The Laundrywoman

By Samuel Caulcrick

The global shift of conventional bank savings accounts to stocks in the 1990s inspired a purposefully created investment conglomerate, whose methods made the mafia ownership of Laundromats across the U.S.A in the seventies pale in comparison.

From little-known oil-soaked islands in West Africa, The Farm, a rogue organisation, sprung from the ruins of the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, BCCI. It operated only within the limits of the imagination of its founding fathers. The Farm's purpose was evil and its methods unspeakable, as it mingled slush funds of questionable origins into the pool that contained the genuinely-earned assets of ordinary hard-working people.

It grew with global complicity, starting in the United Islands, crisscrossing the globe, across the seas and sands to Somalia - funding high-sea piracy, and in the West, it was the very highest level of politics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789557848

Book preview

Caulcrick

1

The sensible way to lock in profits in stock trading… is to use the professional’s number one investment rule!

This was on the plaque at the entrance of The Farm’s headquarters in Kingstown, United Islands

Sunrise was thirty minutes ago, earlier than expected; the sun bathes the city crimson as it leaves the shadows of the city skyline, to the west, across the city plains.

Inside, Raymond lies in near total darkness, unsure of his whereabouts – unthinking. He could be brain dead. A bright pinhole camera image of an object that perches on a protrusion outside is the only source of light. It is the first thing he notices as he opens first one eye and then the other. He cannot find words to describe what may be a bird; however, he has an inner peace that feels cool. Having a state of complete emptiness would be fun. The impression on the wall, in any case, looks fuzzy and inverted – must be a bird; the more he tries to figure out what the image is, the more puckered the brow on his face becomes. He soon gives up.

He continues to struggle and reckons his brain, or is it the gyroscope or whatever, inside his head must have toppled. His orientation at the moment is not the best. Where is he, in any case? He remains motionless, lies on his back with his two legs outstretched. Without too much thought, he drags the right leg inward towards the centre of the bed, until that foot rests flat, squarely on the satin bedcover. The raised knee points to the ceiling, obscuring the image on the wall.

Words trickle back to his brain, and he begins to question what woke him up. Perhaps, it was the supposedly internal biological clock that people always said he had, ever since the academy. How he hated the reveille in the army. He remains motionless and listens, and can hear the gentle whine of the air conditioner, but something else seems to invade his privacy. Surreptitiously, he scans the room with only his eyes.

Voila! Lying at the far end of the king-sized bed is a figure snoring rhythmically. Still not knowing their whereabouts, he looks at the person intently, maybe too fixedly and discovers it is the lady he was with last night. His eyes become moist, from consuming every inch of the woman’s half sheet-covered nudity. Bit by bit, his memory crawls back, and he is now sure they are in his room, and lying in his bed. He, however, remains fixated on her.

Meanwhile, he recollects what took place in the night – or was it early this morning? A macho feeling creeps in his stomach as he wonders about his prowess. It was their first time, though they had kissed here and there for close to a week. His thoughts are still cloudy and try to zero in on some idea, but cannot; he gives up at the onset of a migraine. Instead, he allows his mind to wander into emptiness. Raymond continues to stare at the woman, but it seems as if he is looking into nothingness.

Finally, his gaze abandons the beautiful lady, and not wanting to disturb her, repositions himself quietly in the bed to face the other side of the room. Raymond’s eyes sweep like a camcorder, even in the dimly lit room; he focuses instead on a coffee table, a metre or so on his side of the bed. The coffee table has a glass top, and on it is one empty bottle of Dom Perignon; two crystal champagne glasses – empty of course; and a half-finished one-litre bottle of a single malt whisky. The vanity content of her purse is also strewn on the glass top.

What were they celebrating? Maybe they were feeling happy, but should they have drunk themselves silly? He knows they had a marvellous time. He remembers the woman told her life story in the bargain; he also said his but not everything. He had cleverly emptied her purse on the table, looking for whatever. He does not do drugs but instead thought the girl did. He did not find anything incriminating and was afterwards embarrassed, but was too drunk to apologise to her; not sure the girl noticed anything, in any case.

Each item on the coffee table seems to tell its own story. Raymond shifts his gaze back to the wall, but this time, the impression of the bird is no longer there. In its place, an intermittently brightening and dimming spot that stretches from the curtain highlights tiny particles of dust that swirl inconsonant with the air conditioner breeze.

Raymond appears absorbed on the solar spot, while his mind has fled the immediate environment to some four thousand miles south, into another continent, ruminating aimlessly the reminiscence of his relatively young life. Past happenings rush through his mind at a speed higher than that of light, and that captivates him.

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2

Eighty per cent of a share’s success has nothing to do with the company you think you’re investing in; it really is essential to know this if you don’t want to lose your money!

The Farm

The upper house of the National Assembly, the Senate, sitting in the federal capital has just thrown out the third-term bid of their president.

The chief operating officer of The Farm puts in place the company’s plan B. The audacity of the politicians, in the face of a massive bribe scandal that runs into millions of dollars, got the respect of even Raymond’s boss. If the president had succeeded, he reckons, it would have been same of the same. However, on both side of Nineteenth Street, in Washington D.C., it seems to be a sad day for the IMF and the World Bank. Milton Friedman’s disaster capitalism ideology, which has dominated the two financial institutions, is about to lose a staunch ally in a position of authority in one of Africa’s biggest countries.

Chief Nelson Albert, the country CEO of The Farm, sees the debate on live TV and knows what did it. The polls had suggested that people were against the elongation of tenure of their president, in any case. The politicians know their various constituencies are also watching the proceedings live.

Albert’s thoughts are Plato’s Republic’s dialogue between Socrates and Glaucon, where Glaucon, a student, challenged the master philosopher, Socrates, about morality. Glaucon had asked, Can any man resist the temptation of evil if he knows nobody can witness his acts? He was sure the politicians seemingly spoke the wish of their constituencies, knowing that the people that sent them to the federal capital could recall them. The devil TV cameras were doing their bit. Big Brother was watching, and there was less temptation to do evil.

In The Farm, the tide is changing. Albert wonders what would happen to the country, and indeed The Farm. The corporatist West wants the continuation of the economic reform that will guarantee the privatisation of the remaining state holdings in the country. There are ready-buyers, the likes of The Farm, acting on behalf of some global clients. A paper is on the president’s table for approval to sell two oil refineries to some clients that The Farm represents.

As an investment organisation, The Farm is of a multinational dimension, founded on the fear of erosion of wealth of some people, and thrives on the economic structure of shock and awe. Even so, the organisation cleverly supported both sides of the debate on the elongation of the tenure of office of the president with funds, just in case: this was for more than obvious reasons. Mr Albert knows the number of legislators, for instance, that The Farm has compromised, and laughed when he saw some of them on TV lying with ease.

The process, as it were, however, should create a refreshing political atmosphere. He is confident his company will ride the wave, no matter how rough. New players will come on board. The company will still recoup its investments, tenfold, he thinks. After all, it is a long way yet for the world, as things stand, to regain consciousness from the shock of globalisation.

In the southwest of the main island is the plush government reserved area, called Oba. The main island remains the nation’s commercial capital, though it used to double as the country’s administrative capital as well. As late as the beginning of the twenty-first century, Oba’s town planning and general architecture still exuded the memories of colonialism. British colonial governors and the Foreign Service staff lived there during the colonial days and well into the first years after independence.

It appeared the British had segregated themselves from the natives. The land area is a short distance from the beaches of the South Atlantic Ocean, known geographically as the Bight of Benin. Oba has it all – high ground; stable, and it is not reclaimed land, so devoid of the perennial floods, and it exists surrounded by the fresh water of the lagoon. It is the most serene and southerly area of the main island. The commercial centre is to the north, and that is where the natives live. South of the main island, however, is another island, called the Queen Island.

Queen Island was mostly marshland and uninhabited. After independence, it remained so until shortly after the beginning of the oil boom. With the aid of the petrodollar, it was sand filled. Today, Queen Island ranks as one of the best in the world, with beautiful landscaping, monumental architecture and skyscrapers. The island is bounded in the south by the Atlantic Ocean and sandwiched between the ocean and the beautiful freshwater of the lagoon. Fifty years after independence, Oba remains the choicest place to live. However, it is now populated mainly by foreign embassies’ staff, local civil servants, old money, and the country’s nouveau riche.

Chief Nelson Albert of The Farm belongs to the old money. His grandfather, Pa Albert, associated with the British colonial masters that administered the city then and that ensured lucrative contracts. Albert’s grandfather was one of the first two black surveyors in the country. It was he that mapped out most of the city’s streets. In return, he acquired a lot of choice landed properties around the town. Little Nelson got different treatment from his peers and was one of the few African children that mingled with their white counterparts. He was privileged, and that cemented his disposition towards the British. Advancing in age, Nelson started to drift towards his roots and begins to develop friendships among his people. He claims he is a free citizen of the world – truly global. His attitude demonstrates the claim, and many who interact with him will swear to that. Albert never sees the world through a racial prism. He sure sees it through the lens of mammon. He loves money, and so does everybody.

At seven minutes past the hour of two in the afternoon, a call came through to Number 85, Freeman Road, Oba – Albert’s place. The property sits in the middle of one acre of prime land. The design of the main house has been the same since the early 1950s. There are, of course, new tiles on the roof. It is still the old high-steep design. Outside of the house is made up of irregularly blown-out stone slabs that make up the walls, expertly laid. The building thus wears a greyish stony look. The ground is tendered adequately in natural grass and regularly watered electronically. The interior is modern; sixty per cent of the interior is marble of carefully blended colours and patterns. It looks peaceful. The downstairs’ furniture is sparse but modern. However, on the upper floor, it is ancient and clustered. The temperature in the house is electronically set at eighteen degrees centigrade and freshened by well-blended fragrances.

A metre or so to the left, inside, near the main door, lies a red telephone on a mahogany stool. It has been ringing for a while now. There is nobody around to answer it. The male servants are outside the building, engaged in other chores. The second wave of ringing soon caught the attention of one Austin, a servant. He lost that call, but at the third ring, he answers it.

At the back of the house, four high-end production cars – a BMW-740i, Range Rover, a Mercedes-600 are under a shade of blue tarpaulin supported by 6-inch white-painted steel columns and a red Ferrari in the garage The vehicles are all less than a year old and of different colours and types. The red Ferrari, however, is in a locked garage by itself. At 2.15 p.m., Austin, who is in a black tuxedo and a red bowtie, comes out, running with the red cordless phone. He runs across the well-tendered lawn onto the far end of the compound, where a sixty year old plays softball with a nine-year-old boy. The butler slows down – panting. His 105-kilograms body in a frame of 1.4 metres seems to be exerting too much demand on his lungs. He hands over the handset to the boy’s grandfather, still out of breath, and the little boy watches with mounting misgivings.

‘Austin, you have got to do something about your weight… I think I know what to do. I’m going to ban you from the kitchen. You practically live there.’

Nike does not like or approve of the intrusion. When Austin’s and the boy’s eyes met, the butler faked a smile. It seems unnatural, and he is confident the boy knows it. Chief Albert took the phone and listened to whomever. He only utters a couple of ahas and mmmh. In no time, the chief terminates the call and passes the handset back to the hired help. He dutifully turns his attention to his grandson. He will not be playing any game again today. Business seems to call. Apologising to the boy and excusing himself, he knows it is going to be a hard-swallow. He had promised to play with him today, and there had been many failed promises in the past, but he hopes the boy would one day understand. As he leaves the yard for the inside of the house, the boy tags along.

‘Granddad, should I also go and watch TV?’

Without looking back, Chief Albert saunters along, but his grandson persists.

‘I’ll be right back… I promise,’ he utters reassuringly when the boy persists.

That comforts the boy. He goes to play alone to await the return of his grandfather.

Austin sees the boy smile but thinks his boss is not looking too well. Something is not right, but then, you never know with the rich people. Nike plays alone, waiting. When it appears the old man is not coming any time soon, he runs into his grandfather’s study. Besides, it has started getting dark. The door seems shut, but it opens with an easy push, but what the little boy sees cuts short his tracks. It seems strange seeing the old man slumped on the study table. Surprisingly at his tender age, an alarm bell rings in his head. Is the old man playacting yet again? Only last week, he had pulled a similar trick on him.

‘Granddad… Granddad,’ he calls out, ‘you promised to come back and play.’ He calls out two more times, but the man is not moving. The boy hesitates and senses something is wrong.

‘Granddad, are you all right?’ he asks in a shaky, alarmed voice.

The old man is not answering, and that frightens him.

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3

Dealing in overseas options or markets involves currency risk as well as market risk. You must be aware of the risks and willing to accept them in order to invest in the markets.

The Farm

The Raymond that rushes out of the room is now in his world, alone. When the door clicks shut, he looks back involuntarily to be sure. A feeling of nostalgia hits him, but the atmosphere in the new enclosure seems welcome. His head still feels heavy, but the room smells of jasmine, which should help clear his mind.

He shudders at the temperature of the enclosure, which is a few degrees lower than the twenty degrees centigrade set in the other room. In spite of the freshness here, something else appears to hang in the air. Did something follow him here? He raises his left arm slightly and sniffs his armpit. The woman’s subtle fragrance fills his nose. He will ask for the name of the eau de toilette or whatever perfume she wore. It smells lovely.

For a little while, he looks on, though fully awake. The room is windowless but lit by a daytime lighting system. At long last, he remembers what brought him here and goes straight to work without further delay. He works secretly, and after some necessary connections, the pieces of equipment in the room clatter as transmissions to the two other locations, across the globe, in two different continents, commence. The transfer of data to those remote sites has begun, but he still has to back up the data as he normally should. Suddenly, the phone starts to ring. Out of annoyance and against his better judgment, before he could save the data, he takes the call.

He only needs to tap the red keyboard for the speakerphone to come alive. Momentarily, a familiar, bearded face, one he never wanted to see again, appears on the monitor with a cracked voice as usual. Raymond has hardly said anything when the man at the other end snarls.

They can both see each other through the networking of cameras. Raymond, however, is at a disadvantage: the man at the other side can monitor almost all of Raymond’s enclosure, and possibly every muscle of Raymond that twitches. He, on the other hand, can only see the other guy’s face. It seems information asymmetry: only one camera is transmitting from the other end. Meanwhile, multiple cameras are trained on Raymond from different angles in this room, and that to him is unfair.

‘Raymond, this is highly irresponsible of you…’ the bearded man barks. ‘You failed to check in yesterday as expected. I even directed that you should’.

He knows better than to argue and he had acted irresponsibly, but then there was no significant follow-up story to be reported. In the company’s books, he is not supposed to decide what to communicate and what not to. In their business, usurping responsibility without authorisation, as he just did, is never a grey area. He has no justification, and the admonishing is justifiable. The barrage of criticisms and warnings seems not to decrease, but then suddenly, it stops. Raymond feels relieved when the man’s face finally fades from the monitor. His ego, nonetheless, is slightly dented.

Did the woman sleeping in the other room hear anything? No chance, and that concern is probably more of chauvinism than anything else. He is sure she could not have. His firm expects its entire staff to articulate extreme secrecy. It is a world of knife-edge competitiveness. Wait a minute; he still has not backed up the data yet. He decides that will have to wait because she could wake up at any moment and she will start wondering where he is.

Quickly, he rounds up what he is doing, and re-emerges into where the girl lies. He checks the time with a slightly bruised emotion: it is only twenty minutes since he jumped out of bed. How time flies when you’re having fun! Not a chance, he is not having any. The bearded bastard made sure of that by piercing the bladder of his pride. He needs to get other things going, but first, he still has to go back and back up the data anyhow; that, however, will take some considerable time.

No, he is not going to take that risk. Right now, she is still asleep but could be a drag the moment she wakes up. He remembers he promised to take her out for shopping. Business, however, is calling. He cannot be seen to fail again so soon. He thinks genuinely about it. No, it is the girl that will have to leave.

Moving closer to where the lady is lying, he half screams, calling her by her name. He shouts. That is not his character – is he trying to share his frustrations? He will need to take it easy. He does not want to frighten her, because he likes her a lot. The woman, in any case, only grunts, and does not stir. He looks up, rechecks the time on the wall clock above the bed. It registers twenty-three minutes past eight, and with a little bit of physical effort, he wakes up the woman anyhow. Grudgingly, she sits up but remains in bed with one of her legs inside of it, while the other rests lightly on the floor. She stays that way for a while, like a statue – nothing on her moves, not even her eyes.

Finally, she gets up and seemingly sleepwalks towards somewhere. She is stark naked, with unsteady steps, and ambles away, while Raymond only stares after her. She soon disappears out of view through one of two adjacent doors. Did Raymond pay attention to where she went?

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4

If you will do stock buying by yourself, spread the betting, because these leveraged products carry a higher degree risk to your assets and it is possible to lose more than your initial investment. Only venture with money you can afford to lose

The Farm

Chief Nelson Albert lies in the hospital, critically ill, and the whole world of financial deals is in turmoil. There is a level-4 demand meant for his office in Kingstown, which has ended up some four thousand kilometres north in London because, for the first time in many years, Nelson is not on the seat. The document that came has Urgent stamped on it, and it is about the investment portfolio of Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, though not unusual by any means to The Farm. The Farm handles a couple of such, weekly. The heavy data traffic makes the mainframes in London and the two other locations around the world clatter continually.

Raymond’s apartment is soundproofed, of course. The London location doubles as his residence, but that is entirely his own decision. Staying in the apartment also masks the activities on the property, and these are giving some degree of recklessness. He can entertain guests as long as he guards the secrecy of his activities. In a simple term, he is a janitor, somewhat, but hardly partakes, come to think of it, of any data management nor does he take any decisions. Everything is from HQ, a lifestyle he currently relishes; it pays decent money with less responsibility and life feels like heaven.

Who wants information on the Venezuelan strongman? Who cares? The Farm never asks questions as long as the clients pay well. Aside from commodity brokerage, they also trade in identity-theft, on the side. Since the hammer fell on the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, The Farm has filled the void. Bob Gates, when he was the head of the CIA, once referred to the BCCI, during a Congressional Investigation, as the bank of crooks and criminal – international, of course. The Farm, like BCCI before it, continues to do business as usual with most governments’ secret agents to finance covert operations in any case.

Raymond thinks the request is from the CIA, but he is not sure and does not care. What worries him is the delay his station is causing, and what the Laundryman could do. If he continues to play for time, that monster will descend on him inevitably. The company’s reputation is also at stake here, and it has always been the first point of call for classified information by those needing it. The Laundryman just took over the job eleven months ago. Raymond wonders if the man will allow such inadequacies on his watch. Besides, the annual general meeting of The Farm’s stakeholder from all over the world is fast approaching – the man’s first as the Laundryman.

‘This has been the most profitable year yet,’ the Laundryman told Raymond earlier in the morning.

The Farm has garnered, on behalf of its stakeholder, over seventy-five per cent of the more than 200 billion U.S. dollars of genuine investors’ money that has disappeared into thin air in the Gulf region alone lately.

‘Make sure nothing goes wrong. We could lose everything, and this will not happen on my watch,’ the Laundryman had stressed to Raymond.

Starting from Kuwait in January – and running through Bahrain; Qatar; U.A.E.; Oman and lastly Saudi Arabia, in April – the value of stocks in the region had fallen drastically, with a combined loss of over $200 billion in value. These are ordinary people’s wealth expressed in stock shares, which has disappeared into thin air. It is, in any case, only paper money.

***

After the woman disappears from view, Raymond also steps out onto the other part of the flat. Unbeknownst to him, she has ended up in the wrong place, in a room full of electronics. Realising it is not the bathroom, she stops short in her tracks, surveying her new surroundings with lips parting in awe. The unbelievable panoply of electronic gadgets shell-shocks her. Shock quickly turns to curiosity, and despite her worries, she becomes interested.

Something tells her to get the hell out there, but she has a difficult personality and ignores whatever voice that talks in her head. Fleetingly, she closes her eyes. The surroundings appear natural and familiar. Has she ever been in this room before? Or is her mind playing loco? No, she is sure she had never been to this part of London.

Her nose for scent is also capable, like her man-friend’s: his man odour is still active in the room. She feels he must have recently been in the place. Whatever it is, she still gets mesmerised. Like a zombie, she moves deeper and deeper into the room and takes the only available seat. Next to where she is sitting, lies a red keyboard and a 21-inch LCD monitor. Like a magnet, she is poised to hit the keyboard as her interest grows by the second. The system is always on standby – she will soon realise that. She glances over her shoulder, but Raymond is nowhere. She depresses the letter m, feeling like a little girl, and sniggers. It could have been any key because the whole system suddenly comes alive. It startles her some more.

‘Raymond,’ she calls.

The sound hardly leaves the room, it seems. Her eyes sweep around her, absorbing what she is seeing, but is it a dream? The walls are leaf green, and that makes it eerier. She pinches her skin around her bare thigh to be sure she is not dreaming. For the first time, she notices the room is windowless but lit with daylight electric bulbs and diffused light tubes. The monitor, in front of her, responds after a delay with a blinking prompt inside a dialogue box at the bottom corner of the LCD screen: it begs for a username. She calls out louder, this time to Raymond for help.

‘How can I log onto the Internet, man?’ she asks.

She raises her voice a notch higher to get his attention, but there is no answer. Meanwhile, Raymond thinks he hears her call, but chooses not to answer.

‘I need to check my mail,’ she shouts into the emptiness.

She listens, but nothing moves or sounds from the bedroom except the hum of the air conditioner. Perhaps Raymond is not in the room. She surveys the room some more, and she is not surprised to find that the door is the electronically-controlled type she has seen elsewhere. She writes her name inside the dialogue box. The colour of the keyboard, which is tomato red, is unique; a request for a password soon appears on the screen. ‘What is the password?’ she asked aloud, but that did not draw her boyfriend over either; she seems dead wrong. The first word she types for a password come back as invalid.

‘Raymond, please answer me. I need to check my mail,’ she cries out, yet again.

When nothing comes forth, she decides to continue anyhow. An idea comes to her mind from nowhere. The famous landmark in her grandfather’s native town, in Italy, is what she types next as a password. What to do? How she misses the old man – everybody thinks she is his favourite granddaughter. She types in letters she is sure she has come across somewhere recently. She is guessing. At first, nothing happens, but shortly there is a need to confirm the password, and she does. While she waits for the computer to respond, she takes another look around the room and all its electronic pieces of equipment. She cannot believe her eyes, but only wonders. Is Raymond a spy? Her mind juggles with many possibilities – weird, spy, etc. She finally settles for Raymond just being a geek.

The computers seem slow. However, in a flash, the monitor starts displaying a countdown that means nothing to her. Suddenly the screen turns black, and seconds later, it becomes blue. Subsequently, all the mainframes in the room clatter noisily as they come alive at the same time. The noise brings Raymond running, surely. A moment of absolute quiet then descends on both of them. Nothing else moves or sounds, except for Raymond’s heavy breathing.

The world around him has begun to crash as his mind descends into a cloud of bewilderment. Undecipherable scenarios flash by, in his mind, but none of the images formed is logical. In no time, still in the windowless enclosure, he sees a window of hope. He moves over to where the mainframes are and unplugs them from the sockets. While he waits for a result, he takes a close look at the girl with burning eyes. He looks fixedly at the girl he had nicknamed Halle Berry of Camden Town. Deliberately, he freezes his gaze until he is sure the fires burning in his eyes have registered. For a while, he keeps on looking at her but says nothing until the image of the girl becomes fuzzy. His knees, however, have turned to jelly, but he remains standing.

The beautiful girl, or whatever you want to call her, has now, unwittingly, turned his life into a complete disaster. Hours earlier, it was a different prospect, when his life was a glowing one. He does not want to admit that this could lead to substantive damage to his future. After all, she has only accidentally strayed into a room and nothing more. Could this be a setup? A setup! In which case and, if right, this could be his end.

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5

The stock products may not be suitable for all investors, therefore, you fully should understand the risk involved, and explore independent advice if necessary before you embark in stock buying

The Farm

At the beach on Queen Island, called the Saloon Beach, there is a massive hotel complex. The Acura Hotel occupies the most south-eastern end of the stretch on the beach, and it is the closest structure to the ocean. The 1,500-room hotel used to be managed, first by the Holiday Inn Inc. then later by the French Le Meridien.

Mr Joe Essien, an ideologue of the free-market, is one of the founding fathers and a principal at The Farm. He is about to meet his wife at the Ninja Restaurant – the penthouse suite at the Acura Hotel. It is to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary. When he arrives for