Andrew Gross - Reckless

“Hello,” Hassani said, lifting the phone and staring across the bay at the majestic Dubai skyline.

“Just letting you know,” the caller said in code, “that that matter of an old debt has been finally taken care of. But I fear there’s another issue. The two bondholders have left.”

“Left?”

“Another interested party, perhaps. Perhaps in London…”

“London,” Hassani said sadly. That would be a shame. He loved that lad like a son.

“See if they make contact,” the Bahraini said. “If they do, let me know.”

Maybe the time had come to close up the loose ends.

It was a complicated time. You had to see things many ways. It was written in the book: destruction first before renewal.

His entertainment would have to wait.

Hassani looked at his watch. A Breguet masterpiece. One of a kind. This little problem had to be shared. With the next level. There were others involved. It was six P.M.-morning in New York. He should just be catching him at his desk.

He pressed the speed dial and waited.

“Hanni,” his contact said when he picked up, six thousand miles across the globe.

Peter Simons. The CEO of Reynolds Reid.

They arrived at Heathrow midday Saturday.

This time Naomi had alerted a contact with Scotland Yard that she wanted to speak with a Saudi residing in London about his involvement in a case she was working on. The official asked if she needed any support while she was there and she said she would advise. She also registered her firearm with the authorities. The last people she wanted to piss off were the British government. They weren’t in Serbia anymore.

She and Hauck booked rooms in a boutique hotel in Kensington called Number 29, a reconverted row of town houses that Naomi had stayed in before. On the way, they had their taxi pass by Marty al-Bashir’s home-a stately town house on Chesterfield Mews in Mayfair amid a quiet row of Georgian homes.

“There’s number sixty there,” the driver said, pointing out a three-story white façade with a roof terrace and coffered red door.

“Not exactly shabby,” Hauck remarked as they passed. It looked as impressive as any on the street.

“Ought not to be,” Naomi said. “This guy runs the largest investment fund in the world.”

Leaving, they had to wind through the maze of one-way streets of charming, tree-lined homes, embassies, and hotels to get back to Knightsbridge, the main thoroughfare back to the hotel. They checked in. Naomi went upstairs to shower and call her boss. Hauck turned on the news and unpacked his Dopp kit and went into the bathroom to shave. He thought about calling Annie. He’d left only a single message on her machine from Novi Pazar to tell her he was okay. He checked the time and thought maybe she’d still be sleeping. Friday nights were always late ones at the café. He knew he had withheld quite a bit from her. About April, and why he was even here. There were things he’d have to answer to when he got back. He knew he was avoiding it.

The BBC news report talked about the fear of the world banking collapse. While they were in Serbia, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac had gone under. The Fed would have to step in to bail them out. The insurance giant AIG was also said to be reeling. Not to mention JP Morgan and Reynolds Reid. All were selling for a fraction of what they had two months before.

The mood was darkening.

Around two, he and Naomi met back in the lobby for a coffee. Naomi told him what she knew about al-Bashir. “He’s young. Smart. Western. Very media friendly. He’s got an MBA from the University of Chicago. Did stints at Reynolds and Blackstone. You may have seen him on CNBC.”

“I don’t watch CNBC,” Hauck said.

“Stick around. This afternoon may have a positive effect on you.”

Hauck smiled, took a sip of his black coffee. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

Naomi nodded. “I talked to my boss. We’re prepared to offer him a deal. We’re going to take him in.”

“You think he’s really going to bite? People who live in homes like that usually don’t cave in to the government without a fight.”

“My guess is it’ll beat where his next home might end up being.” She put down her coffee and slung her case over her shoulder. “Ready?”

They took another cab back to Mayfair. Chesterfield Mews was a couple of blocks from Hyde Park. They got out a block away and waited on the street, keeping an eye on the posh white Georgian. Hauck looked around. It didn’t appear anyone else was watching the house. They agreed that if they didn’t see any signs of activity they would knock on the door.

It was important to catch al-Bashir off guard away from the office.

A short time later the front door opened. Naomi nudged Hauck to look. Two young boys stepped out onto the limestone landing. They had dark, Middle Eastern features and were maybe around seven and five. The older one had on a striped Manchester United soccer jersey. The younger one was in a David Beckham T-shirt and sneakers. They could have been kids from anywhere. Following after them was an attractive thirtysomething woman in jeans, a baseball cap, and a hooded cashmere sweater. An expensive purse was slung over her shoulder.

She waited at the red door, holding it open. Soon after, a man came out dressed in khakis, a red knit shirt, and leather driving moccasins. He had short, dark hair and wore wire-rim glasses. He held a soccer ball in one arm and the lead of a King Charles spaniel with the other.

He looked like any dad taking his wife and kids out on a Saturday-afternoon stroll.

Naomi nodded. “That’s him.”

The al-Bashirs walked a couple of blocks toward Park Lane. It looked like they were heading into the park. The dog pulled the dad along and the kids went ahead, the older one tossing the soccer ball.

Hauck and Naomi fell in behind them.

The mom taking her kids’ hands, they crossed Park Lane, which was bustling with traffic, and headed into Hyde Park, London’s largest. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon. The park was packed. Couples strolling or on blankets. Street musicians playing. Young couples with strollers. Kids kicking soccer balls around. Lots of dogs.

Al-Bashir and his family walked along the path. The older boy started to play keep-away with the soccer ball; the younger one whined. Their mom kept after them, urging them not to bother the pedestrians and take their game onto a field. Marty al-Bashir let the dog wander onto the grass, sniffing some others.

Hauck and Naomi followed about fifty yards behind.

At some point al-Bashir’s cell phone rang, and he handed the spaniel off to his wife. The call took only a couple of minutes.

When he hung up, Naomi said to Hauck, “Let’s go.”

They went up to him just as he was about to rejoin his wife. “Marty al-Bashir?”

Surprised, he looked at Naomi. “Yes.”

She took out her ID. “My name is Naomi Blum. I’m a federal agent with the U.S. Department of the Treasury. Would you mind if we talked?”

“Talked? Here?” He glanced at his wife, looking both confused and a little irritated. “It’s a Saturday, Ms. Blum. I’m with my family. Why don’t you call my office and-”

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Naomi said. “I’m sorry about the interruption. But I think it will be worth your while.”

Hauck heard a bit of a tremor in her voice and knew Naomi had to be nervous. This was a big fish, and how she finessed the situation would mean everything.

“It concerns a friend of yours,” she said. “Hassan ibn Hassani.”

The annoyance in Marty al-Bashir’s expression suddenly shifted to concern.