Jeremy stepped forward. ‘It is, as I can arrange for the visas of all your non-EU students to be rescinded. It would take just one phone call.’
‘Who the ruddy hell do you think you are – barging in here, threatening me with something outside your powers? The City Police can’t take away visas.’
‘Correct,’ said Jeremy, ‘But MI5 can! Here’s my identification.’Jeremy flashed his warrant card under the VC’s nose.
‘Now let’s start again,’ said John.
‘What do you know about Drs. Furud and Talal?’
‘Nothing! Why do you ask me this banal question?’
‘OK your time is up,’ said John. ‘Gerald Staniland, I’m arresting you in connection with knowingly hindering police investigations into a terrorist activity. I must advise you that under the new anti-terrorism laws, you do not have the right to legal representation.’
A deep scowl came over the VC’s face. ‘It is Sir Gerald to you. And you have no right to accuse me of some trumped up charge. Get out of my office and don’t forget to close the doors behind you.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you? You’re implicated and in the proverbial shit.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that! Get out of here or I’ll call security and have you thrown out.’
‘Gerald Staniland, I have reason to believe your college is being used as a recruiting ground for terrorists and, should you be convicted, you will formally and publicly be stripped of your title by the Palace,’ said Jeremy. ‘John, pass me your handcuffs. If the bastard wants to play hardball, so be it; read him his rights and take him away.’
The VC’s confidence crumpled. His face turned ashen grey.
‘Alright, alright, I’ll help. Their files are in the registry building – next door. Margery knows where to find them.’ He picked up the phone.
Moments later Margery appeared at the door. ‘Vice chancellor?’
‘Please show these two gentlemen to the registry where the student files are kept.’
It was 7.20 p.m. on Wednesday evening, and it was all hands to the paperwork at Wood Street. Emma was busy printing out and collating all the documents coming in from MI5.
The door swung open. ‘My goodness, you’ve been busy,’ said Jeremy as he entered the room. ‘Where on earth did all this paper come from?’
He was followed by John, who looked equally surprised and impressed.
‘Had a useful time?’ asked Emma, trying to sound upbeat.
‘Too right,’ replied Jeremy beaming from ear to ear. ‘I reckon that the vice chancellor just aged a year or so, don’t you John?’
‘Well, he was being rather obstructive.’
‘OK, the suspense is killing us,’ said Emma, ‘what did you find out?’
‘We have three more names for you,’ replied John. ‘Jeremy has his colleagues at MI5 digging up as much as they can on them. Before we start briefing you, we’ve got a few things in our notes to sort out,’John shot a momentary look at Jeremy, who nodded. ‘Perhaps we could chat over a bite to eat in a few minutes?’
‘Pardon?’ said Kate.
‘Oh, we stopped off at Luigi’s and ordered a selection of things to keep us going – a sort of buffet supper. It should be here shortly,’ said Jeremy with a grin.
Minutes later the food arrived in reception. Jeremy and John deep in conversation, went off to collect it.
‘I’ve no idea what we’ve got here,’ remarked Jeremy as he came back in. ‘I hope you find something you like. Help your-selves. We’ve organised our notes. John, do you want to start or shall I?’
‘OK, I’ll go first. The vice chancellor we visited is living the life of Riley. He’s on a different planet,’ said John.
‘Lord Muck was well out of order. He tried to pretend he knew nothing. Didn’t take John seriously, refused to help. We sort of leant on him, didn’t we John?’ interjected Jeremy with a cheeky grin.
John quickly finished a mouthful of food. ‘Our two original suspects, Jameel Furud and Basel Talal were part of a clique of five students, who all frequented the same mosque. Sheikh Akram Tufayl and Miti Lakhani, an Asian-African were fellow PhD students and close friends. The fifth member was Maryam Vynckt, Basel Talal’s younger sister, who studied for a Masters in Law nearby.’
‘Bloody hell! I think she could be related to the Luxembourg financier that Callum visited just before he died,’ interrupted Rafi. ‘Sorry – do go on.’
‘We tracked down one of their contemporaries, Dr Mario Lutchins, who is now a senior lecturer at a business school in London. We dropped in to see him on our way back,’ said Jeremy, reaching over to help himself to more food, whilst John took up the running.
‘To cut a long story short, the VC is caught between a rock and a hard place. His problem is that Sheikh Tufayl makes a hefty donation of half a million pounds a year to the College, but there is a non-disclosure clause… The money stops if the sheikh’s name is made public. And without the money the VC’s lifestyle would go down the pan.’
It was now Jeremy’s turn. ‘These five individuals certainly made an impression on our Dr Lutchins, who at the time was going out with a secretary in the Faculty Office. Unfortunately for him, Jameel turned on the charm, had his way with her and then dumped her. Mario has never forgiven him and has since then taken a sinister interest in Jameel and his colleagues’ activities. He has been particularly helpful in filling in some of the gaps.’
Jeremy looked down at his notes. ‘Sheikh Tufayl was the man with the money. He had a lovely duplex flat in NW8 overlooking Regent’s Park. He led the high life.’
John continued while Jeremy took a mouthful of food. ‘The sheikh was outwardly religious, a driven man, always on the go. He was seriously wealthy, enjoyed a luxurious Western lifestyle, and thought studying for a PhD was a great way to live, particularly as it kept his father off his back. He liked to hypothesise and seemed to be more interested in the big picture side of things.’
John looked down at his notebook. ‘To quote Mario: The sheikh despised us for Iraq, disliked our meddling foreign policies. He thought the UK had become too soft and trusting and forgotten one of the key rules of economic and personal survival – when the chips are down, the oil-rich countries look after themselves. Or put another way – if a country runs out of energy, it is stuffed,’ John took another mouthful and nodded towards Jeremy.
‘The sheikh completed the last eighteen months of his PhD from his home in the Gulf, following his father’s death in a freak skiing accident,’ continued Jeremy. ‘A MI5 source tells me that he fell into a small ravine. The fall didn’t kill him, but he was injured sufficiently badly that he wasn’t able to climb out, and died from hypothermia… Sadly for him, his mobile phone’s battery was knackered. Sheikh Tufayl was on holiday with his father at the time.’
Jeremy looked at his notes. ‘Sheikh Tufayl took over the family business – or should I say, the oil wells. When the sheikh received his PhD two years later, the VC talked him into funding a high profile annual lecture… and the sheikh’s money started rolling into the College. The great and the good are invited to the lectures and to a sumptuous dinner afterwards at one of the finest City of London livery companies. The vice chancellor plans the lectures and dinners with military precision.’
‘Now let’s turn to the number two in the clique: Basel Talal,’ continued John. ‘According to Mario he was moderately wealthy by Arab standards – bloody rich by yours or mine – and lived within walking distance of the sheikh. He had an incisive but practical brain, and paid great attention to detail. He was an excellent manager and manipulator. According to Mario, Basel has been successful in the venture capital business, but keeps a surprisingly low profile. And Mario believes that Basel has a wealthy offshore backer… His guess is that the money comes from the sheikh.’
‘Oh, did we mention that Basel was the sheikh’s cousin?’ interjected Jeremy.
‘And now on to number three in the clique: your erstwhile boss Jameel Furud,’ continued John. ‘He was a close friend of the sheikh and his cousin, but lacked their money. He shared their interests in discussing economic strategies and how markets worked, and whether they could be manipulated. He loved the high life and his particular talent was his ability to charm the ladies. This talent went down especially well with the sheikh, who loved to party and to have a beautiful woman on his arm. After his PhD, Jameel spent time setting up and running a fund management business in the Gulf and looked after the sheikh’s newfound wealth. The business grew and moved to Zurich for a short while, before moving to London where it was rebranded as Prima Terra. Mario finds it strange that since his return to the UK, Jameel rarely promotes the fact that he has a PhD…’