Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  JJ had scheduled his radiotherapy appointments for 4.30pm every weekday. The process itself took about thirty minutes, with less than a quarter of that lying on the radiotherapy table, shirt up, pants down and flaccid willie out and about for all the world to see. He could walk from the Royal Marsden to his house in Markham Square in seven or eight minutes, so he’d still be in before 5.30pm. Cyrus wouldn’t notice anything unusual and his work responsibilities would not be undermined.

  By the time JJ had the presence of mind to deliver his non-linearity of bladder fullness diagram to the radiotherapy department’s manager, his course of radiation treatment was about half way through. He had settled into the routine. In the radiotherapy department, which was a floor below the department of nuclear medicine – Jings, thought JJ, what the heck goes on there – the three linear accelerator machines more or less in constant use were named Carlyle, LA3 and Joe Ford. For the vast majority of his sessions JJ was scheduled for Joe Ford, named after a pioneering and much loved Consultant in radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden and St. George’s Hospital. The treatment room itself was all Blake’s 7 spacious, bright, with a big whirring, round, flying saucer thingy above the narrow table bed you lay on. The type of radiotherapy delivered by Joe Ford was called RapidArc. The whizz kid radiotherapists use computer imaging to dial in the angle of the beam, the dose rate, and the leaf speed, all intended to target the cancerous cells supremely accurately and leave alone the healthy tissue surrounding them. The program is specific for each patient and uses 3-D volume imaging to get it down to pin-point precision. The only potential flaw in this truly amazing procedure is that the efficacy of the laser hits also depends on the patient’s bladder being nearly full (comfortably full in the hospital staff’s lingo), and being in the same state of fullness every session and as it was at the imaging practice run undertaken a couple of weeks before treatment began.

  JJ took all this precision seriously. Each day, exactly forty-five minutes before his scheduled treatment, he’d drink precisely the same amount of still water, ensuring he had emptied his bladder beforehand. The taxi from MAM’s offices to the Royal Marsden was normally around fifteen minutes. JJ was always on time for his appointment. There were several young radiotherapists organising the patients for the various machines. They did a great job. Sometimes patients would emerge looking a bit wappit but JJ seemed to be lucky. He wasn’t meant to feel a thing as he was being radiated and he didn’t. At the beginning it was a bit embarrassing given the state of half undress he was in, but he got used to it. When he first went to the Joe Ford room, the elevator music playing was Phil Collins; god it was awful. He provided ‘The Killers’ and ‘Queen’ CDs to the radiotherapists and the eight minutes or so he was lying on the table were now at least musically credible.

  The day of the diagram though had gone a bit awry. He had had a tough day at work, just managed to get a cab and was sitting in the waiting area, about five minutes before his 4.30pm due time. One of the radiographers, a fairly pleasant Welsh girl called Bronwyn, popped her head out of the wooden double doors leading to the treatment rooms and said, “Mr Darke, are you ready?” She did this every day she was on duty at that time. Of course he was bleedin’ ready. He was born ready, drank ready and his entire daily schedule had been shaped to have him ready for this moment of radiation joy. On diagram day though, Joe Ford wasn’t ready. About fifteen minutes had elapsed since Bronwyn had asked her question. JJ’s willie was throbbing by now, his bladder was bulbous, and a pee was imminent. Of course, if he pee’d then the game was up, no RapidArc radiotherapy for him. He’d need to hang about for another forty-five minutes to an hour post pee and drink more water to allow his bladder to get to its equilibrium fullness state again. Even then, he couldn’t be sure he would be seen. The treatment rooms were busier than Heathrow Terminal 5 on an August weekend. There would be holding, stacking, circling delays. Who’s to say he wouldn’t need to pee again! It was too much for him, the diagram needed to be drawn and the radiotherapy manager needed to be given it. JJ left that day without treatment. Luckily for him, the doctors thought it was OK and they’d just add a day to his schedule. Great.

  The next day when he went to the Marsden, his diagram was the talk of the department. One of the radiotherapists, Richard, a tall olive skinned Liverpudlian, who always defended putting Luis Suarez in his Fantasy Football team, despite the wee Uruguayan’s vampiric tendencies, asked if JJ could turn his graphical presentation into a mathematical formula. Apparently Richard was studying for an advanced radiotherapy qualification and his thesis was to be on the behaviour of the bladder over the period of a linear accelerator radiation course. JJ said sure, and wondered how he could inveigle Yves-Jacques into this task without giving the game away. JJ was also a bit sheepish because he was all girded up for a verbal battle with the staff about his diagram and somewhat twee moaning given the time pressure they were under. Instead, they all thought it was either funny or informative. These guys were high quality and doing a real job. JJ behaved himself after that and fully appreciated that these young radiographers were doing the best for him that they could.

  While all this radiation and white secrecy was going on, JJ had tried to be as committed to his son and his work responsibilities as best he could. He sincerely believed that Cyrus had not noticed the difference in either their relationship or their pastimes. That was good. He also seemed not to have tweaked the curiosity of any of his work colleagues which in such a den of gossip, innuendo and blatant untruths, was quite some feat. JJ had also been a bit lucky on the markets front, as they were on the quiet side and certainly displayed no repetition as yet of the Greek chaos.

  The one area where a few rumblings and mumblings had occurred was in his initial meeting with Neil Robson, Financial Secretary to the UK Treasury. JJ had tried to put Neil off after replying to his email on that fateful Friday, but Neil was a northern lad and not easily put off. He was born in Middlesborough and was the MP for the Conservatives key constituency in that town. He had wide responsibilities in the British government, including financial stability, bank lending, the regulatory Financial Conduct Authority and the EU budget. His remit also included supporting the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Jeffrey Walker, on many issues including international finance. JJ always thought it amusing that not too long after President Barak Obama had called the coalition’s first Chancellor ‘Geoffrey’ at a G8 meeting in Northern Ireland instead of his name which was ‘George’ the Prime Minister had dumped George for Jeffrey, albeit spelt differently.

  JJ and Neil Robson had joined MI5 at the same time, more or less straight from University. While JJ had studied at Glasgow and Warwick, Neil had gone to Cambridge and then to the London School of Economics. Neil’s educational path was more well-trodden as far as spies and spooks were concerned but even the security services had to have the odd provincial every now and then. Neil and JJ were virtually the same age. JJ was taller, more athletic and, in his arrogant moments, probably thought smarter as well. Neil had a devious, dark side that may have helped him accelerate through the ranks of MI5 a little bit quicker than JJ. They were both recruited as intelligence officers. JJ had been on only four field missions by the time he left MI5 but Neil had at least a dozen before he resigned. JJ and Neil were never the best of friends. JJ thought Neil was a bit sleekit, never apparently helping his colleagues and often rumoured to have stabbed a few of them in the back, metaphorically speaking. Neil liked politics, journalists, cricket, and any sleazy activity going. None of these were on JJ’s radar so, outside work, there was little to talk about. JJ sensed there was a grudging mutual respect though. He assumed Neil was very proficient on his field missions. For a start, he came back from them, and he kept getting selected for more. Neil seemed to appreciate JJ’s research and analysis, they kept him out of some tight spots. Still, they were like a couple of cage fighters who didn’t relish being the one to engage first, for fear of letting their guard down. That was all history. Neil Robson was now in
his dated but comfy surroundings in HM Treasury on Horse Guards Road and, JJ assumed, not out in the field topping random bad guys.

  JJ didn’t want to meet up with Neil. Partly because he couldn’t be bothered, he knew they had little in common, and partly because his mind was full of radiation thoughts, hormone injections, survival and all that jazz. Neil had promised that the meeting would be very short, just intended to establish whether JJ was in a position or not to help the government, and then JJ could be on his merry way.

  Robson was true to his word. They met for an early afternoon glass of wine at a wine bar just around the corner from his offices at the Treasury in Westminster. JJ could easily walk there and back to MAM’s building in twenty minutes. Though the medical advice was not to drink alcohol while undergoing hormone treatment, apparently the occasional glass was OK. In any event, JJ took the view that a glass of red wine was meant to be good for the heart and that he may as well attempt to keep that organ going for as long as possible given the other health issues dominating his mind and body.

  The meeting was indeed short, twenty minutes or so exclusive of the time it took to order, but it was seriously weird. Neil started by asking JJ if MAM had any investments in South Korea. JJ was unlikely to blurt out where any of MAM’s investments were to anyone, let alone a slimy weasel like Robson. JJ replied that MAM had been known to invest in South Korean equities and sometimes traded the won on the foreign exchanges but that he wasn’t sure if they had any right now. Of course, in truth, JJ knew exactly MAM’s position in South Korean assets but he clearly wasn’t letting on. This was a white lie, it clearly being for the greater good. Then the Financial Secretary to the Treasury asked if MAM traded gold on a regular basis. That was more of a general enquiry, thought JJ so no white lies necessary. He explained to Neil that MAM often traded in gold, in size, and that in Toby Naismith they had one of the best gold traders in London, if not the entire global financial community. That may have been bigging up Fathead a bit too much but JJ thought it might balance out the paucity of information he’d given Neil regarding MAM’s investments. On receipt of the gold information Neil took a sip of his house Chianti Classico and gave a little nod of approval, or so JJ thought.

  The meeting ended friendly enough; they shook hands and both went in the respective directions of their offices. Neil said he’d be in touch, JJ hoped he wouldn’t but at that moment he had peeing on his mind so he didn’t think twice about Neil’s comment. In fact, he was so distracted he didn’t even bother to ask Neil why the questions!

  As JJ walked briskly towards his offices he felt something vibrate in his pocket. He knew it wasn’t his willie, the first dose of Zoladex hormones had seen to that; it was his BlackBerry.

  “Hey JJ, it’s Toby,” said a familiar voice.

  “Hi Toby, I’m just on my way back from the Treasury. What’s up?”

  “Well, you know the FCA, the Financial Conduct Authority, one of those twin peaks regulators that try, on occasion, to prevent us earning a living, or at least a fast buck.”

  “Yes, Toby, I know of them. We haven’t done anything to get in their bad books, have we?”

  “I’m not sure. Compliance gave me a ring and said that one of the FCA’s officers had been looking at a selection of hedge fund trades that were done on Friday, 13th December last year. Remember that?”

  How could he forget thought JJ. A day that had gone so magnificently for MAM but had ended with an email that was a precursor to a life changing event. “Yes, I remember, Toby,” said JJ, attempting to be nonchalant. “How come we’ve lit up their radar screen?”

  “Compliance wouldn’t say but the inference was that we had done a whole lot better that day than virtually any other London based macro fund and the FCA just wanted to check that it was all above board.”

  “Have they set a meeting time?” asked JJ.

  “Yes, they want to come in on Thursday, around 11am, to see me as the head trader and you as the head of portfolio strategy,” replied Toby.

  “OK, that’s three days away. I’ll be back in ten minutes, we can have a brief chat, but then I need to head off. See you soon.”

  With that JJ ended the call, almost not waiting for Toby to say cheerio. Even in his radiated and hormoned body, JJ knew what was afoot. MAM had stolen a march on all the other hedge funds that day, partly because they had a researcher in Wellington, partly because that researcher had a brother-in-law in a Greek political party whose single audience information release was spot on and partly because the three MAM amigos’ plan had worked like a Patek Philippe tourbillon. Some overzealous regulator eejit may want to try to make an insider trading case out of this, reasoned JJ but he was determined to ensure that that particular chunk of cow muck was going nowhere near MAM.

  JJ’s main attribute as a fund manager was his commitment to deep research and analysis. If you read it in The Financial Times, then it’s too late. JJ distinguished between economic commentators and economists. The former could write well, maybe even knew superficially what they were writing about, could meet deadlines and appear to the man in the street as quite knowledgeable. Proper economists, however, could take on issues and dig deep, eke out robust theoretical underpinnings, undertake detailed analysis and then solid statistical and/or econometric testing. JJ had been mulling over this opinion as he lay on the radiotherapy table that day. While ‘Human’ and ‘Spaceman’ were playing on Joe Ford’s music system he decided he wasn’t totally satisfied. He had absolutely no doubt that by the slide rule of traditional medicine, he was getting state of the art treatment. The Royal Marsden was the leading cancer hospital in the UK, maybe even further afield. Dr Van den Berk was justifiably regarded highly by all his colleagues and staff and Joe Ford’s RapidArc transmission mechanisms would have made it on to Tomorrow’s World. After further contemplation, JJ firmly believed that as far as mainstream medicine was concerned he was getting the best treatment around.

  The nagging doubt in his head though was triggered by a memory of his first analytical job for MI5. The security services were concerned that OPEC’s massive wealth was, advertently or inadvertently, funding some pockets of terrorism aimed at the UK. For every $1/barrel the price of crude oil rose how much of that went to nefarious groups and deadly organisations? JJ was asked to investigate and report back. He was fresh out of university, so his technical analytical brain was fully engaged. Within a few weeks, he had completed a detailed study of the impact of oil on consumer prices, output and employment of the G7 economies plus Russia. For good measure he even built a small econometric model, using vector autoregressive analysis and dynamic optimisation programs which spewed out a ranking of the G7 currencies for any given oil shock. He was pleased with his work and gave it to his boss. She had a brief look at it and asked, ‘What does OPEC do with the money?’ JJ nearly collapsed in a mental heap. He was so taken by his efforts at estimating the direct economic impact of an oil price hike on the major economies that he had forgotten completely that OPEC had received a windfall gain and that they had to do something with this gain.

  JJ scuttled off back to his desk and worked day and night for two weeks on this question. Different OPEC countries were in different stages of economic development. Many would need to spend their relatively new found wealth on infrastructure like roads, hospitals, schools etc. The more economically advanced, like Saudi Arabia, may have peaked on infrastructure building so their excess cash tended to go into financial assets. US Treasuries were a favourite as nobody thought the US government would ever default, as were some hard commodities like gold, silver, platinum and copper. However there was other stuff. It was impossible to account for every last dollar that OPEC countries received in oil revenue. Saudi Arabia was probably America’s closest ally in the Middle East, but Osama bin Laden was a Saudi and fifteen of the nineteen suicide bombers who flew into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon in September 2001 were Saudis. That operation, heinous as it was, took money, planning, secrecy, and albe
it from the coldness of a black ops perspective, expensive skill. By the time JJ had completed his research he gave his superiors an incredibly detailed breakdown of what the key OPEC countries did with their oil wealth. The estimated gap between the revenues and the resulting outflow of cash into real and financial assets, reserves, overseas aid, military purchases etc. was called the ‘funding gap’ by JJ. His boss had decided to term it PTF, potential terrorist funds. It was a large enough gap to be well scary.

  By the time Brandon Flowers had blasted out the ‘Spaceman’ track, JJ had decided he needed to do a bit more research into prostate cancer. The iffy nature of his particular position i.e. locally advanced and not far from metastatic meant that his treatment program had been put together in a bit of a rush. With the nature of that news, the Greek plan, the peculiar Robson meeting and worrying about Cyrus, JJ hadn’t properly delved into the wider and deeper issues on the cancer.

  Well, it’s just as well that he decided to. After Cyrus had gone to bed that night, JJ opened up his computer tablet and got going on research. He usually had his tablet with him and it was not synchronised with any of his work computers so he was reasonably confident that planned or opportunistic prying eyes would not get any information reward. JJ wanted more answers on several scores. First, the side effects of his treatment and was there anything that could be done about that. Secondly, was there any alternative to mainstream medicine as it related to cancer cures.

  JJ ploughed through a skyscraper’s worth of information. The side effects of both radiotherapy and hormone treatment were not pleasant. The lightweight side effects of hormone treatment that were most common included excessive tiredness, hot flushes like a menopausal woman, weight gain and body hair loss. The more heavyweight side effects included the possibility of liver and kidney toxicity and immune system dysfunction. You were well up the Swanee if the latter three took hold.