So where did it go?
‘Either no one in San Sebastián wanted it, or the ships turned back. Or it never existed in the first place,’ Angelo said.
‘Have you told anyone about this?’ she asked.
‘I’ve only just got this far. I didn’t really want to say anything until I followed the transactions.’
‘What transactions?’
‘Nabil Tradings has to register accounts every quarter, for VAT, like every company in the world – legitimate company, that is. It’s taken me a few goes, but I finally managed to match the landing dates in San Sebastián to transactions in the accounts. Every month, on the same day as the ships supposedly landed in San Sebastián, there are large deposits made into a bank in Madrid. It’s all there in the accounts.’
Angelo tapped some more keys and brought up pages and pages of accounts for Nabil Tradings.
‘Here. The money comes in on the same day as the canned goods supposedly dock – but go nowhere and aren’t sold – and then goes directly to a company address registered in Berkeley Square, London. It’s quite a common method, and I’m surprised it wasn’t picked up,’ Angelo said.
Helen stared at him. Interpol’s Operation Lionfish called upon the skill set of thousands of operators worldwide and here in this tiny office, an intern barely out of college had perhaps found something so explosive that she didn’t yet know what to do with or who to tell. Had he made a mistake?
‘How on earth did Lionfish miss this?’ she asked.
‘It was well hidden. They weren’t looking for it. Maybe they only concentrated on Africa to Spain?’ he suggested. Helen wasn’t privy to that sort of information and shrugged.
‘What’s the trading address of the company in London?’ she asked. He showed her, and she googled it on her phone. She knew Berkeley Square fairly well, as she’d worked in close protection for a senior politician who regularly visited a club there. On the days when he spent hours inside, apparently in meetings but more likely catching up with old friends and eating lavish meals, she’d watched the comings and goings of the elite members of London society who either lived or worked there.
The address was a large Georgian townhouse nestled between Corpus Sand Ltd, which was a shipping company, and Mayfair Executive Chauffeurs. Helen brought up Google Earth and looked at the street view. There was no sign on the door, wall or windows of the address in question. It looked more like a residential property. The company name was Rafik Mining and Minerals. It was the name of Fawaz’s eldest son who’d died in jail in Morocco. She googled it and came up with a page linking the small subsidiary to a pipeline being built in North Africa. So she googled that: the pipeline didn’t exist.
‘Angelo, why would large amounts of cash be sent to a company in London when they aren’t trading anything?’ she asked, already thinking she knew the answer, but seeking confirmation.
‘Laundering,’ he said.
She sighed. She found it hard to believe that Operation Lionfish hadn’t picked this trail up. Indeed, that no one had, but she knew that criminals had become more and more bold and clever in their need to hide and clean money.
‘Angelo, can you find out if any ships are landing in Marseilles this week listed under AlGaz?’
‘From Algiers?’ he asked. The company was well known and highly regarded. Khalil Dalmani’s name was associated heavily with French–North African diplomacy and had become even more famous since the abduction of his son here in France. Angelo smiled and Helen could see that he was delighted to be asked to delve into the world of such high-profile cases.
‘Have you found him yet?’ Angelo asked her.
‘Who?’ Helen asked.
‘His son? It’s all anyone is talking about, and I know you are working in yellow notices,’ he said. Angelo was clearly an astute young man and keen as a terrier.
‘No. But his father, as you know, is highly regarded and extremely rich. I want to rule out any bribery possibilities within AlGaz,’ she said.
‘I can do it for you right now,’ he said. He tapped a few keys and brought up the trade corridors between Algiers and Marseilles. There were hundreds of them, but most of them came under the umbrella of AlGaz, the richest company in North Africa, closely followed by Nabil Tradings. Her hairs stood on end as he pointed to a container ship expected to land in Marseilles tomorrow night.
‘Find out every single product on the manifest for me, and find the entry summary declaration filled out in Algiers,’ she said.
He nodded, charged with excitement at being included in something so important.
Helen thanked him and instructed him to carry on working on the data, contacting only her if he found something more substantive. She gave him her private mobile number.
‘Call me if you find anything else – I don’t care how irrelevant it might seem,’ she said.
Chapter 27
Madame Bisset sat on a comfortable sofa, sipping coffee. Opposite her sat Grant Tennyson, hands folded across his chest. He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
‘How do I know you’re not with them?’ She jutted her chin to the window, indicating ‘them’ to be the police, presumably.
There was a knock at the door, and Madame Bisset almost dropped her coffee. She was nervous, and that’s the way Grant wanted it to be: they had to catch her
