“Doing what?”
“Christopher had dinner at Café de Paris and lost his shirt at the casino. Ingrid stole several million incriminating documents from a dirty law firm called Harris Weber & Company.”
“Sounds like loads of fun. Why wasn’t I included?”
“You can help us review the documents, if you like.”
“Several million, you say? How can I possibly resist an invitation like that?” She opened the door of the Sub-Zero. “What shall we have for dinner? Curdled milk, moldy cheese, or something that might or might not have been a bell pepper once?”
“Perhaps we should order in,” suggested Gabriel.
Sarah reached for her mobile phone. “For some reason, I’m in the mood for Chinese.”
“When have you ever seen me eat Chinese food?”
“Now that you mention it, never.” She thumbed through the options on Deliveroo. “I guess that leaves Italian or Italian?”
“Much better.”
“What would you like? The veal Milanese or tagliatelle with ragù?”
“I’ll let you decide.”
“Tagliatelle it is.” She turned to Ingrid. “And you?”
“I’ll have one of those,” she said, and pointed toward the martini.
Sarah smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
* * *
They worked until the food arrived, worked throughout dinner, and then worked late into the night. The volume of material was enormous, but the dots were not difficult to connect. More than twenty thousand companies and individuals had utilized Harris Weber’s services since its founding, and the firm had saved every document and scrap of paper generated by the relationships—including certificates of incorporation, banking and billing records, hard copies of emails, and photoscans of handwritten minutes initialed by the partners themselves. One was a reminder by Ian Harris to send the client in question, a Middle Eastern monarch, a gift on his sixtieth birthday. His Majesty’s file indicated he had assembled a global real estate portfolio worth in excess of $500 million, all nominally owned by shell corporations created by Harris Weber & Company. The monarch’s corrupt prime minister was also a client.
So were former prime ministers from Qatar, Iraq, Pakistan, Ukraine, Moldova, Australia, Italy, and Iceland. There were hundreds of other government officials as well, some no longer in office, others still holding positions of power. Spain’s ruling class seemed to have a particular affinity for Harris Weber’s services, as did their counterparts in Argentina and Brazil. The billionaire daughter of Angola’s former dictator did a brisk business with the firm. The son of a former UN secretary-general was likewise a client.
The professional sports world was well represented, especially the notoriously corrupt European football leagues, and the entertainment industry contributed several boldface names. One was a reality television star who was famous for being famous and made millions in the process. A music impresario used a Harris Weber–created shell corporation to purchase his superyacht. And when the impresario decided to sell the vessel to a Saudi prince—at a substantial profit, of course—Harris Weber handled the paperwork.
Other clients of the firm included a well-known Italian automaker, the owner of one of the world’s largest hotel chains, an Indian textile tycoon, a Swedish steel baron, a Canadian mining magnate, the leader of a Mexican drug cartel, and, curiously, a descendant of Otto von Bismarck. And then, of course, there were the Russian oligarchs. Each owed their extraordinary wealth to Russia’s kleptocratic president, and some were undoubtedly holding a portion of his ill-gotten fortune. Gabriel now knew the names of the shell corporations they used to conceal their activities—and the account numbers at the banks that held the shell companies’ money.
One of Harris Weber’s Russian clients had been in the news of late. It was Valentin Federov, the billionaire investor whose million-pound contribution to the Conservative Party had forced the abrupt resignations of Prime Minister Hillary Edwards and Party treasurer Lord Michael Radcliff. The Russian’s file listed no fewer than twelve British Virgin Islands–registered shell companies and twelve corresponding bank accounts, all at dubious Caribbean houses of finance. Interestingly enough, Lord Radcliff, a multimillionaire businessman and investor, was a client of Harris Weber & Company as well.
“You’re right,” muttered Christopher. “This is definitely going to be ugly.”
“Quite,” agreed Gabriel.
Lord Radcliff, an avid collector of Old Master paintings who had acquired a number of works through the auspices of Isherwood Fine Arts, was the beneficial owner of four anonymous offshore companies. But one of those entities, LMR Overseas, rented a storage vault in the Geneva Freeport—or so Ingrid was able to establish with a quick search of the document she had plucked from the Freeport’s computer network. Driftwood Holdings, one of Valentin Federov’s many shell companies, also rented a vault.
So did a shell company owned by the Italian automaker. And the Swedish steel baron. And the Canadian mining magnate. And the founder of Italy’s largest fashion house. And the scion of a Greek shipping dynasty. And the chairman of a French luxury goods conglomerate. And the former CEO of the now-defunct RhineBank AG of Frankfurt. In all, some fifty-two wealthy clients of Harris Weber & Company controlled vaults in the tax-free storage facility, as did the firm itself. The shell company it used was Sargasso Capital Investments, which was a subsidiary of OOC Group, Ltd. The nominal director of the company was Adele Campbell of Road Town, the British Virgin Islands. The beneficial owners were Ian Harris and Konrad Weber.
By 4:00 a.m. Gabriel had assembled the most explosive findings into a hundred-page cover document. But what to do with the material? Handing it over to the Financial Conduct Authority, Britain’s independent financial regulatory body, was out of the question. The files had been obtained illegally, and the FCA’s track record was undistinguished, to say the least. Gabriel concluded that their only recourse was a leak to a friendly reporter. There were one or two outstanding matters, however, he wanted to clear up first.
“Such as?” asked Christopher.
“How did Trevor Robinson know that Charlotte Blake had identified a British Virgin Islands–registered shell company called OOC Group as the current owner of the Picasso?”
“What’s the answer?”
“Obviously, Professor Blake told someone.”
“Any candidates?”
“Only one.”
44
Land’s End
“Nice sled,” said Ingrid, and ran her hand over the leather dashboard of Christopher’s Bentley Continental GT. “All-electric, is it?”
“Lunar,” replied Gabriel. “It’s cutting-edge stuff.”
Smiling, she leaned her head wearily against the window. They were headed west on the Cromwell Road through the gray early-morning light. “I can’t remember the last time I slept.”
“Try to get some rest. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
“How long?”
“It’s five hours to Land’s End. But we have to make a stop in Exeter along the way.”
