“Babikov,” came the reply that the SVR man did not want to hear but knew he must.
“This is Igor Kruglov of the SVR,” the Deputy Director replied, certain that the criminal would remember him.
“Igor, Igor, my friend. How nice to hear from you. Straight through to my direct line. You’ve not lost any of your old skills. What can I do for you?” said Babikov.
Igor Kruglov was already on edge. For a start he was no friend of Babikov. Secondly, he had a right cheek calling him or his skills old, the criminal must have been at least ten or twelve years his senior!
“We have an issue of national importance Babikov, and the nation that spawned you, nurtured you, educated you and let you live despite your several capital crimes, needs your assistance.”
Vladimir Babikov was not used to being ordered around or of having things demanded of him. He was also no fool. The Deputy Director of the SVR would not be calling him, personally, if it was not critically important. He could always tell Kruglov to ‘fuck off and die’ but that would probably occasion a visit one dark night from a hot chick who would slip him a Mickey Finn and then slit his throat. He’d play along for now.
“Of course, Igor, what can I do?” responded Babikov.
“You understand that I cannot give you details, Babikov, but the gist of it is that we are missing a piece of Russian military hardware. It was stolen a few days ago while in the possession of one of our so-called friends. We do not know the identities of the thieves nor their nationality. We need you to keep your ear to the ground, to have your men report any gossip, loose talk, bravado that may be related to this, however tenuous that relationship may seem.”
“Certainly, Igor, I will. What’s in it for me?” asked Babikov.
Deputy Director Kruglov was tempted to say ‘letting you live you fat cunt’ but desisted on grounds of the greater good, well the greater good as it related to the task in hand.
“You will be well rewarded Babikov if you come up with anything which leads to the recovery of our nation’s property,” Kruglov replied. “My information is that you have contacts within the British government, Babikov, is that correct?”
“Yes it is, Kruglov,” replied the criminal, no longer feeling it necessary to keep up the pretence of friendliness by using the Deputy Director’s first name.
“How useful is your contact?” asked Kruglov.
“He is a high ranking official in the ruling party. I have not asked him or squeezed him for any information. He owes me money, which is now due.”
“Do you have enough dirt on him to do some squeezing even after he’s repaid your debt?” asked Kruglov.
“Yes,” replied Babikov.
“Then do it,” demanded Kruglov.
The main course of conversation between spy and criminal was now over. After Kruglov gave Babikov details as to how to contact him, the Deputy Director of the SVR reclined in his chair and poured himself some more black tea and vodka. He had set in motion every listening post he thought viable, every reliable clandestine contact or operative that the SVR had, and now had engaged the services of a low life criminal expat Russian. There was little more that he could do in the search for the submarine, just wait and hope that some information would flow.
After Kruglov had hung up, Vladimir Babikov sprang into a different kind of action. He had an impromptu internal meeting with his ex-FSB team, all the casino staff that were trusted and on his payroll, the croupiers, the ‘models’, the works. They were to report back to him on even the slightest hint of some punter’s wayward babbling that mentioned any of the key words ‘military’, ‘hardware’, ‘Russian’, ‘deal’. With that in place, he sat down and dialled.
“Neil Robson,” said the voice at the other end of the phone.
“Neil, my friend, come and see me tonight. Do not worry, it is not about the money. I know you will repay me soon. There is another matter that I wish to speak to you about. Maybe you can help me out. Perhaps we can even reduce that debt of yours a little, in exchange for some information.”
“Sure Vladimir,” replied Robson. “I’ll be there by 8pm.”
* * *
After his irritable breakfast meeting with Neil Robson, JJ set about completing his tasks for the day. He had driven his Porsche C4S down to Woking to see Harold McFarlane at McLaren. The skilful engineer was delighted to see JJ and even more delighted to receive a larger ‘bonus’ than he had expected for himself and his team.
“How did the conveyor systems do?” asked Harold, awake enough to realise that they were not packed up and residing in the small space that Porsche called a boot.
“They were great, Harold, worked a treat. Unfortunately we had to leave them behind.” Harold knew JJ well enough not to pry further. If additional details were not forthcoming, then so be it. Harold had a huge chunk of cash in his hands and he was happy.
After McLaren, JJ drove back to London. He organised a telegraphic transfer of €100,000 to Vincent Barakat at PLP, along with a message of gratitude. That should keep the young scientist smiling and able to embark on additional path breaking research at his skunkworks. It would also lay down a marker of trust between the two in the unlikely event that JJ needed the future services of PLP. JJ then went on to see Tom Rogers, Ethel’s husband in his architect’s office in Battersea. Tom had spoken to Ethel a couple of times on the phone so JJ didn’t have to break the news about her having a hole in her shoulder. JJ went to see Tom as a courtesy to Ethel, to assure him that Ginger was fully on the road to recovery and to tell him that she had been a vital part in a successful operation of national importance. That was a white lie, of course, and, of course, for the greater good. Tom was decent enough given that he was face to face with the man who had been instrumental in getting his wife shot. Nevertheless, JJ was a tad relieved when he left Tom Rogers’ office.
Next on the agenda was MAM. He was still head of portfolio strategy and investment at the fund, though for the past ten days or so you wouldn’t have known it. David Sutherland, the head of MAM was pleasant enough, didn’t moan too much and just wanted to know if his most senior employee was likely to be around for a while. JJ assured him that he was. Toby and Yves-Jacques were delighted to see their boss. Fathead dragged JJ away for a one-on-one coffee as soon as he could.
“Did you get it?” asked Toby with enthusiasm, and fully aware of what JJ’s mission had been.
“Yes, Toby, we’ve got it.”
“How much? Does it look big and shiny? When can I see it? When can we sell it?” asked Toby firing in the questions like a Gatling gun.
“Whoa, slow down, Toby. If you come round to the house tonight, I’ll take you for a gander. It’s locked up in a secure van in a secure garage, walking distance from Markham Square. You can judge for yourself whether it’s big and shiny enough. As for selling, ASAP would be the order of the day.”
“Good stuff,” said Toby, “I’ll be around by 6pm. Can’t wait.”
“By the way, Toby, I came across your limerick entry for last year’s quiz, stuffed in my pants pocket. Jesus, it was hopeless!”
“Ooh, it wasn’t that bad,” replied Toby in a feeble effort at a Scottish accent. “In any case, what was the answer to the currency question?”
“The New Zealand dollar,” informed JJ.
“The New Zealand fucking dollar!” exclaimed Toby. “What has that got to do with a Scottish dwarf opening a bleedin’ door backwards, may I ask?”
“OK,” said JJ, “what’s the nickname of the New Zealand dollar?”
“The Kiwi,” replied Toby.
“So, kind of backwards, that’s wiki or wee key. Ta-dah!” exclaimed JJ enjoying revealing the answer almost as much as the pained look of disbelief on Fathead’s face.
“Jesus Christ, JJ, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you’ve got one warped fucking mind, chief.” With that the two friends and colleagues headed back to the main trading floor. JJ enjoyed Toby’s company and he felt much more at home,
here in the land of flashing screens, general hubbub, sound-bites and perennial news loops than he did in the desolate streets of Pyongyang or in the vaults of its central bank.
It was 3pm and JJ was beginning to feel tired. So far today he had seen Neil Robson, Harold McFarlane, Tom Rogers, David Sutherland, Toby and Yves-Jacques. He was also going to meet Toby again in a few hours’ time so he wanted to go home and see Cyrus and Gil. Despite not having taken all of his supplements and vitamins with him to Korea, his latest blood test results from the Marsden indicated a PSA reading of below 0.1. To all intents and purposes that meant that his cancer was undetectable. The proof of the pudding though would not be for another year or so. The prostate cancer cells may have been starved and burned but the best of the medical profession could not tell, for certain, whether they would stay dead once the hormone treatment stopped. It was entirely possible that the life destroyers were in a deep coma and that when JJ’s testosterone started to recover, so would the cancer. JJ was still having the occasional unannounced hot sweat, and intense feelings of tiredness could also strike without warning. But there it was. He did, however, have Cyrus and that gave his heart the warmest of glows.
* * *
“Dad, is that you?” called out Cyrus on hearing the Chelsea blue door of his house close.
“Hi Cyrus, it’s me. Where are you?”
“I’m in the living room. Just got the latest version of Mario Kart. It’s brilliant. Really difficult. Some of the courses are in outer space, some are underground. There’s new characters and new cars. Love it!” replied Cyrus.
“Do you want me to toast you at it?” asked JJ.
“Glad to see your expedition to foreign parts didn’t kill your sense of humour, Dad. Let’s play anyway. I’m going to be Metal Mario. You can be Princess Peach if you like!” said Cyrus laughing, because JJ would never be any of the girl characters in the games. He was from Glasgow, tough, hard, no androgyneity allowed.
“You’re a cheeky monkey, young man,” said JJ, as he sat down next to Cyrus on the sofa, ready to play. He sat on Cyrus’s left hand side and cosied up real close to his son. Cyrus was right handed but JJ was corriejukit as the Scots would say or sinistre in archaic Latin. This was ideal. They could be shoulder to shoulder and not impact the dexterity required for extreme Mario Kart. They played and they laughed and they laughed and they played. Father and son, enjoying their time together. It could not get better. In mid-game, Gil came in, having been out to get a few messages.
“Hi Gil!” said both JJ and Cyrus.
JJ put down his remote, stood up and gave Gil a hug. “Good to see you, thanks for looking after Cyrus and all the other stuff.”
“No problem. He’s fun to be with,” replied Gil. “What are we going to do about the shadow?” she whispered as Cyrus was totally absorbed in his game.
“Is he still tracking the boy?” asked JJ.
“I haven’t seen the black Merc for a day or two, so it’s possible I was just a bit hyper-sensitive. I don’t think so, though. We should keep our guard up,” replied Gil. “Did Korea go okay?”
“Broadly speaking. We got the gold. Ethel took a shot but she’ll be fine. Toby’s popping round in a wee while to look at the stash. I guess he needs to see what he’s going to sell.”
“That Fathead,” said Gil, “better lock up your malt. He can consume more of that stuff than any known human should be able to.”
JJ retired defeated from the Mario Kart challenge with Cyrus. He stayed in the living room, on his comfortable chair, partly so that he could just be near his son, and partly to relax with him and Gil. Relaxation had been off the agenda for a while and it was going to be off it again in short shrift. Time to savour a few hours of quality down time.
“Hi JJ,” said Toby as JJ opened the door. “I’m not early am I?” he added, not really bothered whether he was or was not. He had bars and bars of the barbarous relic to touch and view. This was fun time. It was 5.55pm.
“No you’re right on time,” said JJ, a small white lie, intended to allow Toby’s clear joy to continue untethered.
“Let’s go then,” said Fathead, already turning around to go back out. Jesus, thought JJ, Toby hadn’t even asked for a Macallans nor had he started any banter with Cyrus. He sure was keen.
“Cyrus, Gil,” called out JJ. “I’m just popping out with Toby, won’t be long.” Cyrus and Gil acknowledged JJ’s cheerio and the Scot and the Englishman headed for Elystan Street and JJ’s lockup.
“Holy fucking baloney!” exclaimed Toby on sight of six thousand bars of gold bullion. He was doing something that looked like the drunken sailor’s jig – it wouldn’t get him in Riverdance, that was for sure. He was laughing away, bent over half the time in between jigs, you would have thought it was his gold.
“I’ve never even thought about this much gold, JJ, let alone touched it. It’s fucking unbelievable. How did you get it? No, don’t tell me, it would probably take too long. Do we really need to sell it? Can’t we just keep it and look at it every day?” continued Toby in his happy mood.
“We need to sell it Toby. Don’t forget that shit face Robson and the FCA have us by the plums. This is our passport out of that hole my friend. What do you think?”
“I think it’s big and shiny enough OK,” replied Toby.
“I had gathered that by your mad Irish jig, Fathead! I meant what do you think about selling it?”
On that question, Toby stopped jigging, laughing or displaying any further signs of merriment that were percolating through his veins.
“It’s a lot of gold,” said Toby. “I’ll need to check all my stuff in the office. Before I do, I’d guess there is too much of it to sell on the physical gold market in one go. I take it time is short?”
“Very short, Toby, maybe ten days max,” replied JJ.
“In that case we’d probably need several private placements. Gold bars come in various shapes and sizes. These 12.5kg ones are known as good delivery gold bars or good gold for short. This is to distinguish them from novelty gold bars or other sized ones of lesser purity. These are the most sought after by certain gold bugs. Gold investors come in all shapes and sizes too. Is there anywhere or anybody that I should not approach?” asked Toby.
“Don’t call Korea, north or south and don’t call anybody with a Korean sounding name,” said JJ.
“What about Kim Cattrall, the actress?” quipped Toby.
“Not her, and not Kim Philby either.”
“He’s dead, JJ, I think,” responded Toby.
“He won’t be wanting any gold bars then, Fathead. Get serious!” replied JJ, still smiling at his friend.
“I can’t give you a definitive answer tonight, JJ. I’ll spend tomorrow checking all my non-Korean gold contacts, check out the physical market and get back to you. Gold dropped $50/oz today, so do we have limits on the price when we sell?”
“Ideally US$1,800/oz would be the gold floor and 1.5000 the ceiling for the cable rate. You can juggle between the two but the target net sale proceeds should not be less than £3.5bn.”
Toby nodded and understood. With a final, admiring peek, Toby helped JJ lock up van and garage. The van was alarmed and locked and the garage had a sophisticated security system which went straight thought to a private security firm, which was less than four minutes’ walk away. For now, JJ felt that the gold was safe.
The two amigos went back to JJ’s to imbibe some decent malt. The Scot had not taken Gil’s advice. Cyrus and Toby bantered away for a while. Gil gave Toby one of her disapproving looks and JJ simply enjoyed the happy social scene.
* * *
Neil Robson was back in Vladimir Babikov’s casino office. He never really liked being there. He was vulnerable in that Mayfair establishment. He had to check any hardware he was carrying. He was always surrounded by and glowered at by the Russian’s ex-FSB thugs. He never got offered the good vodka and he never knew when or if Babikov would lose patience and order his hands to be chopped off.
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“Neil, my friend,” said Babikov as he entered through his own private door. “How are you? In good health I hope?”
“I’m fine Vladimir. Why do you want to see me at such short notice. My enhanced debt repayment to you is on schedule. You should have the £20 million plus within ten days,” spouted Robson, thinking it wise to give this villain the good news early on.
“No, no, it’s not about that Neil. I trust you on the money. I am sure you will pay me as promised. It’s in both our interests, no?” enquired Babikov smirking.
“Yes, Vladimir,” replied Robson knowing for sure that it was in his interests to keep all his body parts attached.
“Look, here it is. I have been asked, by a power greater than me, so you know it’s a big power, to find something out. That something seems to be that a band of devilish lunatics have stolen an important piece of Russian military hardware. I do not know what it is, boat, plane, missile, it could be any of these or something else. The big power thinks it might involve the CIA, maybe Mossad, maybe MI6, who knows. And if it does not involve them directly then maybe they know something about it, or have heard some chatter. We need to know and I need you to find out. That’s the bottom line, my friend.”
This fucking murderous Cossack must think I’m a prize winning idiot, thought Robson. ‘A big power’, the only big power that could get this criminal’s ass into gear is Russian intelligence, probably SVR.
“You know I’m no longer in MI5, Vladimir,” replied Robson. “I don’t really have any contacts there anymore. I—”
“Who does the head of MI5 report to?” interrupted Babikov.
“Ultimately the Prime Minister, but it’s the Home Secretary who really knows what’s going on. The Director General of MI5 reports to him, or her in the case of the current government.”
“Then you need to get cosy with her, Neil, just to find out. There may be nothing but there may be something.”
Darke Mission Page 43