“That’s a lot of money Neil,” interjected Walker. “But it’s way short of the £3 billion pounds we bloody well need.” Chancellors of the Exchequer rarely used the F-bomb, unless they were from the west of Scotland, so ‘bloody’ was an accurate gauge of Walker’s grievous angst.
“The power of compound interest Sir,” resumed Robson.
“What?” said the Chancellor impatiently.
“The DPRK bonds had a yield of just over 6% per annum. That was quite high by international comparison but clearly included a risk premium, which was justified, on the possibility of a North Korean fiscal meltdown, or as it turned out, default. Now, £460 million of nominal bonds yielding 6% per annum over 30 years amounts to—”
Walker interrupted. “Tell me it’s close to £3 billion Neil, please tell me that,” the Chancellor pleaded.
“It is indeed Sir,” confirmed Robson. “£3.6 billion to be exact.”
Chancellor Walker felt instant gratification but was also puzzled. “Why haven’t we pursued this before, Neil? It must have surfaced in a previous government’s tenure?” asked Walker, not allowing himself to believe that there was such an easy way out of his financial straightjacket.
“The Germans and Swiss kind of let it go…” responded Robson “… and we followed suit. There were some negotiations regarding payment in the early 1990s but then the Argentinian debt mess and default of 1999 – 2002 and the emerging markets balance of payments crisis of 1998 were regarded by North Korea as some kind of precedent. So they told all and sundry to bugger off, so to speak, and we haven’t really tried to bugger back in since.”
The Chancellor motioned to ask another question of his Financial Secretary but Robson indicated he had more information to divulge.
“I’ve enquired discretely of our international lawyers and our embassy in Pyongyang,” continued Robson. “The lawyers confirm we are, under international law, still owed the money in the amount I indicated. Freddie Wycliffe, our man in Pyongyang, disappointingly said that the initial discussions with his counterpart in the DPRK were unfruitful.”
“Unfruitful!” exclaimed the Chancellor. “What does that mean?”
“Freddie says the official North Korean position is that if we want our money, then come and get it, I believe was the literal translation.”
“A lot of bloody good that is,” said Walker, visibly infuriated again. “We can’t just gaily waltz into Pyongyang and demand £3 billion or whatever the won equivalent is.”
“No we can’t,” confirmed Robson. “North Korea have not paid one paltry bean of the debt they owe to any government who holds their defaulted bonds. They’re not going to start now. Under Kim Jong-un, they’re militarily stronger and even less inclined to be accommodative than ever before to any friend of the United States. We are not going to get what we need through normal political channels, Sir,” continued Robson. “Freddie Wycliffe says he is 100% certain that the DPRK government will not entertain any further discussion on the matter. In any event, even if we could go that route, the Prime Minister would then know, the Opposition would know and the media and voting public would know. Too much information I fear in too many hands. If it got out that we went begging to North Korea, we’d lose the election anyway and maybe any support we still have from the USA. We could emphasise that the money was rightfully ours and that we weren’t begging. That might work but then the media, financial journalists and City economists would dig and dig into the government’s finances until they uncovered the time bomb we have kept quiet. Again, we’d be dead in the water.”
Chancellor Walker knew all this but he had switched off a few of Neil Robson’s sentences ago. “Neil,” said the Chancellor, indicating that he wanted to ask a question. “You said we were not going to get what we needed through normal political channels. Does that mean that you have some abnormal channels in your mind that will get us a result?”
“Yes Jeffrey…” replied Robson with a smirk on his face that had illegality written all over it.
* * *
JJ Darke had no real idea why he had been summoned to Neil Robson’s office in HM Treasury. Sure they had had a drink a week or two ago and Robson had said he’d be in touch, but the email he had received yesterday from his old MI5 colleague seemed a bit more formal and had urgently requested today’s meeting. JJ was in a decent mood. Cyrus had come top of his class in computing and JJ had the results of his first post-radiotherapy PSA blood test. The score was good, down to 0.8, a far cry from the 23 that had triggered his whole cancer fighting protocol.
JJ was met at the security desk on the ground floor by Neil Robson’s PA, a 5ft 7in, twenty something, unnatural blonde called Becky. She was agreeable enough, both in manner and appearance. Becky seemed somewhat uncomfortable though in her figure hugging hot pink top, high heels and tight black skirt. Indeed, the young lady was a little bright all round for the dingy interior of the Treasury. Maybe she was appealing to Robson’s basic instincts in the hope of swift social climbing, or even some other sort of climbing. They went up the stairs to Robson’s office on the second floor, engaging in the usual small talk as they went.
“Come in JJ,” said Neil Robson, his expression in neutral. “Sit down, some tea or coffee?”
“No thanks, Neil, I’ve just had breakfast and I’ve a full day ahead. What’s the urgency?” asked JJ, anxious to get this unappealing start to the business day over with.
Neil Robson sat in his dimpled green leather chair and pulled a file from the right hand drawer of his antique and large leather topped desk. “This,” began Robson, as he held aloft an enclosed document in a blue cardboard folder, “is a file which does not cast you in a good light, my friend.”
JJ’s decent mood had instantly evaporated. Even before knowing what was in the file, the mere fact that Robson had called him friend meant he was in trouble. They weren’t friends and they both knew it. JJ was expressionless and said nothing. Robson looked as if he couldn’t contain himself.
“I have a report from the FCA, specifically from Tom Watts and Rachel Woodhouse of the FCA,” continued Robson. JJ’s face remained unperturbed but his innards and his brain were already in the formative stages of turmoil. “Seems you have been a naughty boy, JJ,” said Robson, smug and condescending. “Greek bonds, dodgy phone calls, in the office in the middle of the night to unravel toxic positions. It’s got insider trading written all over it,” Robson blurted out, with some glee.
“I had a meeting with the FCA team, Neil, I think they were satisfied with my explanation of that night’s events,” said JJ, hoping beyond hope that Robson’s mention of dodgy phone calls was just one generic element from a gallimaufric collection of possibilities that could be involved in an insider trading event.
“They were JJ, they were,” commented Robson, clearly dragging it out and in no hurry to ease JJ’s concern. “But you should never underestimate the forensic powers of an ambitious woman, JJ. Apparently, young Ms Woodhouse, who reports to Tom Watts who, in turn, reports directly to me…” Robson ploughed on “… simply could not accept what seemed to be a too good to be true tale. She obtained the authority to requisition your mobile phone records, without your permission, and those of Toby Naismith and Yves-Jacques Durand.” Robson paused for a sip of tea provided a few minutes earlier by the candescent Becky. “Tut-tut, JJ. I’m fairly certain that those phone calls add up to a robust insider trading breach, involving you, your colleagues and your firm.”
As he was taking this all in JJ’s brain was whirling around like a banshee. Dear god, he thought, eye candy had stitched them up and she hadn’t even looked that interested during the meeting at MAM’s offices. Robson was still babbling on about sizeable fines, suspensions, even legal proceedings but JJ had moved off that train of thought. That was all a given if the insider trading allegation was proven. What JJ was wondering was why he had been summoned to Neil Robson’s office in the Treasury to be confronted with this. Normally, such an accusation would have been ma
de in a formal letter from the Financial Conduct Authority or, at least, in a high level meeting at the FCA. He knew for sure that neither Fathead nor Yves-Jacques had received any FCA communication about this issue. Yet, here he was, sitting opposite the Financial Secretary to the Treasury, slimy toad that he was, over a cup of tea for one and having a little chit-chat. JJ decided to play along for the moment.
“It’s debateable whether it’s insider trading Neil,” said JJ, very composed. “We got the information from a paid employee of MAM in Wellington and we acted on that with all due haste. We didn’t have time to check whether or not it was in the public domain, perhaps it was, and perhaps it wasn’t. There were no backhanders, no bung. We, at MAM, were not the sole beneficiaries of the Greek news. It was a zero sum game, with winners and losers cancelling each other out. Hardly the classic insider trade,” concluded JJ.
Robson was pensive for a moment then resumed the attack. “JJ, you must think I’m a fucking idiot. You may think you’re smarter than me, but you’re not. You may think you can outmanoeuvre me, but you can’t. Do you want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I represent the fucking British government. You represent that festering bunch of hedgies that no one, but no one, outside of Mayfair cares a flying rat’s arse about. I was elected by the people, you fucked the people or so they have been led to believe by the unbalanced media of this country. I don’t drive a new Porsche and live in a £6 million house off the fashionable but morally decrepit King’s Road. Are you getting the picture, smart boy?” ended Robson in a much less friendly tone.
“I get the picture, Neil,” responded JJ calmly. “But why am I being shown the picture here and not at the FCA? Why do my accused colleagues not know anything about it? Why does my boss at MAM not know anything about it?”
“Because my friend…” said Robson back to his calm but superior tone, “I alone can offer you a way out of your predicament.”
The following two hours unfolded into two of the most incredulous hours of JJ Darke’s professional life. Robson outlined how it was well within his powers to damage not only JJ himself but Toby, Yves-Jacques, and the whole of MAM. He made it abundantly clear that he would leak the story to the Financial Times, thereby making it seem weighty and true. JJ may be able to withstand the financial maelstrom that would follow once he had paid substantial fines but Toby Naismith might not and Yves-Jacques Durand would be finished in the financial world even before he had properly started. Investors would redeem millions and millions of pounds, dollars and euros from MAM. The fund’s profitability would shrink and there would be many lay-offs. Neil Robson also made it clear that he would press the legal system to push for the maximum penalties for JJ and his two amigos. The legal bills would finish off Naismith and Durand he emphasised and while they might not finish off JJ, a term at her majesty’s pleasure would ensure that there would be no future financial career opportunities. Robson had thought this through well. He continued with painting the bleak picture for JJ. Even if some investment house was imbecile enough to offer JJ a job, Robson explained that he would ensure that JJ’s registration with the FCA as an ‘approved person’ was locked away in a drawer never again to see the light of day.
JJ was analysing all this vitriol as it entered his head. He told Robson that he would take the fall, if a fall was coming, but to leave Toby and Yves-Jacques out of it, as they were simply following his instructions. Robson was having none of it. He made it clear that if JJ refused the opportunity, as Robson had called it, then no matter the veracity and commitment of JJ admitting it was his responsibility alone, the Treasury, i.e. the government, would pursue JJ’s two colleagues and David Sutherland, the head of MAM, with the full force of the law and beyond. JJ knew Robson had him by the short and curlies, a most depressing thought on any level. He knew that Robson was a vengeful, vindictive bastard from their time in MI5. He knew the Financial Secretary to the Treasury would not rest at fines, suspensions, sackings, even jail time. By dint of his murky past and hint of his venomous mouth Robson made it clear that JJ was caught between the biggest rock and the most solid hard place. He was damned if he took the fall for alleged insider trading and he was damned if he tried to fight it. Whichever form of damnation he opted for, his friends, his colleagues and, above all, his son would suffer distress for years to come.
In the best traditions of carrot and stick Robson gave JJ his ‘solemn word’ that if he carried out the plan then the file in his hand would disappear without trace. There were no copies, he swore, hard or electronic, and both Watts and detective Ms Woodhouse would be made to understand that it was in the country’s interests that no regulatory or legal action should be taken against the three MAM employees. Like magic it would all dissipate into the ether and JJ’s life could continue as before. JJ was no fool. He realised he was in Robson’s dirty vice like grip. JJ had been prepared to accept the results of any insider trading enquiry by the FCA and any consequent penalties, however harsh. Robson clearly did not want that, indeed he would not allow it. If JJ did not comply then pain and suffering would be heaped upon anyone who happened to be in JJ’s circle of family and friends whether or not they had anything to do with Greek bonds. JJ tried to squeeze every last brain cell in his head to produce a way out, but there was no way out, he was stuffed and he was toasted.
“OK, Neil,” said JJ. “What’s your plan?” Before his capitulation JJ knew he could not trust Robson. The slimy toad’s ‘solemn word’ had no credible content. JJ knew that he’d need to deal with that problem later, even though he hadn’t a blind clue, at this juncture, how to deal with it.
JJ listened to Robson’s plan. It so wasn’t a plan, thought JJ. It was a wild, fantasmagoriacal notion that not even Ethan Hunt in Mission Impossible with all the stuntmen and CGI characters could pull off. The guts of Robson’s notion was for JJ and a select team to stroll into North Korea and steal their gold.
“What the fuck, Neil!” exploded JJ. “Are you out of your tiny wetwork mangled fucking mind? That’s not a plan, it’s a whimsical improvisation of a desperate man, indeed a desperate government.” JJ caught a glimpse of Robson’s face, it wasn’t happy. JJ thought he’d better calm down fast. “Fine, I get why you’re on this particular path, but is there nothing else? Maybe something with a remote chance of success?”
Robson’s facial expression had become more neutral again. “Look, JJ. You’re in no position to be mouthing off and while I’m not going to divulge the details of the government’s finances to a spiv hedgie like you, let me assure you there is no other way. I’ve told you where the gold is and I can tell you how much of it we need. I can also tell you the budget for the mission and how to access the funds you will need. The rest is up to you. You need to select your team, the smaller the better, and I need to vet and OK all of them. You need to turn my, what did you call it, ‘whimsical improvisation’, cheeky fucker, into an operational plan.”
Robson was calm and confident, reflecting his total belief that he was the man on top. “Once you’ve got the gold…” he continued, “… and get it you’d better had for your and your friends’ sake, you need to sell it somehow, deliver the proceeds to me and I will then quietly disburse the monies to various areas of government. Simples, as Vasily the meerkat would say.” Robson was clearly pleased with himself and his little quip. “Take this mobile phone; it has my details in it. Contact me using this phone only.”
That was more or less the end of the meeting. JJ was reeling. Even bright Becky didn’t register in his mind’s eye as she escorted him to the front doors of the Treasury. He didn’t really know where to start. Robson wanted this theft to be undertaken by the end of March which was only two or three weeks away. His initial thought was to go to the media himself, expose Neil Robson for the crook he was. That however was not a quality first thought. Robson would still have the opportunity to reveal the FCA file and JJ, Toby and Yves-Jacques would still be in the pungent doo-doo. JJ had no proof of the
content of the meeting with Robson. It was face to face, no electronic communication of any sort. Robson had him for sure so JJ’s second thought was that he had better get a move on.
* * *
JJ’s initial research was not yielding happy answers. North Korea was believed to have extensive mineral deposits, including gold and silver. However, limited domestic technology and the isolationist government’s policies of no business contact with perceived enemies meant that the DPRK did not have the necessary mechanical and electronic engineering equipment to mine for these minerals efficiently. Their extraction was slow and laborious so maybe only two tonnes of gold were mined each year. If he was to acquire the full amount then JJ needed way more of the shiny yellow metal than that. In any event, even if the North Korean mining industry was the world’s finest, JJ and his team could not just hang about looking suspicious at the top of a gold mine shaft and ask the miners to pop a few tonnes of gold into their waiting trucks, thank you very much. They would need to get their target supply of gold from somewhere else, already above ground, refined and in storage.
The first port of call would be the central bank of the DPRK in Pyongyang. Central banks always had gold bullion in their vaults. The Bank of England has around £160 billion in the gold vaults well beneath Threadneedle Street. Under the ‘Old Lady’s’ skirts were piles of 28lb (12.5kg), 24 carat gold bars. A fraction of that would do JJ just fine. Immediately, though, this threw up two obstacles. First, JJ had no idea how much gold was stored in the vaults of the DPRK’s central bank or whether or not the gold bars in Pyongyang were of the same size and weight. Bullion bars come in all shapes and sizes, as small as 1kg or as large as the majority in the Bank of England’s vaults at 12.5kg. The second immediate difficulty was weight. Even if the DPRK’s central bank had the required amount of pure gold Neil Robson was demanding, how were they going to transport it out of Pyongyang over the border to South Korea and then on to good old Blighty. That didn’t even take into account how JJ and his team were going to break into the central bank or the length of time it would take to load the gold onto whatever transport they had. All of this was supposed to happen without being rumbled by North Korean military or secret service forces. It was impossible.
Darke Mission Page 14