“Kruglov,” came the curt greeting.
Dannielle announced herself.
“Anyata Ivanovna!” responded the man, sounding delighted to hear from his caller, and using the familiar patronymic style of greeting to a Russian woman that he knew well.
“Igor,” responded Dannielle, more formal but a friendly enough way to address the first Deputy Director of the SVR, the agency responsible for Russia’s foreign counter-intelligence.
7: BOWSER’S CASTLE
“These numbers seem a bit suspicious,” said Joel Gordon as he bounded into Neil Robson’s office on the third floor of the Treasury.
Joel looked a little like Usain Bolt – not, maybe an inch shorter in height but outweighed by being several inches wider around his midriff. He was around the same age as the fastest man on the planet, came from a Jamaican background, and had indeed progressed up the two flights of stairs that separated his and Robson’s office with a decent turn of speed. The similarities more or less ended there. Joel Gordon was a financial accountant and there was a lot less of the showman about him than in the Jamaican super sprinter. Joel Gordon was a top-notch number cruncher. He gained a BSc, first class, in Finance and Accounting from London’s Brunel University, joined HM Treasury’s finance department and gained a CIMA qualification, working at nights to complete the course. His grandparents had left Jamaica in the 1960s, determined to give their family a good education and better prospects. They settled in the east end of London, near Upton Park, and were a hardworking and honest family. Joel was the first of the UK-based Gordons to gain a place at University and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity that his grandparents had given him.
“Come in Joel,” said Robson, a somewhat superfluous offer as the tall Joel was already inside Neil Robson’s office. “Take a seat,” the Financial Secretary to the Treasury continued. “Unload what’s on your mind.”
Joel shuffled about with his papers for a moment or two. Although his direct boss was Craig Wilson, the somewhat dull, pro-cycling Executive Secretary to the Treasury, everyone knew that if you had an issue that you wanted resolved then it was better to go to Robson. Even with that he would still have gone to Craig Wilson first, but he was on a cycling vacation in Belgium. Good luck with that, thought Joel.
“Well, Sir,” began Gordon. “Mr Wilson asked me to check over our anticipated tax revenues for the current financial year and then compare them with our estimated government expenditures.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” said Robson, not yet even moderately fazed by the subject matter.
“It is, Sir, and I would have gone to Mr Wilson first, and not disturbed you.”
“He’s off pedal pushing in foreign parts I gather,” interrupted Robson, who did not have much time for the MP for Kensington and Chelsea.
“Yes, he is,” confirmed Gordon.
“And you felt that your number crunching could not wait till his return,” interjected Robson again, not in an unfriendly tone, but pointed enough to hint to young Gordon that he had better have something worthwhile to say.
“Yes, Sir,” replied Gordon. Robson stayed quiet but gave him a look which said get on with it. Joel Gordon recognised the look.
“The issue is, while I’m confident that the numbers we have anticipated for tax revenue in this financial year are attainable, and will stand up to scrutiny within and outwith the government, I’m less sure about the expenditure figures.” Robson nodded and intimated that Gordon should continue. “In particular, the estimates we have for expenditures, including wages, of the NHS, the police and the armed forces seem unrealistically low.”
“How low?” asked Robson now listening somewhat more attentively to the twenty-eight year old.
“I’ve checked and re-checked the figures, Sir,” Gordon replied. “I’ve run them through several computer simulations with the government’s budget constraint included. It looks like, well…”
“Spit it out, Gordon,” spiked Robson.
“We’re £3-4 billion adrift of where Mr Wilson, you, and indeed the Chancellor believe we are,” concluded Gordon, closing his file of jumbled papers, little realising that, of the four of them, only the pedal-pusher was not in the know.
“Can there be no mistake?” asked Robson feigning concern.
“No Sir,” replied Gordon. “I’ve re-done the arithmetic several times and I’ve no doubt that there is a £3-4bn hole in the accounts.”
“Does anyone else know about this, Joel?”
“No, I brought my findings straight to you, Mr Robson. As you know I would have gone to Mr Wilson first, but I did not feel it appropriate to divulge this sensitive information in a phone call, email or any electronic transmission.”
“You did the right thing, Joel,” said Robson, significantly relieved. “Leave it with me, I’ll take a look at your findings.” Robson held his hand outstretched hoping to receive the file with the damning numbers in it. Joel Gordon hesitated ever so slightly before handing them over.
“Will you take it to the Chancellor?” Joel asked.
The Chancellor, Jeffrey Walker, already knew the UK government was in a big, black hole, £3bn plus deep, thought Robson, but he wasn’t going to tell that to this overly inquisitive accountant.
“Yes, I will, Joel, thank you,” answered Robson coolly enough. “In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would keep this to yourself. The general election is not too far away and any issues regarding government finances will be even more under the microscope than usual.”
Joel Gordon nodded but didn’t say anything. After a few moments pause, and urged on by the intrinsic gene of ambition in his body, he piped up.
“When you discuss it with the Chancellor, Sir, would you mention it was my work? I know it sounds pushy but the Deputy Head of the Finance department’s job is up for grabs I believe and I would like to be considered for it.”
Neil Robson thought that this was somewhat cheeky by the young fellow, but also recognised that he had to keep him on side and quiet. So far, in the government only he and the Chancellor knew about the £3bn black hole and the Financial Secretary’s scarily audacious plan to plug it. Now, someone else knew, or thought they knew part of it. That increased the probability of a leak by 33.3% and that was too big a percentage to ignore.
“Sure, Joel,” said Robson, trying to sound friendly. “When is Craig Wilson back from his vacation?”
“In eight days.”
“Well, let’s all meet up on his return,” advocated Robson. “I’ll have been in discussion with the Chancellor by then and I’ll inform Craig what a sterling job you’ve done. Is that OK?” asked Robson, knowing, of course, that it would be.
“Yes, Sir, that would be excellent. Thank you,” said the accountant. With that, they both stood up, shook hands, and Joel Gordon left Neil Robson’s office and proceeded down the stairs to his, stepping jauntily on his way.
Neil Robson re-took his seat. He had no jaunty feeling right at this moment. On the one hand, he had that wise guy JJ Darke out on a thieving mission with very little communication from the recalcitrant Scot. Now, on the other, he had some excessively upwardly-mobile Treasury accountant being way too investigative on the plight of the government finances. Both of these issues needed sorting, thought Robson, as he scrunched up a piece of paper in his right hand largely oblivious to the fact that he was doing it.
Although Neil Robson was MP for Middlesbrough, as well as being Financial Secretary to the Treasury, he spent little time there and nearly always delegated his constituency duties to underlings. While he was born and bred in the area, he didn’t give one jot about his constituents. He was one for the good life, which often, for Robson, meant the bad life. He lived outside of London, in St. George’s Hill, Weybridge. Houses on that private estate tended to start at £3 million and proceed higher, maybe up to £8-9 million. Robson’s house was in the middle of that range as well as, roughly, being in the middle of the estate. Many rich and famous peo
ple lived in St. George’s Hill. Estate agents always described it as exclusive, which, of course, it wasn’t. There were over 400 houses on the 964 acre estate. Admittedly, there was a golf course and a tennis club but if truth be told it was more like a compound than an exclusive estate. Once you stepped out of the barrier controlled gates you were essentially in no-man’s land, all roads and cars but nothing much to do or see in the immediate vicinity. His ten year old nephew, whom he did not like nor he Robson, called this house Bowser’s Castle and Uncle Neil was King of the Koopas as far as the kid was concerned. Still, if you wished to maintain a low profile amongst A, B and C list celebrities then this was the place to be. Sirs Elton John and Cliff Richard had residences there as did the Swedish criminal Stefan Eriksson. The famous and the infamous, St. George’s Hill had them all. Unknown to most of his fellow residents, Neil Robson belonged to the latter group.
As he drove his black Bentley Continental into one of his integral garages, the prime thoughts on Robson’s mind were to get in touch with JJ Darke for an update on the mission in North Korea, to figure out what to do with Joel Gordon and his discoveries, whether or not to have a quick snort of cocaine and whether or not to get changed and head to the Nicolas Casino, one of London’s largest casinos and the one to which he gave much of his patronage. Patronage in this context simply meant Robson turning up and giving the casino his money. He was £2 million in debt to the casino, specifically its lugubrious Russian owner Vladimir Babikov. This may not be the kind of behaviour and pastimes that the Financial Secretary to HM Treasury should indulge in, but it was the life of Neil Robson. He left MI5 under a cloud and re-invented himself as a politician. He was good with numbers, articulate and an excellent public speaker. He could hold a crowd and he could convince the unsuspecting with his quick wit and superficial charm.
He rose swiftly through the backbench ranks of the Conservative party and came to the Chancellor’s attention at a fund raising event in one of his rare visits to his native Middlesbrough. The party did not have much cash to put behind Robson’s first attempt at election, but his oratory and local accent saw him trounce both the Labour and Lib Dem candidates in a by-election in the summer of 2009. Jeffrey Walker liked that a lot and soon Robson was ensconced in the Treasury, eventually reporting directly to the Chancellor himself.
Neil Robson was not content with the salary and life style of a quasi-mandarin. He wanted more. More money, more recognition, more most anything including casual sex and drugs. He was a man of action, for god’s sake. He had killed two Provisional IRA gunsmiths in the mid-1990s and at least twice as many Iran sponsored terrorists in a MOIS cell, discovered in Birmingham. He was an MI5 officer. That was what he was supposed to do. Well actually, he was supposed to capture and interrogate them but, what the heck; that took time and was hard work. Shooting the bastards was easier and quicker. He didn’t like their stupid accents either. All that incomprehensible Irish brogue and abbydabbywallah girning of the towel heads. Even if they were giving up information after a beating, he wouldn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. Maybe that was another reason he didn’t like Darke. West of Scotland accents could be like Irish ones, all that Gaelic mumbo-jumbo at speed, it was a disgrace to the Queen’s English.
Now he had to contend with another foreign accent, that friggin’ Jamrock yardie accountant Joel Gordon. Neil Robson didn’t like foreigners, he didn’t like accents and he didn’t like accountants. Trust that woose Wilson to promote the fuckwit who was digging way too deep for his own good and that of Robson. Wilson wouldn’t be back for eight days so Joel Gordon needed to be dealt with by then. Tonight though was going to be casino night.
“Vladimir, it’s Neil Robson. I was thinking of popping up to the Nicolas tonight. Any good action going on?”
Vladimir Babikov was old school Russian. He was around sixty-five years old, looked like Leonid Breznhev and smoked giant Havana cigars. He had a bodyguard squad made up of six ex-FSB thugs (actually, one of them, Vasily, was just a thug) and there were always at least two of them no further than ten yards away from his person. As he answered this phone call in his opulent office in the Nicolas Casino just off Leicester Square, he had a pair of 6ft plus ‘comrades’ at his side.
“Neil, my friend,” Babikov replied, this time friend meaning not friend, not enemy, but someone who owes me money. “There is a high-roller blackjack game in a private room plus all the usual attractions,” he continued. Neil Robson quite liked blackjack, he felt he had an advantage being exceptionally numerate and quick of thought. His £2 million debt tab to Babikov suggested otherwise.
“Great,” said Robson. “I’ll be up around 9pm.”
“Sure, Neil. We’ll have some vodka and a chat too. I may have a nice girl for you to meet.”
Robson hoped that the vodka would be good. He wasn’t so sure about the chat, and the ‘nice girl’ would be some high class hooker or Russian prostituka acquired by Babikov to keep his best clients amused – at a price to their wallet and potential reputation. The chat would be about the £2 million that Robson owed. There was no realistic way to dodge the debt. Babikov was rumoured to have ordered the death or mutilation of at least eight late payers. If you owed less than £1 million and were late you lost a few fingers, or an ear and then had 50% interest added to your bill. If you owed more than £1 million and were late you were tortured, mutilated and, after an agonisingly long while, killed. Babikov then went after your family for the debt. Nothing had ever been proven against the wily Russian but Robson had no doubt that the stories were true.
As Robson was driving into the Nicolas Casino’s car park, at the top end of Leicester Square, he was mulling over his blackjack strategy for the evening, the problem of Joel Gordon and whether Babikov’s nice girl was to be a blonde, redhead or brunette. At least two of these mulls were quickly resolved. Robson may be numerate but he was no Rainman. Before midnight, Robson’s debt to Babikov had increased by a further £500,000. The nice girl was a lovely creature, skinny, great artificial tits and thick platinum bottle blonde hair with extensions. A quick shag in a side room was all he had time for before he was summoned to Babikov’s office.
“Neil, come in, have a drink. Help yourself,” welcomed Babikov, gesturing to an expansive burgundy leather chair on which Robson was to sit. On the dark mahogany side table next to him sat a bottle of Hangar One Vodka, with one crystal glass tumbler. Hangar One Vodka was interesting partly because it was distilled from viognier grapes and the process was done in an abandoned hangar, and partly because it was made in California. Babikov himself was downing a glass of Zyr vodka on the rocks; only pure Russian for him.
“I trust you have had a pleasant evening, Neil? Was Dina to your liking?”
“She was fine, Vladimir, thanks, short and sweet,” replied Robson knowing that the pluses and minuses of his furtive fuck were not the main course on Babikov’s likely menu of questions.
“Good, I am pleased,” said Babikov. “We have this small matter of your debt to the casino, my friend. Do you have a plan?”
Under normal circumstances, Robson would not have a plan and would be fearful for his fingers, other appendages and his very life. The Englishman was a survivor, however, a sleekit beastie, but not at all timorous.
“I do Vladimir, I do,” replied Robson. “It may be a bit more complex than you would like ideally but this is compensated for by the fact that you will get ten times what I owe you plus an additional fee if you can help me with a small problem I have at work.”
Vladimir Babikov had been around on the planet long enough and had authorised the mutilation and murder of enough late payers to realise most debt repayment plans in this circumstance were a load of codswallop. Folk would say anything to save their limbs and their life and this was even more certain when they were staring at a pair of pliers or a canvas roll of shiny medical utensils brandished by evil looking Russians. Robson was different. For starters, he was a member of the British government and quite high
ranking at that. At some point in the future that could be helpful. Secondly, he was an ex-MI5 operative. That made him tougher than most debtors, also more aware of the elements of darkness in the real world. He would surely not be stupid enough to try to fool this creditor. Thirdly, most debtors in this position struggle to have a credible plan just to pay back what they owe. Robson, however, was offering £25 million plus a fee paying job to offset a debt of £2.5 million. That was at least good enough economics to warrant listening to his proposal.
“Go ahead, Neil,” resumed Babikov, filling his glass with some more Zyr. “Tell me your proposal.”
Neil Robson gave Vladimir Babikov an outline of his plan. It omitted the state of the British government’s finances, the outrageous nature of the gold acquisition plan and its dependence on a Scot that he neither liked nor trusted. Robson told the Russian that he was to receive a substantial sum of money in the next two weeks. That money would come from the sale of gold bullion that was to come into his possession. Robson thought it wise, on health and credibility grounds, to give some detail. He also thought that since Babikov must be heavily involved in the money laundering business, he may wish to hold gold bars instead of cash. The choice would be his.
“And you say you will have this money within two weeks?” asked Babikov, seeking additional confirmation of the timetable.
“Yes,” replied Robson, knowing that a short, decisive affirmative was probably called for at this juncture. Babikov feigned pondering for a few moments. He felt this was a great deal on the face of it and he fancied having a few gold bars to look at. Even after the deal was done he would still have a bucket load of incriminating evidence on the Financial Secretary to HM Treasury, ranging from excessive gambling and cocaine snorting to sexual indiscretions, so often the downfall of British politicians.
“OK,” said Babikov eventually. “I agree. I am a generous man. I will give you four weeks from today. There will be no extensions, my friend. I am also a man of my word and should you decide to deceive me, you will be left with nothing much to extend on your body!”
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