door. Inside there was no furniture, just a metal door set into the wall. He used another key to open it. Behind it a space three feet wide and three feet deep was filled with metal shelving on which were stacked thick bundles of banknotes, euros, dollars, pounds and a dozen other currencies that Shepherd didn’t recognise, many from the Middle East. His jaw dropped. ‘Don’t tell me that’s one day’s takings,’ he said.
‘This is our float,’ said Salik. ‘We do several runs a day to the bank.’
‘But where does it come from?’
‘Cash businesses that want to convert currencies without going through a bank. On large amounts we can give a better deal than the banks. Our overheads are lower.’ He smiled. ‘And we tend to be less concerned about paperwork.’
‘So it’s money-laundering?’
Salik looked pained. ‘Tony, please…’
‘But that’s what it is, right?’
‘We provide a service for people who don’t want to go through the banking system,’ said Matiur. ‘That doesn’t mean we have a stream of drug-dealers passing through. Let me give you an example. A Saudi prince is over here and he wants to buy a car for his new girlfriend. The Saudis pay cash for almost everything. Now, if he’s just come from the South of France, he might have euros. If he has been in New York, he’ll have dollars. He might even have riyals. Do you think the car dealer is going to protest when one of the prince’s assistants produces a briefcase full of banknotes, no matter whose face is on them? Of course not.’
‘Cash for everything?’
‘The Saudis don’t use credit cards,’ said Salik, ‘and they rarely write cheques. In the UK, foreign nationals are only taxed on the money they bring into the country. So if it comes in as cash on a private jet, the Inland Revenue never gets its cut. Now, is that money-laundering? No, not strictly speaking.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Then there are companies that deal with overseas buyers and need cash.’
‘For bribes?’
‘For commissions,’ said Salik, with a sly smile. ‘We get a lot of Nigerians and South Americans. They give us sterling and we supply whatever currency they need. Hookers come to us too. Bayswater and Lancaster Gate are full of prostitutes and escort-agency girls, and they’re all paid in cash. Some of them pull in twenty thousand a week, and a lot of that is in foreign currency.’ He smiled. ‘Not many men are stupid enough to pay for sex with their credit cards.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘So, you see, Tony, there is no need to feel sorry for us. We do good business. Once the money is ours, we can put it straight into the banking system.’
‘What about the ten-thousand-pound limit?’ asked Shepherd, playing the Tony Corke role to the hilt. ‘I thought all big transactions had to be reported to the cops and you had to prove it wasn’t drugs money.’
‘People assume that the limit applies to every transaction,’ said Salik. ‘Of course, that’s nonsense. Every shop in Oxford Street takes at least ten thousand pounds every day and the big stores take hundreds of thousands, most of it in cash. Do you think they are interrogated every time they pay in their takings? Of course not. Providing the banks know their customer and where the money has come from, there is no problem.’
‘They trust you, and that’s enough?’
‘Exactly,’ said Salik, closing and locking the steel door. ‘All business is down to trust.’
Shepherd followed the brothers back to the office. He sat down and took another sip of the fragrant mint tea. ‘What about the money I brought in?’ he said. ‘What happens to that?’
‘Some we change. Plenty of businesses need euros, these days. Some we pass on to other companies like ours that need large amounts of euros. Some we pay into our bank.’
‘But why go to all the trouble of smuggling the cash in? That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to understand,’ said Matiur.
‘I’m just interested. You buy the euros from Kreshnik, and you use them here in London. But you’re paying me an arm and a leg so that can’t leave much in the way of profit for you.’
Salik chuckled softly. ‘It’s good of you to be so concerned about our welfare, Tony, but please believe me, we make money on the deal.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Shepherd. He’d pushed it as far as he could – to probe any further might make them suspicious. ‘Hopefully, we’ll do just as well next time,’ he said. ‘ Inshallah.’
Salik did a double-take at Shepherd’s use of the Islamic phrase, then nodded approvingly. ‘ Inshallah,’ he said.
‘ Inshallah,’ repeated Matiur.
The digital recorder pressed against the small of Shepherd’s back. It had recorded everything that had been said.
Shepherd went into the underpass where the Marylebone flyover crossed the Edgware Road. The few shops down there had done decent business until the council had installed traffic-lights above ground that allowed pedestrians to cross in safety. Now the shops were finding it tough going. There was a public toilet, too, now only rarely visited.
The only other person in the underpass was a homeless man with two scruffy collies. He was lying on a sheet of cardboard, snoring loudly, an empty cider bottle clutched in a filthy hand. The dogs wagged their tails as Shepherd walked by.
He went into the public toilet, locked himself into an empty stall and put the briefcase on the floor. He stripped off his coat and pullover and removed the digital recorder and microphone. He flushed the tape that had secured the device to him down the toilet and slid the equipment into the pocket of his pea coat. Then he went back above ground and phoned Jimmy Sharpe, who was sitting in his car round the corner from the bureau de change. He told Sharpe that everything had gone according to plan and that he could stand down. His next call was to Amar Singh. The technician was parked in nearby Gloucester Place, close to Marylebone station. Shepherd took a circuitous route through residential streets to the black Cherokee Jeep with wire wheels.
‘This is a bloody pimp’s car,’ he said.
‘Pimps drive Beamers, you know that,’ said Singh.
‘It’s a bit high-profile, is what I mean,’ said Shepherd. ‘This isn’t a pool car, is it?’
‘Damn right it isn’t. It’s mine. Bought and paid for.’
‘You’re a very sad man.’ Shepherd took the recording equipment from his pocket and handed it over.
‘Anything good on it?’ said Singh, twisting to put it into his briefcase.
‘Not really. Just confirmation that they’re getting the Christopher Donovan passport for me and that they’re thinking about another run.’
‘All grist to the mill,’ said Singh. ‘I’ll pass it on to Button.’ He closed the briefcase.
‘Yeah, you kept that close to your chest, didn’t you? The Button thing.’
‘So did you.’
‘How do you rate her?’
‘Too soon to say,’ said Singh.
‘You don’t think it’s strange that she’s not here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sam Hargrove would have been, that’s all,’ said Shepherd.
‘Hargrove was always hands-on,’ said Singh.
‘Yeah. He liked the street stuff. Button’s more cerebral.’
‘You say it like it’s a bad thing,’ said Singh. ‘I think it’s an advantage. She’ll leave us to get on with our jobs. Hargrove tended to micro-manage.’
‘Bollocks.’
Singh held up his hands in surrender. ‘I’m not arguing with you, Spider. Like I said, it’s too early to say. Now, get the hell out of my pimp-mobile, I’ve got work to do.’
Shepherd climbed out.
‘What happens to the money?’ asked Singh, nodding at the briefcase in Shepherd’s hand.
‘She said I could keep it,’ he said. ‘As a signing-on fee.’ He left Singh staring after him, open-mouthed.
The Saudi sipped his champagne and sat back in the leather armchair. He was in the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel, drinking his favourite champagne, the Pol Roger cuvee Winston Churchill 1990. A fitting way to end his last night in London.
