Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  Sandra Hillington met JJ at the lift. They shook hands warmly, she wasn’t a hugger and definitely wasn’t an air kisser. They went into the DG’s office. Coffee, tea, milk, sugar and a modest selection of biscuits were on her oval dark wood table. They sat down and Ms Hillington was keen to get down to business.

  “So, JJ what’s this threat to Britain’s security?”

  Sandra was in her early fifties, looked younger and was quite slim. She had auburn hair, still cut in a ‘Rachel’, blue eyes and a no nonsense attitude. She was quite tall, about 5ft 7in, wore sensible shoes and had lost track of fashion.

  JJ had decided to come totally clean. For the next ten to fifteen minutes, without interruption, he unloaded his story, beginning with the insider trading threat, the Fin Sec’s blackmail, his plan, the imminent inability of the British government to pay the armed forces, NHS, the police and even MI5, the gold heist from North Korea, the tangential involvement of dodgy Russians and finally, his suspicion, as yet unproven, that Neil Robson was responsible for the murder of a Treasury employee.

  Sandra Hillington had heard or been shown many reports in her MI5 career, many were groundless, some were of critical importance. Today’s account was coming right out of the mouth of one of the most reliable and perceptive intelligence officers ever to have worked for her. “For god’s sake, JJ, how did this come about?”

  “It’s hard to fathom,” he said. “One domino falls then fifty others fall in sequence. I may have made some bad decisions but at the core I did what I thought best for my son, my friends and colleagues. I admit I put them, and myself, before country. However, I believe Neil Robson on one count and one count only and that is that without the proceeds from the North Korean gold, this government will be bankrupt before the month is out. There would be riots in the streets of London and other major cities. There would be many deaths, looting, lawlessness of a capital magnitude we have never before experienced. The resulting chaos, loss of life, paralysis of the system of government and normal daily life would be much greater than that caused by any terrorist bomb attack ever visited upon these shores.”

  Sandra Hillington was a smart woman, capable of disseminating substantial amounts of information quickly, separating the wheat from the chaff, getting to the nub of the matter. Even with all that brain power this story was seriously challenging. “JJ, do you think the Prime Minister knows anything about this?” asked the DG.

  “I don’t know, Sandra. If I had to guess I’d say no. The Chancellor, Jeffrey Walker, might. It would seem unrealistic for his Financial Secretary to be aware of a £3 billion shortfall and not his boss. He could have concealed it from the PM, the Home Secretary, but in truth I just don’t know.”

  Sandra Hillington was beginning to put the pieces together. This was not the type of problem that the serious crime unit of MI5 were usually looking for. They were geared up to spot and stop cyber-attacks on the UK, to ferret out financial crime on a large scale, usually committed by foreigners on UK soil. They were not geared up for government incompetence and a financial time bomb, built and armed, from within the higher echelons of Britain’s governing party. “I’m still getting my head around this,” said Sandra. “I can hardly believe any of it, especially the North Korean bit.” The DG was looking JJ right in the eye. He said nothing. What was done was done, it could not be undone with the best will in the world.

  “I’m going to make a couple of discreet phone calls,” said Sandra. “Do you have a plan? Is there anything else I need to know?”

  “I do have a plan. It begins this afternoon when I see Neil Robson. After that he will believe that he has nearly £4 billion to do with as he pleases. I doubt very much whether filling the government’s coffers will be high on his priority list. In actuality, Robson will not be in control of the funds. I will. That’s where you come in I hope!

  “Sandra, you need to be absolutely certain who is and who is not clean at the top of the Cabinet. I’m doubtful about the Chancellor’s position but you report directly to the Home Secretary. Check her out. If she’s good then find out about Walker and the PM. Once you know who is trustworthy I will cede control of the £4 billion to MI5. You can then dispense it to the appropriate government departments and avoid political and social meltdown.”

  “Anything else?” asked the DG.

  “Yes. You may think that North Korea should get its gold bars back or the cash proceeds from their sale. This would not be a quality thought. My own extensive research suggests that they do still owe this country at least £3 billion from their bond default in the 1980s. Check that with the Attorney General. If it’s legal then we are done on the financial side, even if the debt collection process was major league unorthodox!”

  “And the non-financial side?”

  “When Neil Robson cannot access ‘his’ funds, he’s going to go scary ballistic. He’ll try to discredit me and my MAM colleagues by leaking the FCA file to the media. This afternoon I will have that file and a letter of exoneration from Robson, but he’s a fucked up slimy toad and will not stick to his word,” said JJ.

  “A DA-notice?” asked Sandra.

  “Yes please. If you could issue the highest level confidential DA-notice to every outlet of the media including all social network sites and communication forums then that would be very helpful.”

  Sandra Hillington would do as JJ asked. She remembered Neil Robson from his time at MI5. She thought then that he was an unsavoury individual. He had been asked to leave the service quietly after it was alleged that he had killed the wife and two daughters of a captured Iran sponsored bomb maker in Birmingham. The allegation had never been proven but it had been made by two other MI5 officers who were on that particular mission.

  “From what I know of Robson,” said Sandra, “he probably won’t stop at trying to discredit you. If one minute he thinks he’s a near billionaire and the next he’s broke, discredited himself, out of a job and facing serious criminal charges, he’s going to be one unhappy bunny.”

  “I know,” said JJ, “I’ll be prepared for that.”

  “We could take him into custody now and save you the bother?” suggested Sandra.

  “It wouldn’t work,” replied JJ. “For starters he’d find a way to leak the FCA file and probably before you had time to issue blanket DA-notices. Secondly, until there’s hard evidence that he’s attempted to access funds that are not his he’d claim I was a delusional financial maverick and that the whole idea was mine. He’s the British government and I’m some low life hedgie would be his line of defence. He’d rat out the rest of my mission team as well. In addition to all that, as far as I know, the North Koreans still haven’t an inkling as to who stole their gold. Maybe they need to know later and maybe they don’t but if they do it would be better coming from a top level diplomatic source than a criminal mandarin shouting his mouth off.”

  JJ’s plan and explanations all made sense to Sandra Hillington. She didn’t have a better plan. Her immediate task was to get hold of the Home Secretary, ensure that she knew absolutely nothing about this whole sorry mess and then find out who did. The Director General of MI5 and the former MI5 intelligence officer chatted a short while longer. Sandra Hillington knew that JJ had done this country a huge service even if it was not wholly selfless and the modus operandi somewhat unique. They parted that morning with a warm handshake and a renewed respect.

  JJ left Thames House feeling a little cleansed, a bit like Roman Catholics do after visiting the confessional. So far, he hadn’t needed to do any penance and the longer that was the case the better as far as he was concerned. Toby and Yves-Jacques gave JJ an update when he arrived at MAM. All was good with both MAM positions and gold delivery. He’d be seeing Neil Robson in a couple of hours and shortly thereafter no doubt, another level of anxiety would emerge. As he was contemplating this prospect his phone rang.

  “Hi JJ, it’s Ginger.”

  “Hi Ginger. How are you today?”

  “I’m good. Victor
is here with me. We’re going to pop out for a bite to eat in a short while.”

  “That’s nice. I’m pleased Victor is there. Don’t get him drunk, he may need to be on his techno game later in the day,” said JJ.

  “I won’t,” replied Ethel. “Got a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve looked into that favour you asked me for yesterday. Someone high up in the force was trying to keep it all hush-hush but my source, who was one of the detectives investigating the case, said it was very suspicious. The guy clearly had radiation poisoning but no one at his home or his office had any suggestions as to how he might have been exposed. They were going to investigate further but a missive from above said it was case closed.”

  Ethel hadn’t really told JJ anything he didn’t already know apart from ‘case closed’. He was hoping for more. There was.

  “I then got my best contact in the Coroner’s Service to check it out. The guy’s body was examined post mortem by the Coroner from Croydon. After extensive work he concluded that this Joel Gordon had been poisoned by polonium-210. There were several food remnants left in his stomach, the most prevalent being some kind of cake mixture. Does that mean anything to you?” asked Ethel.

  “Yes it does. Why wasn’t there an inquest?”

  “My contact doesn’t know. He did say, however, that in such circumstances cancellation of an inquest could only come from the very top, possibly the Lord Chief Justice himself, or the Prime Minister’s office, on the grounds of national security.”

  “Thanks Ginger. That was very helpful. See you in a day or so. Have a fun lunch with Victor and tell him to expect a call from me later in the afternoon.”

  “Will do. See you anon.”

  So Becky was right in her suspicions. This Joel Gordon cupcake puzzle was now less mysterious but more murky. JJ gauged that Neil Robson probably could not nobble or even lean on the Lord Chief Justice. The top legal eagle in the UK was meant to be politically neutral and surely would not entertain any subversive notion from a bag carrier like Robson. The Prime Minister’s office was another matter. John MacDonald, the PM may himself be as clean as a whistle, but the PM’s office would be full of ambitious political climbers and not all of them as straight as the proverbial bat. Robson’s silvery but tarnished tongue could well have talked some unsuspecting underling into an illegal manoeuvre. JJ would let Sandra Hillington know the results of Ethel’s investigation. The net was tightening around the Fin Sec but, hopefully, he was blissfully unaware.

  JJ arrived at HM Treasury on time. A security guard escorted him into the Fin Sec’s office. Neil Robson was waiting and anticipating.

  “No Becky?” asked JJ knowing there would not be.

  “No. She’s got some trouble with her teeth or taking a few days off or something. I don’t know and I don’t care. I take it you’ve got something for me,” he snapped.

  “I have,” replied JJ, keen to get this over with and then trigger the downfall of this pathetic criminal. JJ opened up the laptop he was carrying and placed it on Robson’s desk, screen facing the Financial Secretary. “The password to log-in is Bannockburn, I thought you wouldn’t like that. You will see the accounts that the money is in. There’s nothing else on this laptop so you can keep it. Now where’s my file?”

  “Hold your horses, Darke. I need to acquaint myself with what’s on here.”

  JJ sat down uninvited. This was a time to be cooler than an icebox. No matter what Robson said, JJ told himself, this was definitely not the moment to launch another assault on the weasel. Neil Robson checked through the information on the laptop. There was a total of £3.8 billion in the accounts, spread over ten banks in three countries. They were all in the different shell company names which Robson had set up. Robson reached into the top right hand drawer of his desk and took out his own computer tablet. He fired it up.

  “What are you doing?” asked JJ.

  “Don’t panic Jock. It all seems in order but I’m just going to do one little transfer. It’s not that I don’t trust you…” he continued with a look at JJ which said I didn’t come up the Clyde in the shit ship either. Less than a minute elapsed when Robson closed the top of both the laptop and his tablet. He looked JJ straight in the eye. “Seems OK, Darke.” Robson then went to his briefcase, extracted the FCA file on JJ and his two amigos and handed it over to the Scot.

  “The letter of exoneration as well,” said JJ.

  Robson handed it over and JJ immediately checked it. It was on headed Treasury paper, signed by Neil Robson, Financial Secretary to HM Treasury and appeared to state categorically that the three amigos had not been involved in any wrongdoing of a financial nature or otherwise. On the face of it, it was solid. JJ knew that Robson probably had other copies of the FCA file and that he could always claim that the side letter of exoneration had been written under duress. Becky had seen Robson’s bleeding nose so the Fin Sec could easily claim that he had been attacked by the hot-tempered Scot. JJ also knew, however, that Becky would do nothing to help her boss and that would be cast iron true when her suspicions about Joel’s death were shown to be accurate. On top of that, JJ knew that one call to Sandra Hillington at MI5 and Robson would be going down, maybe to occupy Victor Pagari’s old cell in Belmarsh. That call would be one of three he was going to make today immediately on exiting the Treasury. JJ nodded to Robson and rose from his chair to leave.

  “Hold on a minute, Darke,” insisted Neil Robson. “Sit down, I need to say something to you.”

  Normally, JJ would just tell the slimeball to fuck off and leave. He had no idea what Robson wanted to say, but just on the off-chance it was remotely relevant, he sat back down.

  “You’re probably feeling pretty good about yourself Darke. You’ve gotten away with a clear insider trading case and helped your two hedgie miscreants to do the same. You may think that saving Britain from bankruptcy and widespread social anarchy balances that out, but let’s face it, you didn’t have much of a choice. We’re done on this issue, but I’ve got my eye on you.”

  JJ said nothing. He assumed Robson had finished. As he motioned to rise again, Robson indicated that he should stay where he was. What now, thought JJ.

  “You know Darke, I never liked you. Everyone thought you were great in MI5, but apart from the odd field trip you didn’t do much. You’re properly representative of your nation, know what I mean?” Robson seemed to be kind of enjoying himself, maybe it was the drug of all that money or, indeed, the real thing. JJ shook his head, partly in response to Robson’s question and partly at the sight of this vile human being.

  “You don’t?” said Robson. “OK, I’ll tell you. You Scots put yourselves forward as all brave and smart. William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, even Bonnie Prince Charlie. Invented the telephone, the television, the ATM to bring it all into the modern world. Even the fucking god particle was thought up by an Englishman resident at a Scottish University. But what did you Jock wankers do with all those balls and smarts? Nothing. You’re so fucking tribal. When you could have conquered England all those hundreds of years ago, what did you do? You fought amongst yourselves. Bickered like a bunch of girls. Clan versus clan. No camaraderie, no foresight, no end game. A bunch of heathens wearing skirts. You blew it. Took the English coin, let your queen have her head chopped off and that was that. Even your fucking inventions. What did you tossers do with all the televisions and telephones. Sweet Fanny Adams. Logie Baird may have shown his TV for the first time in Selfridges ninety years ago but you won’t find any Scottish televisions for sale there today, or anywhere on any day for that matter. Same with phones. Nada. You’re a nation of breweries, pubs and call centres. You’ve become so soft and flabby you can’t even muster the votes to get independence. Deep down it’s because you don’t want it. You’re still happy to be subservient to the auld enemy, to take the coin of the English queen. You can watch Braveheart a million times, host the Commonwealth Games, sing ‘Flower of Scotland’ till you drop but you’re still an Englis
h sideshow. For god’s sake, the last time I saw any saltires being waved with enthusiasm was when that bastard Megrahi stepped off the plane at Tripoli airport. You lot are a fucking disgrace, way more stupid than you think and wouldn’t know an end game if it bit you on the arse in broad daylight!” Robson paused for a drink of water. He managed to get that for himself.

  JJ had sat there and took all of the nationalistic insults. Although they were delivered with hateful passion, there were some truths among the vitriol. Only once in his life had JJ felt ashamed to be Scottish. It was when that numpty Kenny McAskill, the Scottish Secretary for Justice, let the Lockerbie bomber go free, ostensibly because he had prostate cancer. Megrahi was supposed to have three months to live, he lasted nearly three years in the comfort of his wife and relatives. What all the families of those on Pan Am Flight 103 would have given for three more years of the company and joy of their loved ones. On that count, Robson was right, it was a fucking disgrace.

  “Are you done?” asked JJ, surprisingly not mad as hell.

  “I’m done, now fuck off back to your cave,” snarled Robson.

  Pleasantries over, JJ rose and left Robson’s office without further ado.