Oblivion: three

Having rearranged various appointments and assured my features editor I would later file the articles that she was expecting from me, I headed to the bank. Fortunately there was nothing I needed to submit to the news editor. Why I was taking such trouble over all this, I really did not know. Perhaps it was just the investigative journalist in me.

Read: Oblivion part one

I certainly had no interest in a career change. It was hard enough getting the job at the FT in the first place. I wasn't about to give it up for some crackpot and his 'message'. On the other hand, I could hardly walk away without knowing more about him, this Simon, who had still not given me his surname or any form of contact details. I was so keen to get away that I had not thought to exchange business cards. It would have surprised me if he even had a card.

Grotings's safety deposit service, I discovered, was not located at the Bank's main premises on Leman Street, but in a grimy alley off Hatton Garden, centre of the London diamond trade. The tiny front office had just two desks, only one of which was in use as I arrived.

"Ah, Mr Endecott, we were expecting you," said the sole occupant, as I stepped in through what was a solidly built, wood panelled, front door. She was sharply dressed in a dark, business two-piece, and raised a pair of rimless spectacles to greet me. "The manager will be with you in a minute..."

Before she could usher me into one of the Queen Anne chairs by the window, the rear door of the little reception office opened and a youngish man in a striped suit stepped through.

"Good morning, Mr Endecott," he said without introduction but holding out his hand. I shook it despite getting a little irritated that everyone seemed to know my name when I didn't know theirs. "I'm Jason Prendergast, Branch Manager, though one can hardly consider this a branch..." he said, indicating with a wave of his hand, the office. "Would you like to come through." He held open the door and closed and locked it behind me. The key was held on a big ring bunch which looked more like a jailer's than a bank manager's.

I followed him along a narrow corridor and down two flights of stairs to a vault door that could have been a walk-in safe. The walls were painted white, and were probably heavily reinforced beneath the plaster. Another door, and we were in a narrow room with a single table and two chairs.

He held his hand out for the box key, which I gave him and he used it alongside his own key to open a panel in the bank of hundreds of locked panels that covered all four walls of the room. He took a long metal box from the rack and placed it on the table. He then took my key from the wall lock and placed it in the slot at the top of the metal box without making any attempt to open the lid. He then withdraw, assuring me that he was available should I need any further assistance.

“just dial 100 if you need help,” he said, gesturing at the phone on the desk. “Or nine, if you want to make a private call to an outside number.”

I thanked him and waited for him to leave the room, closing the door behind him.

I sat there for a few minutes, contemplating the box. The first thing that I noticed about it was that the bank manager had no real difficulty in carrying it from the drawer in the wall to the table, although it was clearly not empty. It could not, however, have contained any great value in gold, which is of course as heavy as a metal could be. A quick mental calculation told me that $10 million in gold at 1999 prices would weigh in at around one metric tonne. It would need to be kept on a wooden palette and lifted by a fork truck. Perhaps I should have asked for diamonds. A $10 million sum in medium-to-high quality gem diamonds could be held in a pocket-sized bag.

What was I thinking? This was all irrelevant. Whether in £50 notes, gold bars, or diamonds, the sum of money involved was just madness to contemplate. $10 million was not a sum of money, it was a number on a bank balance. It could appear on a bank's asset statement or any large-scale organisation's balance sheet. But it could not be held in the hand. Certainly not in gold or £20 notes. Diamonds, perhaps, but one could hardly use diamonds as currency. And no head hunter would pay a new recruit $10 million as a golden hello, literally or figuratively. What would be expected of this kind of payment, I could not imagine.

The box remained on the table, unopened. With a twist of the little key I opened up the lid and, peering in at the contents, could see a large white envelope with my name embossed in gold foil on the unsealed flap. I plucked it out, revealing a pale leather stitched bag beneath. It had a gold-thread drawstring at one end, pulled tight.

Intrigued, I reached for the bag to find that it was no lightweight. With some effort I wrapped my fingers around the soft skin and picked the object up, weighing it in my hand. At about 10-15 kg, it could only be a lump of lead, or a gold bar. As I drew the gleaming metal from its sheath I almost gave a gasp. I had seen one before, but this was the first time I had handled a 12.5 kg golden brick, complete with year of casting (1999) and unique serial number. For some reason it was the number 999.9 that held my attention. If there were any other metals or impurities mixed with the gold, they would have made up less than 1 part in 10,000, a gram and a quarter, maximum.

Almost with reverence, I laid the bar on its leather cover in front of me on the table. I took just a moment to appreciate the gleam of its appearance. At the then price of $260 per Troy ounce, I figured the value at over $8,000. A cool £5,000 in fully negotiable, internationally recognised, precious metal. That will do nicely, I thought.

I felt like Smeagol encountering the one ring for the first time. I slipped Precious back into her shroud and lifted it back into the box, closing the cover on the bar, as if blocking out any curse it might harbour. After a few deeply-drawn breaths, I opened the envelope, taking out two A5-size white cards, one printed in a serif face, the other written in a flowery hand.

I read the hand-written card first.

Should you decide not to accept the commission or the emolument, you are implored to retain the contents of the enclosed bag as a gift and token of esteem and in gratitude for taking the trouble to attend the meeting at the Institute of Directors.

£5,000 as a thank you for attending a meeting. Had I not just felt the full weight of that value, I would have taken it as an empty promise. I wondered what the fool's gold was supposed to buy.

Leaving the question unanswered, I read the other card.

This certificate confirms that the holder is the legal owner of 3858 ounces of gold, represented by 1oo (One hundred) 12.5 kg good delivery gold bars with serial numbers 125001 through 125100, held in allocated and segregated storage at Brink's-Mat Secure Holding Facility, Hounslow TW3 1AU. This gold is specifically assigned to the certificate holder and is not part of a commingled or unallocated gold reserve.

The holding will be delivered to the order of the holder upon receipt in full of any outstanding storage, delivery and other incidental charges or may be retained in trust under the agreed terms of holding.

Over a tonne weight in gold lay in a shed up at Heathrow, to quote the Squeeze song, awaiting my pleasure. Given the 1983 bullion robbery, I hoped they had improved security since then. Not that it was my gold to worry about. Or was it?

I picked up the receiver and dialled 100.

When the manager arrived I showed him the certificate, asking him to read it. It took a matter of a few seconds only, to appreciate its import.

"Would you mind making an entry in your diary or daybook to record the fact that I have alerted you to the contents of the box..."

"Yes, of course, but...

"... I shall be contacting Customs and Excise to notify them of the attempted transfer of an amount of gold worth..."

"Sir, if you have just received this certificate as a business transaction, I understand your concerns, but you may wish to contact the storage facility first. As the certificate indicates, the bullion is all held as serial-numbered assay bars and any dealings will have been recorded and accounted for. And, I feel certain, with all due diligence."

I had to admit, he had a point. If Simon or his associates intended any kind of unlawful transaction with the money, they would hardly have lodged the gold in a registered and licenced bullion storage facility, in fully serial-numbered and traceable bars. Perhaps I had spent too much time snooping into dodgy dealings.

"Thank you," I said with a half smile. "I am sure you are right."

I told him I had finished and thanked him again. He returned the certificate to me and I put it back in the envelope with the other card, the one he had not read. I closed and locked the lid and then waited for him to put the box back into its position in the wall. Not quite as easy as when he had lifted it down, he had to heft the box up with considerable effort. Again, he held out his hand for the key, which I gave to him so that he could double lock the door, before handing me back my key. I slipped the key into my pocket and noticed his brief, sidelong glance at me. I could read nothing into it.

He led me from the room and said his goodbyes, offering to assist me at any time should I wish to return. A slightly friendlier but still businesslike farewell from the receptionist.

As I walked back along Hatton Garden I stopped at a couple of the jewellery stores to view the retail displays. I was particularly attracted to a gold ring set with a carbonado diamond, almost completely black. Noting the price of £70,000 I wondered if I would ever be able to afford such a ring, before realising I could have bought it with fourteen of the gold bars numbered on the certificate I had held a few minutes earlier.

With a pronounced sigh, I stepped away, just as my phone rang. Taking the Nokia out of my pocket and pressing the answer button, I heard Jonny's voice. His manner, as usual, abrupt.

"Well?" was all he said.

"Jonny, it was a recruitment exercise."

"Head hunter?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking... yeah."

"And what's the job."

"You know as much as I do, Jonny."

"I don't understand..."

"Look..." I cut him off. "I can't discuss it on the phone. I'll call you later."

I pressed the 'end' button and slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket, feeling the bulge of the solid weight.

I had some thinking to do and standing in a street surrounded by up-market bling was not the place to do it. I turned into Greville Street, heading towards Farringdon underground.

O ~ o ~

Where will Charles go to meditate and where will it lead him?

Read the next instalment: Watch this space