Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  “I rarely have direct contact with the Home Secretary, Vladimir, my—”

  Robson was stopped in his tracks by Babikov rising and slamming his right palm on his desk.

  “No excuses, Neil,” he yelled. “Find a way to have direct contact with her, use your boss the Chancellor, eyeball cabinet meeting minutes, shag her, do what it takes. I want a report within a week. Do you understand me?” said Babikov in a somewhat calmer tone, but with a clear threat implied.

  “I’ll do my best, Vladimir,” replied Robson, not sure that he could accomplish anything but very sure that if he ever had to have a confrontation with Babikov, right here, right now was not the place or time to have it.

  “Excellent, Neil, excellent,” said Babikov in a much cheerier way. “Help yourself to some vodka,” he continued, pointing to the cheap stuff.

  Neil Robson drove back to his house in St. George’s Hill, not knowing whether to be happy or sad. He had seen off the problem known as Joel Gordon and he had put that woose Darke in his place at breakfast. The gold was in town and would shortly be in the form of useable readies for himself and the government. Now to spoil things that motherfucker Babikov had popped up needing information that may or may not exist from a source that he may or may not be able to get close to. I’ve had enough of this shit, thought the Financial Secretary to the Treasury. Life’s about choices. He had made some good ones but mainly bad ones. Tonight he was in the frame of mind to choose the same path that Michael Corleone took in The Godfather. ‘Settle all family business’ the new Don had decided and on one day all the enemies of the Corleones met their doom. Fiction that may have been, but it was the right idea.

  In a few short days, Robson would have skimmed off hundreds of millions of pounds from the gold haul brought back from North Korea. He could go anywhere in the world, live it up, have the time of his life. The only obstacles in his way were human; JJ Darke, Vladimir Babikov, those other two MAM hedgies, Naismith and Durand. He could get Babikov to grab the Darke kid and top his crippled nanny. JJ would then want to kill Babikov. That would probably signal the end of both of them. The fat fellow and the French dude could be sent some cupcakes, it didn’t look like the trader refused anything to eat. Maybe it was fanciful, mused Robson, but unrealistic or not these sinister thoughts had cheered him up no end.

  * * *

  The following evening, JJ decided that he had had enough of some crap too. The particular piece of doo that was dragging him closer to the edge was the return of the black Mercedes. Cyrus was having an early evening social with a couple of his friends from school as well as Lucy and one of her classmates. Although it was still a little cool in the evening, it was quite a pleasant spring day. The group of friends were sitting outside a busy café cum patisserie on the corner of Markham Square and the King’s Road, laughing, joking, generally getting on with the fun life of privileged young teenagers in the coolest part of town. JJ and Gil were happy that Cyrus was enjoying himself. He knew nothing about the Mercedes tail and he was more relaxed, eating and sleeping better, now that his dad had returned from overseas.

  While JJ was catching up with some sports viewing in his house, Gil had popped out to pick up some vitamins and fruit bars from the health shop close to Marks & Spencer. She never made it there. As she was strolling down the east side of the Square she noticed the black Mercedes, again, in Smith Street. This time the car was parked in the third spot back from the King’s Road, but with a clear view of Cyrus and his friends.

  “JJ,” said Gil on re-entering the house.

  “That was quick,” replied JJ.

  “JJ, the black Mercedes is back. It’s on Smith Street. Cyrus and his pals are having a snack and chat at that little café on the corner. He’s definitely stalking Cyrus.”

  JJ looked at Gil, put the TV remote on the coffee table and got up. “I’ve had the fuck enough of this Gil. I’m going to get a couple of things. I need a word with black Merc man. I’ll go down Radnor Walk, cut through Smith Terrace and approach him from behind. You hang about near the top of the Square. When you see me, casually come across Cyrus and his mates. Make sure the boy is not looking in the direction of Smith Street no matter what happens.”

  “Will do,” replied Gil. “Be careful.”

  JJ nodded, got his items, left the house, went down the west side of the Square, crossed the King’s Road and proceeded at a brisk pace on his planned route. As he was walking, he was figuring out his plan. It was 6.30pm and the sun was setting but it was not properly dark. Gil had described the offending Merc in some detail. Once inside, the passing Chelsea public would not have a clear view of any activity within. Another aspect of a one man surveillance op was that if he was asked to shadow a target then his full attention would be on that target, not really people-watching or checking his six often enough. JJ exited Smith Terrace, walked up the west side of Smith Street, crossed the road and opened the front passenger side door of the Merc. That was another aspect of bad guys’ tendencies when they thought that they were tough and invisible. They didn’t lock their car doors.

  “Aaargh!” screamed Boris Akulov, as JJ plunged his commando knife into the left thigh of the ex-FSB thug with his left hand. Simultaneously, he smashed the Russian’s face into the steering wheel. JJ had taken that knife all the way to Korea and back and it had remained unused in its sheath. Now, only a couple of hundred yards from his house, out it had come and into a scumbag’s leg it went. Boris tried to elbow JJ in the face but the Scot had his defence ready. He blocked the Russian’s shot and again plunged his knife into the same leg.

  “OK, OK, stop, stop!” wailed Babikov’s man, clutching his leg. JJ stopped, checked the Russian’s suit jacket and removed his gun from its holster. He kept Boris’s head pressed against the steering wheel and now had his knife positioned right on the stalker’s throat.

  “Why are you watching my son?” asked JJ, firmly while giving Boris’s exposed throat a poke with the point of the knife’s blade. Boris did not, of course, know that the curly-topped kid he had been ordered to tail had a dad, and certainly not one who was likely to invade his car and damage his person.

  “I don’t know what you fuckin’ talking about you maniac,” replied Boris, obviously in the forlorn hope that his assailant would just say, oops, sorry, mistaken identity and leave. Boris was bleeding profusely from his wounded leg so, on hearing the Russian’s reply JJ felt generous, not wishing the slime to pass out, so he just smashed his face into the steering wheel one more time. It hurt.

  “Look you fucking Russian peasant, I will let you bleed out right here if you do not answer me truthfully. I’ve got all night and no one can see into this car from the outside. Even your miserable moaning and groaning has not attracted one glance. They build these cars well, don’t they asshole. Speak up!” said JJ, in a low decibel level but with menace.

  Although Boris was a murdering, asshole deviant he was not a complete fool. This guy with the odd accent had him cold. He was bleeding away, probably had a broken nose, could hardly move and had a very pointy blade nestling in his neck. He was going to need to tell him something.

  “I work for Vladimir Babikov,” said Boris.

  “Who the fuck is Vladimir Babikov and what does he want with my son?” asked JJ, adding another wee mini-poke with his knife just to ensure that the Russian stayed on point.

  “He owns the Nicolas Casino in Mayfair. He will kill you for this.”

  JJ assimilated Boris’s information. This Babikov donkey was clearly the one in charge. The pokee here was just a foot soldier, a thug, carrying out a job that he had been instructed to do but not asking or questioning why. A dodgy Russian running a casino had all the hallmarks of the Russian Mafia, thought JJ, not the best people to get on the wrong side of. It was probably a tad late worrying about that now. It still didn’t make sense to JJ. Why would a Russian mobster have any interest in Cyrus or even JJ himself. He was going to need to find out more. Bleedin’ Boris here, however, was not likely
to have any further insight.

  “Have you got a phone?” asked JJ.

  “Yes, why?” replied Boris, visibly weakening.

  “Hand it over and be quick about it,” said JJ. Boris pointed to the glove compartment. JJ opened it, took out the mobile and switched it on. He scrolled through the contacts. It was tricky doing it with his right hand. There was no Babikov but there was ‘Boss’ and given the state of Boris’s crumpled suit he assumed it wasn’t a direct line to the upmarket retailer. JJ hit the number.

  “Babikov,” said the voice at the other end.

  “This is William fuckin’ Wallace, you dickhead. One of your thugs is bleeding to death in Smith Street, SW3. If you want to save him better get another thug here pronto with more than a plaster. If your dark shadow every crosses my path again or that of my family, you’ll get the same. Now fuck off back to Putinland like a good mobster,” he added and hung up.

  In retrospect, JJ wasn’t sure that that was the best way to handle things, but he was fuming inside. When it came to Cyrus’s health and welfare his emotions sometimes got the better of his normal cool rationality. Maybe this Babikov would be more sensible and it would end here, tonight. Or maybe not. JJ would need to be prepared for any comeback. By now, Boris had nearly passed out, but if his boss cared enough and sent help then he’d live. JJ got out of the Merc, commando knife concealed in his cargo pants and Boris’s phone in his pocket. Checking that he wasn’t covered in Russian blood, there were a few spots but nothing obvious, JJ casually strolled up Smith Street, caught Gil’s attention and waved. She waved back, pointed out to Cyrus that his dad was near, and the three of them walked home, once Cyrus had said his cheerios to his pals.

  “Alright?” asked Gil, once they were inside and Cyrus decided to go for a shower.

  “Yes, sort of,” replied JJ. “I don’t think the black Merc man will be on Cyrus’s tail any more. He was just a goon working for some guy called Vladimir Babikov. Ever heard of him?”

  “No,” replied Gil.

  “Apparently he runs a casino in the west end, the Nicolas, I think. It’s obviously a cover for some dodgy venture or other. I still don’t know why any Russian would have an interest in Cyrus, Merc man was just the point guy, he had no details.”

  “This might get messy?” ventured Gil, half statement and half question.

  “Yes, Gil, it might. I’m going upstairs to get changed, can you stay here tonight? We should probably figure out our plan once Cyrus is asleep.”

  “Sure.”

  JJ went up to his bedroom. He put his polo shirt and cargo pants in the wash basket, tomorrow was dry cleaning day so that was good. He retrieved the knife and phone before lobbing his dirty clothes. JJ carefully cleaned his knife, put it back in its sheath and hid it in the kit bag that he had taken to Korea. He then put the kit bag in the lockable chest in the attic and placed the key in his wall safe. As he was doing this, he could hear Cyrus singing away in the shower. The kid had regularly been selected for the school choir when he was younger. Initially, JJ had no idea why, he thought the boy sounded like a cat being sat on by a St. Bernard. Then one night Cyrus sang the main theme from Super Smash Brothers Brawl. The song had been composed by Nobuo Uematsu and the lyrics were in Latin. Cyrus was singing it in Latin with the orchestral soundtrack in the background. He sounded like an angel.

  * * *

  When Cyrus and his dad played SSBB, the boy liked to be the Pokemon Trainer most of the time and JJ preferred Meta Knight. The mach tornado that was Meta Knight’s signature move may be coming out of game world and into real life thought JJ. The critical issue, though, was to ensure Cyrus’s safety, to make certain that he had family and friends by his side, to shine bright in his defence, if needed.

  JJ returned to the living room all freshened up. Gil was there and had made JJ a Macallans, the way he liked. She didn’t drink whisky so had poured herself a small glass of Chardonnay. They sat together, on the sofa.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Gil.

  “This is Merc man’s phone. I’m scrolling through the contacts to see if I recognise any names.”

  “Any joy?”

  “Not yet, there’s a lot of names, I’m only up to F.”

  “We’re going to need to beef up the security and defence of this house, JJ,” said Gil.

  “Yes, we should. We’ll need to do it subtly. The less Cyrus knows about this the better,” he added, still checking Boris’s contacts.

  “Sure, I’ll get on it in the morning. I know a guy who can install CCTV, perimeter alarms, better locks, that kind of stuff. Do you want me to stay here, indefinitely, until we know the score?” asked Gil.

  “Good and yes,” responded JJ, now a lot calmer after a drink of quality malt. He had passed R in the contact list, so no Neil Robson acknowledged JJ. At least that was something. Gil noticed that JJ had stopped sliding his thumb up the smartphone’s screen and was just staring at one entry, in contemplation.

  “What’s up JJ, have you found something?”

  “Maybe,” replied JJ, still thinking. “There’s an entry here under St. George. The number’s familiar though.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Gil.

  “If I’m not mistaken that’s a number in St. George’s Hill, Weybridge specifically belonging to this country’s Financial Secretary to the Treasury.”

  “Neil Robson?”

  “The very same, Gil, the very same.” JJ’s internal temperature was on the boil again, but he knew that cool thinking was called for. It was going to get messy alright and JJ needed to be certain that Cyrus was safe before the mess erupted.

  “When’s Cyrus’s spring break?” asked JJ.

  “Next Tuesday, for two weeks,” responded Gil, who knew by heart every last detail of the boy’s school schedule, his clubs and his term breaks.

  “Good. Convince him that it would be nice for him to see his grandparents. I’ll let Mum and Dad know. Take the Porsche and be alert for tails. If things work out here next week I’ll join you for week two.”

  “What about you, JJ?” asked Gil. “If a bunch of Russian gangsters come calling, you’re not going to see them off on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine,” replied JJ, not knowing for certain that he would be, but not putting himself at the top of the priority list just yet.

  As JJ and Gil continued to discuss the planned trip to Scotland and the ‘home improvements’ to be carried out, JJ’s cell phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of them. He picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi JJ, it’s Jim,” said the voice at the other end. There was no need to add Bradbury. While JJ knew one hell of a lot of Jims when he was growing up in Glasgow, none of them had the unmistakeable drawl of his American friend, the KLO.

  “Jesus, Jim, what time is it in Seoul, it’s nearly ten at night here. Is everything OK?”

  “It’s six in the morning JJ and no everything is not OK. They’ve got Kwon,” said Bradbury, voice shaking and audibly upset.

  11: THE GOLDEN WHALE

  On the surface there was no link between Annie Chapman, second victim of Jack the Ripper, and Joel Gordon, numberless victim of Neil Robson, poisoned and now dead. Six feet under the surface, however, they share the same cemetery, at Manor Park in Forest Gate, London E7. As cemeteries go it was pleasant and well kept. The friends and family of the late Treasury accountant were gathered round his burial plot, just off Basset Road and within sight of the Columbarium, not that the murdered ground dweller knew anything about it. It was a fresh and sunny spring day and the small group of mourners listened attentively as the priest said a few last words of blessing.

  “Talisha, isn’t it?” enquired Becky Martin as the group dispersed and headed for the cars that would take them back to Joel’s apartment for a few drinks and subdued chat about the deceased.

  “Yes, you’re Becky, Joel’s friend at work?” Talisha replied, not certain but she had been feeling poorly and had a lot on her plate.


  “That’s right,” replied Becky, dressed respectfully in black with no sign of her trademark candescence. “This is such a tragedy, Talisha. Joel was so smart, so nice. He encouraged me to do a night course in Accounting and Finance at City University. I’ll be getting my degree in a couple of months. Nothing would have happened if it hadn’t been for his help. I’ll miss him.”

  “Yes, me too Becky. I just don’t understand it…” sobbed Talisha, standing next to her chauffeur-driven rented black sedan. “One minute he was full of life, energy and hope for the future, the next minute dead and agonisingly at that. The medical report said it was radiation poisoning. Nobody has a blind clue as to how he could have been exposed to radiation.”

  “That’s awful!” exclaimed Becky, hearing for the first time the cause of her friend’s demise. “Was he not able to tell you anything before he… well, the end?” asked Becky, keen to know but unable to phrase her question without deepening already painful memories for Talisha.

  “Not really, the speed and intensity of his illness, his death were so rapid, his ability to function so swiftly taken from him, nothing made sense. He told me he loved me. Those were about the last intelligible words he uttered. After that, nothing much. He mumbled something like ‘cupcake’ a few times but it didn’t mean anything to me, it was not a love nickname or pet term he ever used.”

  Becky realised that Talisha was wilting so she gave her a warm, friendly hug and wished her well. Becky would not join the funeral wake at Joel’s apartment, though Talisha did invite her. It was a family gathering and though Becky and Joel were good friends she did not want to impose. Becky had driven to Manor Park in her not so new VW Golf, bright red, of course. She returned to her car, sat in the driver’s seat and prepared to head back to her one bedroom apartment in Pimlico. She would not see Talisha again. Joel’s girlfriend returned to the United States, never fully regained her health and died several years later, at the age of thirty-eight.