain.

Not to me. We’ve been through it all, right?

Clemens toned it down.

Joe, you know I keep pretty good contact with everyone still. The outlook seems to be shifting somewhat. It’s not a revolution or anything, more a subtle realignment of policy. Your work in counter-terrorism is still highly respected. I think there could be a role for you.

Don’t go there, Frank. It’s physically impossible for—

You’ve got a brilliant mind, Joe, a mind that DC needs. Why are you hiding, keeping it to yourself?

I’m not keeping it to myself. I’m just not good at compromise. You know, caving in on all your beliefs.

Bit extreme, my friend. It’s just politics. You knew that coming in.

I’m not cut out for it. Full stop. That part of my life is over.

"You are cut out for it, that’s the point. I’m not sure what you’re running from, but you were good at this."

Now you’re just starting to piss me off, Frank.

Chill. Chill, chill. All right, I get it. I know what it’s like. This stuff can damage you. It’s radiation for the soul. I just don’t want to see a good guy, a great friend, waste away, and waste his talents.

I’m getting back to what I do best. I’m good at ideas, concepts. I’ll leave implementation to my former colleagues.

All right, all right. You call me if you ever change your mind, OK? Meantime, don’t forget, you still have friends.

Frank meant well, but he didn’t understand. He was still together, scarred but not broken. He could still put up with the insanity of it all. Joe scratched his head and stared out of the front window. Change my mind? Change my life … A different trajectory.

He grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and a pack of cheese and onion crisps and sat down at the table to look over the personal emails on his laptop. His eye was immediately drawn to …

From: sam.hawkins@*densitycapital.com

To: joe.hawkins@*yahoo.com

Received: Friday 11 October 2013 5.36

Subject: Trust Account

Joe,

Here are the details for the trust account I have set up:

Account Name: Hawkins Family Trust

Bank Branch: Briggs Bank, Jersey

IBAN: 99 32 86 56000 7093 0035 90

You are principal beneficiary under the trust. Our lawyers Crossfeld and Bane have all of the documentation and can execute any transactions you suggest.

To a very successful year!

Best wishes,

Sam

And there was another one below:

From: sam.hawkins@*densitycapital.com

To: joe.hawkins@*yahoo.com

Received: Friday 11 October 2013 7.23

Subject:

Joe,

I’ll meet you later this week. We need to talk about our clients. The only way this game works is if we’re calling the shots.

Sam

Joe shook his head and took a swig. He hadn’t received an email from his brother in as long as he could remember. He’d been busy and hadn’t had time to check his personal email address all week. What trust account? What game? Clients? It was beyond bizarre. He felt the skin on his face tighten.

He moved to the couch and leaned back with his palms over his eyes. It was time to make the call. He’d been rehearsing and procrastinating long enough. He dialed Sam’s mobile and went straight to voicemail.

Sam, it’s Joe. I received your emails today. Look, I’m in England, believe it or not. Visiting professor at Oxford. I’ve been meaning to call. It’s been a long time. When you get a chance please call me back. 09873 638 739. Hope you’re well, Sam, we should talk, we really should.

He stared out the front window, and it hit him. Sam might have left a message on his US number. He hadn’t used it since he’d arrived. He ran upstairs and dug the phone out from the chest of drawers beside his bed. Thirty-three messages. Great. He skipped through till he heard Sam’s voice. He sounded breathless.

Joe, it’s Sam. I’m in trouble. I know some dangerous things. Things I didn’t want to know. What they’re doing here is wrong. And I was part of it … I’ve sent you a package. Lucy told me you were in Oxford. Just keep it safe, Joe. I’ll come to meet you later this week and explain. Let’s make it right, OK?

He replayed the message. Message sent Thursday 10 October 2013 at 9:36 p.m. Before the emails.

He tried Sam’s number several times. No answer. He tried calling Lucy but couldn’t get through. Lucy was Sam’s wife—she had been. They’d been separated for more than three years now, only recently divorced. He’d try her tomorrow while in London.

He poured himself a shot of Macallan, turned on some Dylan and sank back in to the couch. He swirled the liquid around in the glass, then balanced it at an angle, just at the tipping point. Flinch and it will spill, he thought. And then the glass is empty … What the fuck is Sam up to? Fucking Frank. Waste away? Too much. The sound of Visions of Johanna filled the room. The harp soothed his mind as the whisky trickled down his throat. He closed his eyes and plunged into the music.

*

Outside, a man in a black Audi was parked, three doors down. He skimmed through the same emails Hawkins had just read. He closed his laptop, scanned his handheld monitor and could see that the wireless cameras on the street, the main floor and upstairs were all functional. He checked the GSM monitor installed on Hawkins’ US mobile. He removed the plugs from his ears and dialed his phone.

23:13 He’s asleep on the couch. All installations complete and operational. There’s a voicemail you should know about. Transferring now. Will report back in the a.m.

The Audi sped away.

Chapter 3

Sofi Watt observed Hamish McLeod through the glass door as he patrolled the conference room on the thirty-sixth floor of the tower. He was looking out across the Thames at the latest addition to central London’s skyline, the Shard. He’d been waiting twenty minutes now for her to finish the conference call with her boss in the adjoining office.

The morning sun shone in on the mostly glass barrier of the Gherkin causing McLeod to raise a salute over his brow as he stared straight out. He turned and helped himself to another croissant from the tray on the table, then took in the sights below—St. Paul’s, the Tower of London and Tower Bridge—as he gorged himself on the pastry.

McLeod had spent most of his career in the special forces of the London Metropolitan Police: various groups within Specialist Operations, including forensics, intelligence, serious crime and counter-terrorism. He was now in the Economic and Specialist Crime Department, not at all a forensic accountant, but he knew how to sniff out a scam. He had street experience. Forty, she guessed, a little gray on the sides.

McLeod’s assignment was to assist her with police matters. She was an MI5 agent on loan to the Economic Crime Command, a division of the National Crime Agency. A lawyer in the City for a number of years before moving to MI5, she understood financial structures. But she was never a cop. McLeod needed her and she needed him.

McLeod lifted his chest and sucked in his waistline as she entered the room. She adjusted her jacket and took a seat at the far end of the table, pretending not to notice his eyes fixed on her as she walked past.

Hi, Hamish, so you found us OK?

Nice shop—where’s the Jacuzzi?

We need to be in the City in order to fight City crime. ECC is experimenting with different locations. I don’t expect this one to last. For the time being, it’s HQ for a number of our more complicated files.

But the boss is camped out in Victoria? How does he feel about that?

He’s OK. So how did it go yesterday?

Fine. Hawkins has agreed to come here later today. He knows I work in money laundering. Can you give me a little background now?

Sofi leaned back in her chair.

I’ve been working on a file for six months or so involving a merchant bank called Density Capital.

Merchant bank?

Well, that’s the best way to describe them. Density’s owned by some very wealthy individuals who made their money in the City. It floated ten years ago and now has a wide institutional backing. Its main activities are in private equity. The founders put in significant amounts of their own capital and have attracted institutional money to co-invest in their funds. They invest primarily in control positions of private corporates. Main focus is emerging markets. Highly illiquid stuff.

Why not just refer to them as a private-equity firm?

Density doesn’t limit itself that way. While they are best known for their private equity business, they also have credit and trading capabilities, and they deal in commodities and other banking activities that support or tie into their EM investments.

OK, so what led to the investigation?

One of Density’s most successful funds is called Passage. Passage invests in companies operating in Central Asia, the Middle East and North Africa. We started investigating some of the investors in the fund that looked suspicious. Certain charities. You know, Hamish, some charities are, well, anything but charitable.

McLeod reached for another pastry.

Sure, some are funnels for moving the proceeds of crime. Some back all sorts of dubious activities.

The two charities in question were fervently religious: Christian fundamentalist. Set up offshore and receiving funds mostly from the US, but also Canada and some countries on the continent. Mostly high-net-worth individuals and family offices. We had some help from the US Justice Department who also had their eye on them. We did most of the work here and Density assisted us openly. In the end, we couldn’t find any illicit sources for the funds. Their activities were confined to supporting their religious views. Density’s KYC ‘know-your-client’ procedures were reviewed, and they passed with flying colors.

So what are we here to discuss?

About a week ago, Density filed a suspicious activity report. It concerns the activities of one of its key employees, Sam Hawkins. Hawkins is one of the top marketers for the Passage fund. He raises capital from clients mostly in the Middle East, from wealthy Arabs, institutions, sovereign wealth funds. The report filed didn’t relate to these types. It related to some commodities-trading accounts set up by Hawkins for other clients that didn’t match this profile.

McLeod raised his eyebrows and leaned forward.

We followed the money through a series of shells, and it led back to a few well-known entities supporting terrorist activities in North Africa. The commodity trades involve the physical delivery of gold and diamonds. Seems Hawkins was taking a healthy cut and transferring funds to a trust account in Jersey. Density claims he fraudulently manipulated the KYC process to clear the way for the trades.

And Hawkins has bolted. A couple of my guys are out looking for him as we speak.

But something doesn’t add up. I know Sam Hawkins from my prior investigation. My main contact was Density’s head of legal, Claire Nelson, but Hawkins was heavily involved. He knew everything there was to know about the Passage fund. He was put forward by the CEO himself.

She crossed her arms and ran her fingers over her necklace.

Sam is a big hitter at Density. Why would he take such risks when he was already taking home a treasure trove, and his star was on the rise? But also, he didn’t strike me as the kind—

What kind do you mean?

She stroked her neck with her hand and, from the warmth, thought it must be deep red.

Not the kind who would get involved in terrorist activities.

How does all of this involve brother Joe?

Claire Nelson forwarded me two emails that HR recovered from Sam’s files. The bank account in Jersey is mentioned. The emails could implicate Joe Hawkins. As Sam’s nowhere to be found, I thought we better get the brother in for a friendly discussion.

Let me stop you there. There’s something else you should know. MI6 have contacted me with some further information on Density.

Sofi stood up, glanced at Hamish and walked over to the window.

MI6? What could they possibly—

Vincent Avery. I’ve known him for years. He’s in their counter-terrorism group. MI6 have intelligence on a bombing that took place in Dubai. It involved an employee of Density.

Oh, my …

She felt a sting in her temples. She paused and looked down.

No. Not Sam Hawkins. A guy by the name of Ahmad Ghazali. He and another chap, Omar Sadir, and two crew were on board a yacht last Thursday. Sadir was an investment manager at the Dhatan Investment Authority. The yacht was blown out of the water. The UAE Police Special Unit is calling it a terrorist bombing.

Ghazali? I recognize the name. He worked on Hawkins’ team. He was a junior, helped Sam with accounts in the Gulf States. DIA is one of the largest sovereign wealth funds in the region.

Avery called me yesterday. Somehow or other he knew about your investigation into Density. I guess he called me because he knows I’m working with you.

*

McLeod took a few calls. Sofi returned to her desk and pored over her documents and diagrams. Three months ago, she had packed all these files away—case closed. But here she was, back on the case. She flicked through the pages marked with yellow Post-It notes. For what? Most likely all this recent stuff was completely unrelated to her earlier enquiries. A coincidence, surely. Except for Sam.

This file was closed. It was never intended to last. There was some chemistry, yes. Maybe for a few brief moments she’d strayed over a line that she’d initially drawn. A few moments in time. It was a fling, nothing more. She and Sam had both made that clear. He was fun, so why not? Her investigation was already safely shelved before anything had happened. And what had happened was a one-night indiscretion … possibly a few nights. She smiled at the memory. It was just a minor diversion. A pit stop along the way. Ancient history and …

The phone rang, and she picked up: Sofi Watt.

Sofi, it’s Mick again.

Hi, boss, I mean, hi, Mick. McLeod just stepped out.

Sofi, where’d we leave off? This Density thing. We need to keep focused on what we do and let others do what they do best.

Did you hear about the bombing in Dubai?

He sighed into the phone.

"Yes, I was about to tell you before your meeting. The point is, we should follow up the Jersey account and gather the information necessary to connect the dots. If there is a terrorist angle, we’ll need to involve other departments to follow it up. It’s not our job, particularly when bombs start going off. If there’s something to all of this, stick to nailing Hawkins."

Mick, I know the rules.

I know you do, it’s just this Density file keeps coming back, and I need you on other, more important matters.

Understood. Let’s talk about it at our weekly.

She glanced at the picture on her desk. Kent. The estate had been in her family for generations. She and Dad in front of the old barn that had since been demolished. A glimpse of autumn sun shining through the rolling hills. Home. What