The Naked Banker

PROLOGUE

The Naked Banker

A novel in the ‘Fane’ series by Clive Strutt

Is London a safe place to bank? It is for drug suppliers, arms dealers, terrorists, and corrupt third world politicians, who hide their ill-gotten gains in London’s banking underworld with impunity. This novel blows the lid off those conniving miscreants whose money laundering and Libor dealings rocked the international banking scene, and who will stoop to murderous lows to hide their misdeeds. This is the book bankers won’t want you to read.

Fane’s private security team is called upon to provide personal protection for a top London banker whose life is under threat from scheming plotters.

Along with the chaos and danger he encounters, a new love enters Fane’s life, and steals his heart.

CHAPTER ONE

The body language said it all. There was little doubt that the group of four soberly suited men, sitting in front of him at two small tables squeezed either side of the constricted gangway of the Le Sigmore snack bar, were under-cover police protection officers. Their physical posture, edgy demeanour, talking cagily between themselves with barely any lip movement, and with eyes darting around the room alighting on everything and everybody that moved, marked them out as being policemen.

A tall, good looking, elegantly dressed man wearing a grey morning suit entered. Walking up to the takeaway counter he surreptiously glanced towards the group of four. He gave them a nod and low-key waist level thumbs up sign. Their humourless expressions changed to undisguised sniggers and mocking smiles. The new entrant was obviously one of them, fully kitted out for close protection palace duty with a tell-tale white security radio earpiece lodged into his left ear, and a coiled wire disappearing beneath his jacket collar. The Italian snack bar owner greeted him like a long lost friend. He knew these guys: they were regular customers.

Fane finished his coffee. He checked his wristwatch; he was stupidly early. It would be another hour-and-a-half before he would be allowed into the palace gardens. He felt inside the breast pocket of his jacket and took out an A5 buff envelope; it bore a franked Royal Mail stamp, with an ER insignia topped with a crown. It was from the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, at Buckingham Palace. He opened the envelope and checked the contents. Inside were an entrance pass, and a formal invitation card which read – The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by Her Majesty to invite Mr Sebastian Fane to a Garden Party at Buckingham Palace on Tuesday 12th May 2015 from 4 to 6pm.

He read the invite and grimaced. Not many people knew his Christian name. Long ago he vowed to keep that to himself, having been acutely embarrassed by it when younger. His mother had delighted in calling him Sebastian, placing particular emphasis on the first syllable – she thought it sounded rather grand. Everyone now called him Fane; he insisted upon it. Everyone, that is, apart from Her Majesty!

Clutching a small brown paper carrier bag containing his take-away meal, the formally dressed security policeman went over to his still smirking colleagues and had a brief light-hearted conversation with them. One mischievously fingered the material of his morning suit; his attire was the butt of their amusement. Nodding to the owner on his way out – who cheerfully responded, ‘Arrivederci Michael’ – he left the snack bar, and turned left on Palace Street with the high wall of Buckingham Palace Mews immediately ahead of him.

Fane guessed these guys had been drafted in, adding to the already tight security provided by SO14 – the Metropolitan Police Royalty Protection Branch. Fane knew from his previous visits that Buckingham Palace Garden Parties were not exactly intimate affairs. Approximately 8,000 guests were invited to each one. With this number of people entering the gardens of the palace, security was high.

Fane’s invitation had come about via David Blumenthal, a banker, and well-connected figure in the City of London. They had arranged to meet inside the gardens. Fane’s association with him had been on a casual professional basis. His security company – Prosec4 – had provided services for his bank over the years. Recent talk within the tight-knit circle of personal protection operatives was that Blumenthal was a less than happy man. Rumours about his business dealings were rife, which made their meeting today even more intriguing to Fane.

One of the policemen got up and came over to where he was sitting.

‘It’s Fane isn’t it?’ he asked, in a subdued voice, implying the topic of conversation was hush-hush.

‘Yes.’

‘I thought so. I never forget a face.’ He held his hand out in greeting. ‘I’m Mat Simpson – detective sergeant. We met when that Middle Eastern prince kid got nicked for shoplifting in Mayfair – you were looking after his party. They were on a massive spending spree in London – about three years ago.’

Fane got up and shook his hand, and gestured him to sit on the single seat opposite.

‘No; I can’t stay, doing some work over the road this afternoon,’ he said, nodding towards the palace. ‘Just thought I would come over and say hello. I recognised the buff envelope you took from your pocket – so I guess we’re both going to the same place?’

Fane resumed his seat and nodded. ‘Yes – you guessed right.’ Then, looking searchingly at the sergeant, ‘If I remember correctly, that kid had rather expensive tastes, didn’t he? What was it – three Rolex watches?’

‘Yes, something like that. You persuaded the store not to press charges. Much against my better judgement.’

Fane grinned in a knowing way. ‘Well they got the goods back, and that party had already spent hundreds of thousands of pounds in the store – so no skin off their noses I guess; and it saved you a lot of paperwork.’

The detective nodded and grinned, then looked back towards his colleagues. ‘Anyhow, must get back. Good to meet up again. Might see you somewhere in the crowds later.’

He rejoined his party, who were already making ready to leave.

Fane didn’t remember the detective, but had a vivid recall of the incident he mentioned. He was accompanying an oil rich Middle Eastern family group on a shopping spree around the fashionable stores of London’s West End – all part of the more mundane work his close personal security outfit did. This young buck – a cocky little brat with no manners – decided to pocket some Rolex watches that he’d been trying on without paying for them. It was just an act of stupid bravado – the party could have afforded not only to purchase the watches, but could have bought the whole store into the bargain – the family were spending money that day like tomorrow would never happen. A store detective, who had spotted the princely thief, called the police. Everyone got very excitable when the family were challenged. Demands were being made on Fane to look after them, do something about it, and take care of the situation.

Fane, formerly a probation officer, put his mediation training into play. He arranged to take the young prince up to the general manager’s office. He left the kid standing outside the office while he spoke with the manager, who knew Fane well. He briefed him on his proposals. The lad was ushered in, and they both gave him a solid dressing down, throwing in some home truths about his untrustworthy behaviour as, ‘not becoming for a boy of his station’. The message got through; he produced the watches from his deep pockets, and was duly chastised. His mother was summoned and told that he’d admitted to taking the watches. She again became very excitable. The manager calmed her down, then casually announced, ‘After careful consideration, and because we’ve got the goods back, there will be no further action taken on this occasion’. Her relief was palpable. The family had shopped at the same store, by advanced appointment, ever since – a mutually agreeable arrangement for all concerned.

* * * *

This was Fane’s third visit to a ‘Buck House’ garden party. The first was after receiving the Military Cross during his time with the Special Air Services. The second, like today, was at the behest of a client. He chose to enter the palace gardens using the less popular Grosvenor Gate entrance, along Grosvenor Place, to avoid the thronging crowds that gather through the Grand Entrance at the front of the Palace. Even so, hundreds of people had already formed a long queue down the narrow pavement. He joined them at the back. Everyone wore their smartest clothes, the ladies looking especially glamorous with colourful outfits and matching hats or fascinators. Others quickly joined the queue behind him.

A jovial northerner quipped, ‘Seems to be lot of people waiting for this bus?’ That light-hearted comment sparked off conversation in Fane’s immediate vicinity, with talk about where they’d come from, and why they were there. Fane avoided this small talk, not wanting to discuss why he was there. The truth being – he didn’t know.

At three o’clock precisely, the gates opened, and people quickly checked through security into the extensive grounds. Walking through the immaculately kept gardens alongside the lake conjured up wistful thoughts about his late wife Sami, who would have enjoyed this experience; she was passionate about gardening and nature. She was tragically killed in an accident while on a photographic wildlife safari in Africa. That was five years ago. They were a devoted couple, and the pain of that loss was still raw. He and his daughter, Charlotte, now twenty-five years old, and working as a researcher at the House of Commons, had become even closer since her mother’s death.

Following in the path of other visitors, wending their way around the walkways of blooming camellias and other sweet smelling shrubs he couldn’t put a name too, he felt strangely alone in this crowded gathering; everyone appeared to be accompanied. A military band played jovial summery music on the approach to the main lawn.

His mobile phone silently vibrated inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He took it out and read the text.

"Meet me outside the diplomatic tent at 3.45 – Blumenthal."

The joining instructions for the garden party warned that all mobile phones must be switched off. Scant notice appeared to be taken of that. Most people were using their phones to take photographs inside the gardens – something the instructions also cautioned against. It was a sign of the times he guessed – people would rather be naked, than be without their phones.

He sent back a brief reply to Blumenthal. ‘OK’.

CHAPTER TWO

The sun gods were shining on today’s attendees, and it was hot. Long queues had already gathered at the main tea tent by the time Fane reached the vast lawn area. Knowing he was soon to meet Blumenthal, he decided against taking early tea, and instead sauntered across the lawn in front of the west terrace of the palace, to an area shaded by chestnut trees.

He took one of the many plastic chairs set out there. He sat and ‘people-watched’, and eavesdropped on other’s conversations. Everyone was awestruck by the palace, the gardens, the occasion, and the fashions, and by the mix of other guests. This, the official residence of the British Royal Family since seventeen hundred and three, is one of the most famous buildings in the world. The one thousand year old lineage of the British Royal Family once influenced, or reigned over, vast areas of the globe. Royalist or not, those seated around him on the lawn of Buckingham Palace couldn’t help but be moved by the history surrounding them.

Fane’s mobile vibrated. It was another text. This time from Sandra Collins, Fane’s most senior lieutenant, his office manager, and also one of his top-rate field officers, whom he could trust in situations where tact, diplomacy, and a single-minded sense of purpose was required. He read the short text –

"Blumenthal running scared – watch him."

Fane pocketed his phone. That cryptic message didn’t surprise him. He’d asked Sandra to brief one of their staff, Jason Abrahams – known as Jay in the office, and ProSec4’s researcher and information guru – to dig out all the information on Blumenthal. Jay’s sources of information, and how he came upon that information, sometimes worried Fane, but he was indispensable to the support systems used by Prosec4, and had proven to be one hundred percent reliable in some of the highest profile security cases the company had worked on.

Blumenthal’s banking background was well documented within the city, but there were murky depths to this man’s character, and to some of the activities he and his bank engaged in. His bank – International Monetary Bank, of which he was the Chairman of the Board – specialised in offshore accounts for the wealthy, filtering vast sums of money in ‘numbered accounts’ from the prying eyes of the taxman, and for those whose misbegotten gains needed to be hidden from various world-wide law enforcement authorities. Their clients were believed to be some of the wealthiest people in the world. During the last decade or so, tax evasion loopholes had gradually been tightened globally, but Blumenthal’s bank managed to remain one step ahead of the pack, and continued to ‘look after’ their clients’ money.

In his private life he’d worked hard at maintaining an outwardly cleaner than clean persona. He was a Freeman of the City of London, mixing with influential people, and was seen in all the right places. He donated generously to charitable and political causes, especially to those who could enhance his standing, and he threw lavish parties at his country estate in Buckinghamshire. He had various properties abroad, including an eight bedroom beachside villa in the Cayman Islands, which he visited frequently on business.

Within the city his halo had slipped somewhat since the banking scandals erupted in 2008, when Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, and HBOS, Royal Bank of Scotland, Bradford & Bingley, Alliance & Leicester and many others all came within a whisker of going under, and had to be rescued – many by taxpayers’ money. At that time Blumenthal was at the core of the gung-ho leverage mania. Since then, not only had he survived that crisis, but appeared to have bounced back ever stronger.

Fane’s luck-lustre attitude towards his meeting with Blumenthal today mirrored his aversion to the money grabbing ‘fat cat’ banking society. He was not a poor man himself, but every penny he’d earned he’d done by honest endeavour without hurting others. He made sure his largesse was spread evenly amongst those he cared about. His company operated a generous staff bonus scheme. His employees were some of the best rewarded in the business.

As these thoughts were flashing through his mind, he looked around at his current surroundings. What, he wondered, would the principal residents of the palace give to free themselves of their duty to their country, to have the freedom to wander anywhere unrecognised, to lead the ordinary anonymous everyday lives that most commonplace people accept and take for granted? That was a privilege they would never enjoy.

He noticed a buzz of activity on the lawn. Guests were lining up in the centre. His timetable for the afternoon informed him that ‘The Yeomen of the Guard were holding ground’ – forming an avenue from the palace to the royal tea tent down which the Queen and her party would walk, meeting and talking to the chosen few from the front row of lined up guests.

It was time to head towards the diplomatic tent on the far side of the lawn, in front of the lake, and facing the palace. On approaching the tent he scanned those standing in small groups, chatting. A portly balding man with comb-over hair and greying temples, dressed in a morning suit with a red carnation in the buttonhole, broke away from one of the groups and hastened towards him. Fane recognised Blumenthal, who approached him, hand outstretched.

‘Sebastian! How good to see you again,’ he greeted with jovial over-familiarity.

‘The name is Fane,’ he frostily retorted between gritted teeth. This was not a good start to their meeting.

‘I do apologise – Mr Fane.’

‘Just Fane – Fane will do nicely.’

Blumenthal looked mildly abashed, but soon overcame that, and took charge by gently leading him by the elbow away from the tented area.

‘Let’s find ourselves somewhere where we can talk... Fane.’

In awkward silence they headed away from the main gathering towards the arboretum. The crowds became thinner in the outer garden; most guests had congregated on the central lawn awaiting the royal party’s appearance.

‘Have you been to a royal garden party before?’ Blumenthal asked, breaking their awkward silence and attempting polite conversation.

‘Yes. Twice.’

‘Getting to be an old hand at it then?’ Blumenthal patronisingly persisted. Fane shot a disdainful glare at him.

One of the two military bands then struck up the national anthem, signalling the entrance of the Queen and members of the Royal Family onto the west terrace of the palace. Fane stopped and turned to face the palace. Blumenthal did likewise.

Standing to attention, Fane noticed armed security police on the roof of the palace, and more in the top windows, who were scanning the crowds through binoculars. One of them seemed to be looking in their direction. The thought, however fleetingly, did cross his mind that Blumenthal could well be on a security ‘watch list’. No, that notion was a bit too fanciful. He wouldn’t have got security clearance to the palace in the first place, if that were the case, he silently admonished himself. He shouldn’t be so indifferent towards today’s meeting with his client. Loosen up he told himself – don’t take Sandra’s warning ‘watch him’ so earnestly.

The national anthem finished. The Queen and her party descended the steps of the terrace and disappeared into the waiting throng of guests.

‘Makes you proud to be British, doesn’t it Fane?’ Blumenthal said, pulling his shoulders back.

That comment triggered something in the back of Fane’s mind that told him he wasn’t British, but of Greek birth. Furthermore – he’d applied to become a British citizen many years ago, that was blocked for reasons never revealed. Many thought at the time his application was part of his attempt to become well embedded within the British establishment and, helped by his self-promotion and philanthropic activities, would pave a way to getting the ultimate accolade – a knighthood.

If Fane’s recall about his failed citizenship application was correct, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t rub a little salt into his wounds. ‘Yes Mr Blumenthal; I am very proud to be British, and for everything that it stands for.’

Both men carried on walking in silence towards the rose garden. Most of the flowers were still in tight bud; only a few hardy ones had struggled to bloom through this year’s cooler than normal spring. They paused at the beds, and turned to face back down the vast lawn to the hundreds of people gathered in the centre awaiting the Queen.

‘No doubt you are wondering why you’re here?’ Blumenthal said casually, without looking at Fane.

‘That thought had occurred to me, Mr Blumenthal,’ Fane replied indifferently, staring straight ahead.

‘Well, quite simply, I need your help in securing my personal safety, from some very unscrupulous people,’ he calmly stated, still staring into the distance.

Fane didn’t respond; he waited for him to explain more.

‘When I was offered two tickets to the garden party, and being something of an opportunist, I couldn’t think of a safer place for us to meet in the knowledge no one gets into the palace gardens without being strictly vetted first. I arranged this meeting here to ensure I would have your personal attention, and not be dealt with by one of your minions.’ Fane directed another censorious glare at him. ‘Also, I feel confident I don’t have to keep watching over my shoulder all the time,’ he continued. ‘Those worries are my constant companion these days, no matter where I go. So what better place to meet than here, one of the most secure venues in London?’

That’s for sure, Fane thought, as he glanced up to the window of the palace, where he’d earlier seen the security men on observation. They no longer appeared to have their binoculars trained on them. However, he’d noticed a smartly dressed man and a woman, about one hundred metres away, aimlessly sauntering in the arboretum. He’d bet a month’s salary they were undercover cops. He had an uncanny nose for spotting them, and they appeared to be keeping a surreptitious eye in their direction. Were they just on routine patrol, and spotted two men chatting alone away from the main crowd? He acknowledged that scenario would probably be cause for suspicion for trained security people. But maybe, Fane mused, they might be keeping surveillance specifically on them? If so – why?

‘It’s certainly secure,’ Fane replied cynically under his breath, turning his gaze away from the ‘couple’.

‘My banking activities are international, Mr Fane,’ Blumenthal continued, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. ‘Sometimes I deal with... how should I put it... people whose moral scruples are less than attractive. These are powerful men. Determined men who usually get what they want, doing so by any means at their disposal. Fortunes can be made and lost so very easily in banking. In the good times, you’re everybody’s friend. Recently, those good times have not been so good, and let’s say, my popularity has receded somewhat in some people’s eyes. These people are now making financial demands on me, and my bank, that I cannot hope to meet.’

‘You mean they want their money back, Mr Blumenthal – is that what you are saying?’ Fane responded coolly, cutting to the core of the conversation.

‘If only it were as easy as that... but it’s not. Many others are also involved down the line, anonymous people, whose anonymity I am compelled to maintain. It’s a highly complex web of investments, and when the chips are down, they simply turn their backs on me as if nothing was going on. In the world of high finance, Mr Fane, the expression ‘dog eats dog’ is very apt. Years ago men would commit suicide when their fortunes were lost. Today they commit murder.’

Fane glanced back to the watching couple. ‘Our isolation has been noticed.’ Fane nodded in the direction of their observers. ‘I think we should move to where the action is.’

Both men slowly walked back towards the centre of the lawn, where the majority of guests had assembled. The royal party was gradually making its way down the line of elegantly dressed attendees. The bright yellow hat of the Queen was all that they could see of this diminutive figure. Surrounded by her entourage, she was introduced to numerous people.

‘What is it you want of Prosec4?’ Fane asked, as he glanced back to see if the other couple were following. They weren’t; they now had their backs to them.

‘I need protection, both at work, and at home,’ Blumenthal replied without hesitating.

‘Have you been to the police?’ Fane asked.

‘Let’s say, I’ve made certain approaches to some top men at the Met. You know the kind of thing, discreet enquiries using the old boy network.’ He fell silent and looked around him, summoning up what next to say. ‘You see, it’s all a bit difficult... many other people are also involved, some of them are in positions of great trust, and have reputations to preserve. That severely restricts what I can say to the police.’ He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He was now visibly perspiring. ‘Anyhow, from what I understand, the police resources are very limited since the cuts, and, quite honestly, they don’t really want to know about my problems. They were the ones who suggested I contact a private security firm.’

Fane didn’t respond immediately, he was waiting for more clarification. It wasn’t forthcoming.

‘You realise our services could be expensive, both in manpower and money,’ Fane cautiously answered. ‘I can give no guarantee that our security would be one hundred per cent effective – no one can promise that.’ He hesitated. ‘What we could offer is high visibility close protection cover. We would undertake extensive background risk assessment based upon your movements, activities, and the people you meet. We would give appropriate security advice based on those assessments. I have some of the best people in the business working for me – the ones you disparagingly referred to earlier as my minions. It’s not just beefy shoulder-to-shoulder protection we do; it’s the intelligence information we gather on people. That’s what we do best, and that puts us well ahead of the pack.’

Fane hesitated as they drew closer to where the majority of guests were assembled; it was becoming too public for their topic of conversation to continue. Blumenthal, who had been one pace ahead, stopped and turned. He moved a step closer back to Fane, looking at him confidingly.

‘Money is not a problem,’ he began, ‘I can pay for the best in the business, and I believe your company is that.’ He looked down at the immaculately kept lawn, contemplating what next to say.

‘I need to be reassured of two things, Mr Fane. First, my family. They mean everything to me. Their safety is paramount at all costs. Secondly, we’re dealing with highly confidential information. I need to know that any banking information you might become party to will remain private in all circumstances.’

Blumenthal was looking at Fane with eyes that sought his reassurance. His earlier overconfident up-front persona was now betrayed for the lie it was. He appeared vulnerable, timid, like a dog with its tail between its legs. Fane looked away from Blumenthal towards the palace, assembling his thoughts for a response. He noticed the security men were still evident, both at the windows and on the roof.

‘I’ll deal with your second question first – that’s the easy one to answer,’ he began. ‘When we’re commissioned to act on behalf of a client, we are employed by that client. That means employee obligations of ‘Duty of Good Faith, Loyalty and Fidelity’ apply equally to us.’ Fane took a deep breath, and sighed in a manner indicative of having recited this answer many times. ‘All our staff are security vetted to the highest level. Confidentiality, and security, is what we do.’

Putting both hands in his jacket pocket, he turned bodily towards Blumenthal, and addressed him face-to-face. ‘As I’ve already said, anyone determined enough can undermine our, or anyone else’s, protection procedures. Our task is to cover all corners making sure we’re one step ahead at all times. To be effective, we need you and your family onside right from the beginning, with nothing being held back from us. No secrets. No ifs or buts. You need to be completely upfront about all your activities. We’ll need to know about every aspect of your public life that might endanger your safety – these can be simple things you take for granted, your schedules, your fixed routines – like attending churches, clubs, or restaurants, and any other appointments you keep on a regular basis. We need to know about your staff, both professional and domestic. How well do you know them, how long have they worked for you, and are they reliable – we’ll do our own checks on them. This will also mean knowing, at all times, the movements and habits of your close family members.’

Blumenthal looked up at Fane with a troubled expression.

‘It’s my family I’m really worried about. How much do you think they could be at risk?’

Fane stared ahead. ‘That depends on who we’re dealing with. We must assume all options will be open for them to get what they want. Kidnapping and blackmail are two persuasive ways of extorting money. That puts your close family in danger of being easy targets. The more ruthless members of the underworld – and I assume these are the people we’re talking about – will stop at nothing to get what they want.’

Blumenthal clasped his hands behind his back and, lowering his head, slowly shook it from side to side. He looked back up at Fane. His round ebullient face had lost the red shiny blush of earlier on. It was now pale, and piteously serious.

‘Can I then take it, Mr Fane, that you will accept this task?

CHAPTER THREE

It took four beefy ambulance men, and a bariatric stretcher, to move the morbidly obese woman from the bottom steps of the entrance foyer of Snape Maltings Concert Hall, where she had fallen, into the awaiting ambulance.

Fane, who had been spending the weekend at his Suffolk farmhouse, was attending an evening of choral music when he witnessed the fall during the interval. He was one of the first to attend the unconscious woman. He was soon joined by others, one of whom was a female medical practitioner, who quickly took charge of the immediate first aid response.

‘That was a bit of a weighty problem’, Fane quipped to the doctor, as the woman was eventually wheeled out on the stretcher.

‘Yes, it’s a fact of medical life these days. More and more people are presenting as obese, with all that entails for their overall general health.’

‘My name is Fane. Thank goodness you were around to take charge of that incident,’ he said, proffering his hand to shake.

‘I’m Fiona, Fiona Cunningham. The ambulance crew did most of the work. They’re pretty clued up on diabetic hypoglycemia,’ she replied modestly.

‘How did you know she was a diabetic?’ Fane asked.

‘Not difficult. She wore a medical alert wristband that warned of her condition for a start, and then she was manifesting typical symptoms like profuse sweating. Diabetes is a common problem with overweight people.’

Her confident manner, and her age, which Fane guessed to be in her mid to late forties, just oozed the self-assured confidence of a senior doctor.

‘Sadly, as