Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  “Carolyn, Carolyn, let go, she’s done,” said Harris, finding it difficult enough himself to speak. Mark O’Neill was in the process of getting up too, blood pouring from his head wound. Eventually, Carolyn understood what Harris was saying. She released her hold and Dannielle Eagles collapsed, lifeless on to the deck of the goat locker. Igor Kruglov was down one committed Illegal, his favourite, Anyata Ivanovna.

  The next few minutes on the Borei were hectic. There were no more explosions to worry about. Gary Whitton was beavering away patching up the wounded SEALs, Harris was in the worst condition and the Commander’s head wound needed quite a few field stitches. Once O’Neill had been stitched up and had checked that his team and Carolyn were alright he was on the conn. He ordered Fairclough and McCoy to alter their course slightly just in case more missiles were going to come their way. Before the goat locker confrontation, Eagles had partly disabled the radar and sonar system which was why the Borei crew had no forewarning of the incoming missiles. Evan Harris was recovering in the goat locker lying in a bunk directly opposite Carolyn who was less injured but more worn out by her physical trauma and, perhaps understandsably, occasional feelings of guilt that she had just killed Dannielle. Whitton had sorted out Harris with a couple of tourniquets, some Kerlix gauze and bandages. His bleeding had stopped.

  “I’m sorry, Reynolds,” muttered Harris. “For thinking it was you, and roughing you up a bit.”

  “It’s alright frog features,” responded Carolyn, her spirit recovering and glad even for a moment to be relieved of her thoughts. “I’d have probably thought the same, if I’d had a one-dimensional empty box for a brain in my jarhead,” she replied, attempting a smile.

  “A jarhead is a marine, Reynolds, not a—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever Harris. I know that. It was pointed out to me a while back by that dead bitch there,” interrupted Carolyn. Harris didn’t have the energy to respond. The navy SEAL and the NGA officer looked at each other. It was a score draw in saving each other’s life and they were both glad the other had survived.

  Once the captured Borei had settled and its crew were back on point, Mark O’Neill returned to the goat locker to see how Harris and Reynolds were doing.

  “Evan, how do you feel?”

  “I’m good thanks, Mark. Whitton got the bullets out, gave me some blood, stitched me up fine and, Bob’s your uncle, I live and breathe.”

  O’Neill turned his attention now to Reynolds. “Carolyn. I’m so sorry we even doubted you, I…”

  “Oh it’s Carolyn again is it? No officer Reynolds, or just Reynolds, or fucking Russian spy Reynolds then? You’re worse than Harris. He’s admitted he’s a brainless frog, but you’re supposed to be smart!” she hollered. Harris looked moderately confused at this point. He did not recall admitting to being a brainless frog. O’Neill was contemplating a response but, wisely, thought the better of it. “So, Commander,” continued Carolyn. “Do you think, with that big, ugly gash in your head, that you are still capable of getting this submarine to Scotland?”

  “Yes, I am,” O’Neill replied, not sure yet whether or not his desired date was about to let up on her attack.

  “Good. In that case,” stated Carolyn, “I’m going to find a top class restaurant on the banks of Loch Lomond and you, Mark O’Neill, are going to take me for the most expensive, slap-up, steak dinner ever, on planet Earth, known to mankind, nay thought about by mankind. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied O’Neill, both happy and feeling poorer already.

  “I don’t want to spoil this lovely moment,” moaned Harris. “But what are we going to do with Eagles’ body?”

  Before his Commander could respond, NGA officer Reynolds interjected.

  “We’re going to put her in a body bag and fire the treacherous bitch out of one of the torpedo tubes and into the Indian Ocean.”

  O’Neill and Harris looked at each other. Harsh but fair seemed to be the conclusion.

  10: ROBSON’S CHOICE

  JJ had decided to sit in the Mercedes Sprinter van for the first part of the journey from Seoul to London. The pilots of the Hercules C-5 transport plane were friendly but JJ wanted to be with his thoughts for a while, on his own. He would join the pilots later.

  It had been a humid morning in Seoul so JJ donned his favourite dark blue polo shirt and the cargo pants he hadn’t worn since Fathead came a-visiting his house in Markham Square on Greek bond night. As he was ferreting about in his pants’ pockets he came across around £120 in sterling, mainly twenties. That was cool, finding cash that you had forgotten about or ‘lost’ always gave you a mini-boost. Mashed in with the cash was a scrap piece of paper with some writing on it. It was from Toby aka Fathead. He must have given it to JJ on Greek bond night but the Scot had overlooked it in all the confusion. It was Fathead’s limerick entry for last year’s Christmas quiz. As a MAM employee Toby was not eligible for the case of champagne prize but that didn’t stop him having a go every year. He wasn’t a poet and everybody did indeed know it.

  There was a young man from Ireland

  Who liked to eat often at Pieland

  With mash and chips

  On his sizeable hips

  He looked like the Michelin tyre man

  Every day he would go to this shop

  Add crisps and chocolate and pop

  He was fit to burst

  A delicious bratwurst

  In his mouth and all over his top

  One day he was asked to be keeper

  Regular goalie was a late sleeper

  He filled the six-yard box

  With fat head and knees like rocks

  He sank deeper and deeper and deeper

  The fire brigade rushed to the pitch

  He was heavy, the son of a bitch

  No sign of light, no hope in sight

  The chubby young man from Ireland

  Never again ate at his Pieland

  JJ couldn’t help but laugh even though it was a grievously bad limerick, and didn’t even follow limerick rules! True to form Toby hadn’t tried to solve the currency question, which you needed to do to win the prize. The limerick was meant to be the tie-breaker in the event of several correct answers. The MAM Christmas quiz had attracted more than 200 entries last year. The winner was a client from R-Squared Capital in Toronto. She had correctly worked out the currency answer was the New Zealand dollar and she was the only one who had it right.

  As he rested his head on the back of the passenger seat in the van, JJ recalled how much simpler life was back then, only a few short months ago. It was a time before cancer, before Neil Robson, before the FCA hounds, before terminating North Korean soldiers and before catching up with his nigh estranged daughter. At least the last of that list was good. On arrival back in London, he really needed to be on the case like Lieutenant Columbo at his best. JJ was well-disturbed by his call home last night. After being so happy to hear Cyrus’s voice, all positive and looking forward to beating his dad at some Wii game or other, JJ had spoken with Gil. She told him that someone was tracking Cyrus. Don’t worry about it, she said, she was alert and on it. How could he not worry! He was thousands of miles away and couldn’t have lifted a finger to help his teenage son if things had turned seriously hairy. Gil was capable and loyal and she would protect Cyrus with all her might, but JJ was his dad and he was meant to be the ultimate protector. JJ did not know why Cyrus was being shadowed but the only logical deduction was that it had something to do with Neil Robson. JJ would find out and woe betide Robson if he even thought about harming Cyrus.

  Once JJ had run his full course of Cyrus-thinking he had a list of other tasks to accomplish. Catching up with Ethel’s husband and smoothing over her absence from SCO19 would be high on the list, as would making the transfers to pay Ethel and Victor. He would also need to dod some money to Harold McFarlane at McLaren and Vincent Barakat at PLP. Although Vincent’s brilliant and innovative sunbeds were not, in the end, used they were fully function
al and available for selection. Harold’s conveyor systems had worked efficiently in the DPRK’s central bank’s vaults and the disguised petrol tankers had also done their job, although not in the way initially intended. They would both be paid generously for their skill and effort.

  JJ also needed to get in a head to head with Toby. The man he had bigged-up as the best FX and commodities trader in the financial community was going to need to be on the case and in the zone. JJ himself did not have the know-how and the contacts to sell billions of dollars’ worth of physical gold. It was going to be down to Toby. If successful then that should be enough to get Robson off JJ’s back and that of the other two amigos. Deep in his subconscious, though, JJ knew that getting rid of Neil Robson’s blackmail stick wasn’t going to be that easy. The scumbag Financial Secretary to the Treasury was probably behind some other scumbag tailing Cyrus. It also did not seem plausible to JJ that the Robson he knew would be so altruistic as to hand over £3bn to HM government without extracting his cut first. Once again JJ realised, even if he did not want to think about it right now, that Neil Robson needed to be dealt with.

  * * *

  While JJ was flying, Neil Robson was sleeping, tucked up in his expensive and gaudy bed in Bowser’s Castle, near Weybridge. He had had a hard night. He had confronted Vladimir Babikov over the botched job on Joel Gordon, though he had to tread carefully in his admonishment. If Babikov had felt unjustly chastised and turned ugly then he would probably have sacrificed the £20m+ that Robson was going to give him and just shoot the Fin Sec or torture him a little. Fortunately, the murderous Russian did feel that he had let down his star debtor, apologised profusely and promised to make it up to the UK government official. Babikov had also offered Robson a free night with one of the casino’s top ‘models’ and some drugs gratis as well. Robson had enjoyed the voluptuous red head’s company while JJ was worrying about Cyrus; after all a quick free fuck and a few snorts of cocaine made for a fine evening.

  Today, however, was a new day. It was going to be a good day, and at the pinnacle of it was going to be the demise of one fucking Jamrock yardie, Joel Gordon. Robson got up, kicked the redhead out of bed, literally, and went downstairs to have breakfast. He showered, a little longer than usual, to eradicate any stench of Russian prostituka, got dressed, grabbed his Treasury boxes and briefcase and meandered down to his garage and Bentley Continental. Everything was in order. Hopefully, his early morning drive into London would be traffic light and he could finalise his plan to get rid of Gordon the curious accountant. Gordon’s boss, Craig Wilson, Exchequer Secretary to the Treasury, would be back in his office tomorrow. Via the skills of the candescent Becky, his curvy PA, Robson knew that the yardie had scheduled a meeting with Wilson for 3pm on the day of his return. It was 7.30am now so Robson had a day and a third to make Joel Gordon disappear. As he pulled out of the barrier gates of St. George’s Hill, he spotted his prior evening’s pleasure waiting near the main road, presumably hoping to hail a black cab. Good luck with that, tart, he thought as he drove past her with no acknowledgement whatsoever.

  “Good morning, Becky,” said Robson as he entered his Treasury office on Horseguards Road, taking time to give Becky a full visual body scan. Her outfit was skin tight orange today, accentuating tits and bum and her heels were Reservoir Dogs killer, making her shapely legs look even more like a catwalk model’s.

  “Good morning, Mr Robson,” replied Becky, on automatic and not caring one jot about her boss’s bum or any other part of his anatomy.

  “What’s my schedule today?” Robson barked.

  “Free in the morning,” responded Becky. “One meeting with Joel Gordon at 2pm and another with Chancellor Walker at 3pm.”

  “Fine, get me a cup of tea, would you?” asked Robson, giving a modicum of politeness a brief outing. As Robson was having his tea and morning biscuit, he was mulling over his time in MI5. He had enjoyed it, especially the field trips and more especially when he could top some annoying foreigners. The majority of his wetwork missions usually involved killing by gun, sometimes torture was an appetiser but for the most part a Beretta placed at the captive’s temple and bang was the preferred route. Robson had pretty much ruled out shooting Joel Gordon or slitting his throat. Babikov had declined to offer another of his ex-FSB thugs or even just thugs to replace the expired failure Vasily. The Russian had decided it was a bad omen that Vasily had been the unwitting victim of a football gang fracas and did not want to risk any police attention finding its way back to him. Although not entirely happy, fair enough concluded Robson. In any case, he thought, one of the advantages of being an MI5 field officer was that you were trained in more than one way to skin a cat. The morning passed slowly for Neil Robson. His full attention was on his 2pm meeting with Joel Gordon. The Financial Secretary to the Treasury had a clear plan in his mind.

  “Joel, good to see you, come in and take a seat.”

  Robson appeared very cheery to Gordon, given the parlous state of Britain’s finances.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” replied the accountant. “May I ask what the agenda is for this meeting? There were no notes in my planner.”

  “I wanted to go over again some of the details that you had uncovered on the government’s expenditures. I know that you’ll probably see Craig Wilson soon so I just needed to refresh my own information,” replied Robson, with a fake smile. He could hardly tell Gordon that his death was top of the agenda.

  “Sure, no problem,” said Joel. “Is my promotion to Deputy Head of the Finance Department still on track Sir?”

  “Of course,” replied Robson knowing that it had never been on track and was about to stay that way for good. “Let’s have some green tea and cupcakes,” offered Robson. “I know you like green tea and Becky’s mum made these delicious cupcakes. Help yourself, Joel, there’s a carrot cake kind of one, and a plain vanilla one, try whichever you wish.”

  “Thanks, I do like green tea,” replied Joel, happy to see that the Financial Secretary had finally entered the modern, healthy world with his tea selection. “I might try a carrot cupcake if that’s alright. I didn’t have much lunch.”

  “Sure,” replied Robson, his cheery high-pitched tone having dropped back into its more common matter-of-fact level. Neil Robson watched intently as Joel Gordon ate his carrot cupcake, with no emotion in his staring eyes. Another of the advantages of being a shady ex-MI5 officer with even shadier Russian acquaintances was that there was always a method of inflicting death on any enemy that could be tailor-made to fit the occasion. Today’s diet of demise involved a variant of polonium-210, the compound which allegedly killed Alexander Litvinenko, former FSB officer, SVR agent and Russian defector in London in 2006.

  Polonium is a metal and has thirty-three isotopes, all of which are radioactive. 210 Po which has a half-life of over 138 days is the most widely available. It is not widely available in the sense that cereals are widely available in supermarkets, but, unfortunately for Joel Gordon, it seemed more readily available to Russian bad guys than it should have been. In the old days, isolation of polonium from natural sources was a tedious and laborious process. However, in the modern world, polonium is obtained by irradiating bismuth with high-energy neutrons or protons. This process had been applied by Russia since the turn of the Millennium. Polonium-210 is around a quarter of a million times more toxic than hydrogen cyanide. It is extremely dangerous to handle due to the radioactivity of its alpha emitters. Vladimir Babikov had explained all of this to Neil Robson as he handed over the polonium-210 in its special container, gloves and syringe to the Financial Secretary to the Treasury. About fifty nanograms of this most lethal compound would do for a human if ingested. Babikov was taking no chances. The dose which was in the possession of Neil Robson was around ten micrograms, around 200 times the expected lethal dose and similar to what Babikov had supplied to the former KGB officers who had visited Litvinenko the day before he took ill. Shortly before his 2pm meeting with Joel Gordon, the Financial Secretar
y to HM Treasury had syringed both cupcakes offered to the accountant with polonium-210. Before Gordon had entered the Fin Sec’s office, Robson had, very carefully, with specialised gloves on distributed this deadly substance evenly with precision and a cold heart. Robson had previously placed his own cupcake on a side plate. There was no way he was going to take any roulette chances with this radioactive killer.

  Neil Robson knew exactly what was going to happen to Joel Gordon. He would not die in the Financial Secretary’s office nor even the Treasury. That night when he had returned back to his flat near Upton Park, the Jamrock yardie would feel ill, have diarrhoea, vomiting, headaches and an overall feeling of nausea. He’d be forced to dial for an ambulance and be rushed to hospital. The staff at A&E would have very little idea what was ailing the otherwise fit-looking man. All the while, the 210’s deadly alpha particles would go about their painful destruction. Some would enter his spleen, his liver and his kidneys. Others, maybe 10% or so, would enter his bone marrow. Given the dose, Gordon would be helpless within a day and would likely die within a week, looking like a terminal cancer patient at the end. His will to live, the focus of his mind, his spirit would all have departed well before then. There would be no tell-tale meeting with Craig Wilson.