Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  Now we’re talking, thought JJ, his analytical brain zooming through everything that Vincent was telling him and projecting ahead.

  “Vincent, this is most impressive. I have several questions. Is this process totally reliable right now? How much do these mini furnaces weigh? What weight of gold does each sunbed, for want of a better word, process? How long does the gold stay molten? Any problems with your process?” JJ was sounding keen, perhaps too keen, but Vincent was impressed enough with himself that he just took it for professional admiration.

  Vincent resumed. “Each of these ‘sunbeds’ as you called them, are around five and a half metres long, and weigh 300kg or a lot more when fully loaded. Due to the materials we have used and the ergonomic design, each sunbed can take up to twenty tonnes of gold. Obviously, we have not been able to experiment with that amount of gold but I think it is a reasonable extrapolation. The gold stays molten for as long as the electromagnet is in use. From a cold start it would take forty-five minutes to an hour to melt the twenty tonnes. That’s very fast by comparison with other methods.” Vincent looked at his friend who had also been listening intently. Yves-Jacques gave him the thumbs up.

  “Any problems with the process or the machinery, Vincent?”

  “Not really, Mr Darke, apart from one…”

  JJ raised his eyebrows and gave Vincent a little nod, it was time for the young scientist to reveal the glitch.

  “The perforations at the top of the mini furnace provide a degree of cooling,” began Vincent, “as do the overhead fans, but we are having problems with the sunbeds’ stability when the internal temperature is over 1,000 degrees Celsius for more than fifteen minutes. We’re concerned that the sunbeds themselves will melt.”

  JJ was pensive. After a few more moments he asked, “What are these mini furnaces made of, Vincent?”

  “Mainly alumina, silicon and magnesium mixed with small insertions of fire clays. We need high refractory materials and these were the ones we could both get supplies of and afford.”

  “What about Kevlar or carbon fibre?” asked JJ.

  “Apart from the fact that we could not afford those materials, Kevlar is out,” began Vincent. “Kevlar loses its tensile strength nearly exponentially as the temperature rises. At just over 250 degrees Celsius, Kevlar’s strength is reduced by 50% in about two to three days. If the temperature was over 1,000 degrees then any Kevlar structure would start to buckle, after twelve to fifteen hours at best.”

  “What about carbon fibre?”

  Vincent thought for a moment. “Yes, in theory,” he said. “There are many carbon fibres and carbon fibre composites. The ones which retain their tensile strength at super high temperatures are used by NASA in their space programmes. I believe they are a composite material involving a glass-ceramic matrix combined with specialised heat-resistant carbon fibres.”

  JJ now knew what he had to do. He thanked Vincent for his time and information, it had been very helpful. He promised to wire PLP a further €20,000 in good faith so that JJ could contact Vincent if and when necessary over the next few days. He would add a further €20,000 if, for the next two weeks, Vincent and his team put JJ’s interests and requests above those of all other clients, including EuroGet. He didn’t need or demand permanent exclusivity, just a head start, a window of exclusivity. Vincent agreed. Short term cash flow can often be the key financial bugbear for a small skunkworks outfit.

  JJ and Yves-Jacques made it back to the Gare du Nord in time for their 4pm Eurostar departure. They chatted about the day. JJ thanked the young Frenchman for his forethought and the introduction to Vincent Barakat. It had turned out to be a fruitful day trip. Though JJ and Fathead had agreed to leave Yves-Jacques out of the North Korean loop, Toby’s alcohol induced loose lips and Yves-Jacques’ stellar contribution meant that he was well and truly in the loop now.

  As the train was whizzing along, JJ checked his emails and texts on his smartphone. One unread text was from Ginger. It simply stated: I’ve found us a safe cracker. That was good news. Ethel was well aware that the safe cracker for this trip better know how to get into a serious mega-vault. No cat burglar or opportunistic gonk that wanted to drop a safe on its head and hope it burst open. This was the real deal. JJ replied thanking Ginger and suggesting they meet up tomorrow to discuss.

  There was an email from the slime Robson. He wanted to know how things were going as the clock was ticking. JJ sent a one word reply saying: Fine. He realised Neal Robson was not going to be satisfied with that but he needed to check out a couple of things on his tablet before formulating a proper reply.

  “Yves-Jacques,” said JJ, getting the attention of his young colleague sitting opposite. “How long do you think it takes Renault to build an average family car?”

  Yves-Jacques pondered the question. Clearly Renault family cars were not hand built and clearly they were chugging along the production line at pace. “From scratch?” asked Yves-Jacques.

  “From scratch,” confirmed JJ.

  “Maybe a day?” ventured the French man.

  “Actually, depending on the specifications it would be two to four days from scratch. High spec sports cars or rally cars would take longer. Renault aren’t any better or worse than other major car manufacturers. I just wanted to be local about it,” JJ smiled and Yves-Jacques went back to his laptop game.

  JJ returned to his smartphone and texted an old friend of his, based in Surrey, Harold McFarlane. He hadn’t spoken to Harold for a few years but the Surrey born and bred Englishman had been instrumental, nay essential, to JJ’s fun a few years ago. Harold had hit upon hard times, not through ill health or job loss, but his extended family were not as productive in their daily lives and had become quite a financial burden. He loved his two daughters enormously and they were bright, lively girls. Harold could not afford to send them both to university at more or less the same time and it was this issue that weighed on his mind more than any other. JJ gave him £10,000 to allow both daughters to get their desired higher education. Harold did not want to accept the money, and only agreed when JJ had said to treat it as a loan. In their hearts they both knew it was a gift. Harold in all likelihood would not be in a position to repay £10,000 and JJ had no intention of trying to recoup it. The last he heard, one of Harold’s daughters was an accountant and the other one ran a small, but successful internet-based business.

  JJ’s phone vibrated. It was a reply from Harold.

  No, we’re not overloaded right now. The team has gone to Oz and we’re not expecting them back for 3 weeks at least. It’s great to hear from you. I hope everything is OK. Regards, Harold.

  It was all fitting into place now. After a few more moments thought JJ decided it was time to bring Gil into the picture. He sent another email.

  Gil,

  I’ll explain more tonight but for the moment I need you to organise the following:

  Acquire two tractor units fitted with empty fuel tanks on their trailers. Both trucks need to be of the dimensions and style of a Chinese FAW Jie Fang truck capable of carrying a Shaanxi 6x4 20cbm fuel tanker. Once you’ve acquired the trucks, deliver them to Harold McFarlane at the McLaren Technology Centre, Chertsey Road, Woking. He’s expecting them in a couple of days.

  JJ.

  JJ knew that Gil would be on the case in a flash. She was a great friend, nanny and bodyguard to Cyrus. Now some of her other skills may need to come to the fore.

  It may take Renault and other car manufacturers a few days to build a car, but a top notch Formula 1 team can build a race car from scratch overnight. JJ leant back in his Eurostar seat and closed his eyes. This had been a good day. He was silently humming in his head Ray Parker’s Ghostbusters theme.

  Harold McFarlane was the answer to your question, Ray.

  5: THE WAY OF THE FIST

  “C’mon Cyrus,” yelled Gil Haning. “Shift your skinny butt and turn your computer off. Time to exercise your body not just your mind.”

  Gil, aka Zhang Bai Li
ng, had already been training herself for about thirty minutes in JJ Darke’s gym at his house in Markham Square. Her solo training sessions were akin to a religious ceremony. She always wore a black short-cropped sleeveless top with sports bra, specialist lightweight black and grey three-quarter length pants, and her favourite silvery white trainers.

  Tonight the starting point, after warming up, was a session with the heavy bag. She recalled the first time she had put on boxing wraps. It was a nightmare of dexterity. Now with her Fairtex wraps, she was like a machine weaving the material in and out of her slim fingers, ensuring the knuckles were fully protected, that the wraps were tight and secure, and that the loop at the end was firmly in place. Then she’d slip on her mid-weight Immortal black boxing gloves. They felt good. On her toes, but not moving like a gazelle given her limp left leg, she circled the heavy bag, securely hanging from the basement’s ceiling. Left jab, right jab, a few slow shots to the bag, just to get the range. Left hook, two straight right jabs, upper cut, right cross. She continued on her routine. Once she was confident enough with the timing and power of her punches, she gradually introduced elbows and knees. Elbow shots were her favourite attack blows. However, unlike the hands and knuckles, they were unprotected. Badly-timed elbow shots meant grazing, bleeding and annoying though moderate pain. Some nights after training, she’d be bleeding from both elbows. She regarded it as a badge of honour, but in fact it meant that her timing was out. On a heavy bag or a training pad a well-timed elbow shot made the sound of a dull thud, a badly-timed hit led to a scraping one. Tonight she was all dull thud. Knee shots currently meant left knee shots. To retain balance and be in the correct posture for a powerful knee attack to the groin or stomach meant that your standing leg had to be firmly planted on the ground, supple but stable. Gil’s left leg was still hobbly-wobbly so right knee attacks tended to be weak, limp, poorly timed. Similarly, her roundhouse kicks tended to be with the left leg. The limb was still powerful enough to do damage, indeed Gil’s skills were sufficient to break any attacker’s leg with one blow.

  Hooks, jabs, crosses, knees and elbows were the potential weapons of the human body. They were developed into a system of attack and defence moves by Bruce Lee and called Jeet Kune Do, the way of the intercepting fist. Essentially, Lee had become unenthused about traditional Chinese martial arts, he wanted to discard the flowery, purely aesthetic and rigidly systematic moves for a process that was more useful in the real world, a system that was not a system, but flowed like water. To the casual observer, JKD combined Western boxing techniques with Eastern kicking ones, and an elbow and knee from mixed martial arts. Along with Krav Maga, it was perhaps the most street wise of the martial arts.

  Having previously trained in martial arts, Gil had stood out when JJ ran a 12 week course for a select few in the US security services, back in 2010. JKD students from the CIA, FBI and the NSA came to JJ’s classes and several of them, including Gil, continued training on their own or with personal instructors thereafter. JJ was somewhat JKD old school, had a 2nd ranking and had one of the meanest spinning elbow shots Gil had ever seen. When they sparred now, with protective helmets on, JJ was a tad slower than he used to be but this was balanced by Gil’s limp. They were nearly evenly matched but the Scot still had the greater power.

  “Cyrus!” bellowed Gil yet again. “For goodness sake, c’mon, you need to release some of those endorphins dormant in your nerdy body.”

  “OK, OK, I’m coming,” groaned Cyrus, loping unenthusiastically down the stairs to the basement. He looked like the guy from Napoleon Dynamite, all gawky and uncoordinated, regular T-shirt on, baggy white shorts and a pair of black and green trainers. “Do we have to do this Gil? I’m tired and I could happily flop,” said the kid.

  “Yes, we have to do it Cyrus,” Gil replied. “I know you play tennis and do a bit of gym training, but what happens if you get bullied at school? Are you going to run to the teacher blubbering?”

  “I’ve never been bullied at school,” Cyrus responded quick as a flash and mistakenly thinking that the exit door was opening.

  “What if somebody tried to harm your girlfriend, what’s her name, Lucy?” Gil countered.

  “She’s a girl friend, Gil, not a girlfriend,” emphasised Cyrus, a little embarrassed.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Gil. “One day or night she may be in your company and some knucklehead wants to move in on her, pulling and pushing her a little. You ask him to stop but he doesn’t. Do you take the pose of a curly-topped pipe cleaner or do you do something about it?”

  Although at this precise moment, Cyrus was finding Gil very very annoying, he did indeed like her and liked having her around. She was right. Cyrus was no fighter, he wasn’t even that tough. He kind of ghosted his way through school having only a couple of close friends and, as yet, not crossing the path of any enemies or bullies. He did like Lucy and while he’d never admit it under parental or ‘bodyguard’ questioning, he did want to be her boyfriend. The black scenario painted by Gil that Lucy was in trouble, did indeed disturb Cyrus. What would he do in that position? Calling for help would take too long and there’d be no guarantee help would come. Trying to talk the knucklehead down was a possibility but, unfortunately, one of the characteristics of knuckleheads was that talking and listening were often too much of a strenuous task.

  “Fine,” Cyrus said eventually. “What are we practising tonight?”

  “Well, young man…” beamed Gil who really liked Cyrus. “You’re going to start with a ten minute warm-up on the treadmill, then we’re going to give those peas you call muscles a bit of a going over with biceps curls and triceps extensions. Remember arm pain is good pain. No pain, no gain. We are going to build those arms so that the Muscles from Brussels would be happy to have a beer with you.”

  “I don’t drink beer,” said Cyrus cheekily and feeling somewhat ancient that he actually knew who the Muscles from Brussels was.

  Gil gave him a look. Cyrus plodded on to the treadmill, started with a two minute slightly inclined walk to check hamstrings and the like and then picked up the pace.

  “Once that curly top of yours starts to reveal the glistening signs of sweat, we’ll move to the weights. Then we’re going to practise the art of accurate and timely fist strikes. Got it?” said Gil, now clearly getting her own way.

  “Got it, uber-fuhrer Haning,” replied Cyrus and off he went, however reluctantly, on his exercise regime.

  Gil was looking at Cyrus like a big sister to a wee brother. He was a good-looking boy, clearly smart and the apple of JJ’s eye. He was tall and slim but he was going to need to develop his stamina and strength. This was a far cry from her NSA work at LINEAR and an even farther cry from that fateful night in Boston, mused Gil, as she was studying Cyrus’s running style. She was very grateful to JJ for the opportunity to come to London to rest and recuperate. She found out that it was Jayne Hayden, the NSA’s chief officer in Boston, who had made the call to JJ. They had known each other from their CIA and MI5 days respectively and had kept in social, if not operational, touch. Jane knew that Cyrus’s mother had died and that JJ was attempting to raise Cyrus on his own. She asked JJ if he remembered Zhang Bai Ling, and he had as she was one of his best JKD students.

  Jane Hayden proposed that Bai Ling could do with a non-operational role outside the USA for a while, maybe even a very long while, and JJ felt that an interesting young woman may make a good companion, nanny or even ‘bodyguard’ as Cyrus called her. Gil had said yes to the job offer and much of it was enjoyable. She was well paid by JJ. On top of her Federal pension that she received as part of her forced retirement from the NSA, that was a welcome income. She lived in a cool part of London courtesy of the NSA, and still had enough spare cash to send regular amounts to her family in Hong Kong. JJ was a good boss and a fine friend. He never bothered her in the way that forty-something men can sometimes bother younger women. He appeared to care for her well-being and he trusted her implicitly with Cyrus.

&
nbsp; It was good but it was not all good. She loved being with JJ and Cyrus. She was determined to teach the younger Darke some skills that he might need whenever he left the uniquely closeted atmosphere of private schools in Chelsea and into the darkness that was the real world. She was a maths genius and one of the youngest NSA officers to see action. She missed both. Her left knee may be dud but she did not want her brain or skills to atrophy as well.

  As Cyrus was wilting under the pressure of his third set of fifteen bicep curl repetitions with two 10kg weights, Gil’s smartphone beeped from the bench opposite her. It was an email from JJ. He wanted to acquire two trucks that were of comparable dimensions to Chinese FAW Jie Fang trucks with Shaanxi tankers attached. He’d explain why later. Once acquired, she was to have them delivered to Harold McFarlane at the McLaren Technology Centre in Woking, Surrey. In the next day or two would be fine.

  Oooooh, thought Gil. That wasn’t pick up some groceries that Ocado didn’t deliver, or make sure Cyrus didn’t stay up all night on his computer. That request had a hint of action about it. Trucks that looked like Chinese trucks, tankers attached, top-notch Formula One team. I wonder what’s afoot, she thought. Gil replied to JJ’s email straight away. She was on it, well she would be on it once she finished training and exhausting Cyrus. Tomorrow she’d quiz JJ. Things were looking up, maybe.