Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

* * *

  Standing on Horse Guards Road and deciding to walk back to MAM’s office, JJ made his first call.

  “Victor, it’s JJ. You need to get control of the funds now! Once you’ve done it let me know. I think Robson may have transferred some of the money to another account of his, so check the total that we have in our authority, and see if you can get back any amount transferred out.”

  “Sure,” replied Victor. “I’m on it now. I’ll call you in a minute.”

  JJ hung up and made his second call.

  “Sandra, it’s JJ. Robson thinks he’s in charge of the money, in fact he may have actually transferred some of it to one of his other accounts we have no control over. As soon as I know what we’ve got left, I’ll give instructions to transfer it to the MI5 escrow account you’ve set up.”

  “Thanks, JJ. Is Robson still in his office at the Treasury?”

  “He was a few minutes ago. Seemed to be drooling over his good fortune and celebrating by lambasting the Scots for their errors and wicked ways.”

  “I’ll put an end to that,” said MI5’s Director General. “I’m sending a unit now to pick him up. I’m sure we’ll have an interesting chat.”

  “Good. Thanks Sandra. Speak to you shortly.”

  JJ hung up and dialled again. “Becky, is that you? It’s JJ Darke.”

  “Hi Mr Darke, I mean JJ.”

  “Are you OK, nothing unusual going on?” asked JJ.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m at my aunt’s and I’m going to see my mum tonight.”

  “That’s great. Look Becky, Neil Robson will probably be picked up by MI5 and officers from the National Crime Agency in a short while. He appears to have been directly involved in your friend’s death. I’m sorry. It may be hushed up for a day or so but I can’t rule out some media coverage at some point. They may come looking for you for a comment. I suggest lying low so stay in Hampshire until you hear from me again. Is that OK?”

  Becky was still digesting the news that her boss was directly involved in Joel Gordon’s death. She wasn’t thinking totally clearly so just said ‘yes’ and hung up.

  JJ had barely finished his call to Becky when his mobile rang. It was Victor.

  “Hi JJ. It seems that Robson transferred £25 million to an account I can’t immediately access. I tried once to hack into it but it’s got high level encryption firewall protection. I can do it, but it will take me a little longer.”

  “Thanks Victor. Alright, the bulk of the £3.8 billion is still in our control. In the grand scheme of things, £25 million is no big deal. We’ll retrieve that later. As soon as you can, transfer the billions into the escrow account number I gave you. Victor…”

  “Yes, JJ?”

  “It’s an MI5 account so don’t be tardy and don’t be opportunistic!”

  “No, Sir!” replied Victor, glad of the heads up even though he did not have any intention of interfering with that transfer.

  * * *

  JJ was back in his office at MAM. It was a Friday afternoon and he was mentally exhausted. He did have enough beans and enough presence of mind, however, to let Toby and Yves-Jacques know that they were off the FCA’s hook. No file, no penalties, no action. Several jumping high fives ensued between the chunky Englishman and the skinny Frenchman. Yves-Jacques was going to Paris for a long weekend, one he owed his girlfriend from awhile back. Toby was heading for Nobu later that night and was teaming up with J-K with the total expectation that the three of them would get wasted. Toby was picking up the tab. The two amigos were in good shape for funds. JJ had already given them sizeable seven figure cash bonuses in thanks for their skilful efforts on selling and delivering the gold haul. They were deliriously happy. No regulatory action to worry about, huge cash windfall and the weekend coming up. What was there not to like?

  It had been a landmark day for JJ. All the tasks that needed doing were done. He was going home now, to Markham Square, pack some stuff and fly to Scotland to see Cyrus and his parents. God, how he was looking forward to that. As he was leaving his office, his landline and mobile rang, virtually simultaneously. He dropped his suit jacket on his chair and, standing, answered his mobile.

  “JJ, it’s Sandra.”

  “Hi Sandra, did you get the funds alright?” asked JJ.

  “Yes. The funds are fine. They’re in MI5’s control. The Home Secretary is aware of the whole shebang. She’s clean. We will work together next week to ensure that the British government is solvent and British life normal. The PM and Home Secretary, along with the head of the NCA are presently chatting to Jeffrey Walker. He’s probably not clean. He’ll be asked to resign ‘on health grounds’ and quietly disappear.”

  “Good stuff,” said JJ. “Have a brilliant weekend.”

  “Not so fast, JJ,” interrupted the DG. “It’s not all Little House on the Prairie. When my team turned up at the Treasury, Neil Robson had gone. His PA has the day off and nobody there knew where he was. My guys drove down to his house in St. George’s Hill. His car and his stuff are still there but he isn’t. We don’t know where he is. We’ve contacted the airports, the trains, Eurostar, the cross Channel ferries but, so far, no definite sightings nor any reliable intel.”

  “When did your team turn up at the Treasury?” asked JJ.

  “Around 4.30pm. It took a little time to get organised and coordinate with the NCA. They may be new but they’re also slow,” replied Sandra.

  “If Robson left the Treasury right after our meeting, and given the traffic would have been a little lighter out of London and down the A3 than it is now then he’s probably got a start on us of an hour and a half, maybe two hours,” gauged JJ.

  “Probably,” replied MI5’s chief.

  “He may even know that he can’t access the money, Sandra. That’ll piss him off mega. He’ll be wild and dangerous. You need to track him down.”

  “I’ve got everybody available on it, JJ. The DA-notices have all been sent out and acknowledged. There’ll be no leaks regarding your stuff. I’ll be in touch when I’ve any news.”

  “Thanks, Sandra,” said JJ and hung up.

  As it turns out, Neil Robson was blissfully unaware of all the commotion that was underway in central London. He had indeed left the Treasury almost immediately after JJ had. The traffic was light and he drove his Bentley Continental to St. George’s Hill in around forty minutes. He had ordered a cab to collect him twenty minutes later, enough time for the Fin Sec to pack a bag for a long weekend in Amsterdam. The cab dropped Robson at Heathrow, he caught the late afternoon BA flight to the Dutch city and was heading for the Park Plaza Victoria to the north side, not far from Haarlem and Westpark. Neil Robson decided that he would celebrate his massive, ill-gotten gains by treating himself to a dirty weekend in Amsterdam. He didn’t bring a friend or companion. Robson’s idea of a dirty weekend was to gorge himself in the flesh pots of central Amsterdam, fuck hookers galore and partake in as many Class A drugs that he could get his hands or nose on.

  Robson settled into his executive suite on the seventh floor. He had a long, relaxing shower, slipped on the hotel’s sumptuous white bathrobe, took a couple of bourbons from the mini bar and flopped, contentedly on his king size four poster bed. He’d probably just have a quick snack before he went out. Didn’t want Amsterdam’s ladies of the night or shop window to be on their Tod Sloan for too much longer. Before getting dressed he thought he’d open up his tablet and have a quick peek at his now overflowing bank accounts. Robson signed up for the hotel’s Wi-Fi access, logged in his password and waited. His accounts appeared. Jesus, what a load of money he thought. Maybe I’ll transfer out another £20 million or so, just for the hell of it. Robson put in his transfer instructions. A confirmation message did not appear on his tablet’s screen but an animated version of the von Trapp children from The Sound of Music did. As Neil Robson looked at this anime incredulously, the children burst into song:

  Get lost, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodnight

  Glad you’re caught, you
murderous thieving shite

  Do-do-do-do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do-do

  Piss off, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu

  Stinking prison is much too good for you-oo!

  Do-do-do-do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do-do

  Victor couldn’t help it. He wanted Robson to know he was rumbled. Richard Rodgers’s tune was more or less intact but the young safe cracker had re-written Oscar Hammerstein II’s lyrics, not for the better but for the more Robson appropriate. Neil Robson shut down his tablet and tried again. He turned the volume down as the von Trapp kids were still taunting him. He shook the tablet, tapped the screen harder and harder until his right forefinger hurt. It was no good. Resigned to the fact that he no longer had several billion pounds in his accounts and under his control, Robson threw the tablet across the room, smashing it into the wall. He went over to the fragile but attractive writing desk in his room and dialled London, England. He recognised the voice and greeting at the end of the phone.

  “Vladimir, it’s Neil Robson. That Scottish cunt Darke has stolen our money, yours and mine. Deal with him.”

  12: BLACK NANA

  “Change of orders, Sir,” announced Joe Franks as he handed Commander Mark O’Neill the cable. Given that Franks had broken his leg at Haeju and all the bloody action that there had been on the Borei submarine since, the pace of his hobble up to the conn was fairly impressive.

  O’Neill read the short instructions and asked Franks to let Evan Harris see them. The XO was still recuperating in the goat locker from his gunshot wounds caused by the departed Dannielle Eagles. In fact the SVR double agent was twice departed, having no life and no longer on the submarine.

  “Tommy, change course to 55° 58ˈ 59ˈˈ North, 04° 55ˈ 00ˈˈ West. Keep your speed constant.”

  “Yes Sir,” replied Tommy Fairclough, the sub’s lead driver. “That doesn’t seem much different from our original destination, Sir?” said Fairclough, half in statement and half in question.

  “No, it doesn’t Tommy. Lieutenant Harris is checking it out now,” replied O’Neill.

  Following the missile attack on the submarine and SVR agent Eagles’ failed attempt to hijack the Borei, the sub’s passage had since been peaceful. Traversing the Suez Canal was slow and laborious. It required immense concentration especially from Fairclough and David McCoy. The rest of the trip through European waters was uneventful. Now they were in the North Atlantic Ocean just above the deep oceanic floor known as the Biscay Plain. They would be in Scotland tomorrow, Saturday, 4th April.

  NGA officer Carolyn Reynolds approached O’Neill. “Evan says the new co-ordinates are for the Holy Loch in Scotland, not that far from Faslane.”

  “John Adams at Langley said in his cable that he would brief me fully before we arrived so I guess we’ll find out soon enough why we’re headed for a Scottish Lock,” said O’Neill.

  “It’s a Loch, Mark, not a Lock. It’s Scottish for Lake but you pronounce the ‘ch’ as in Bach the German composer, not as in the speed of sound Mach whatever nor in machete nor, indeed, as in more or less any other word containing ‘ch’ in the so-called English language,” Carolyn pointed out.

  “Feeling the call of your roots, Officer Reynolds?” jested O’Neill, chuckling a little.

  “In part, Commander, but also because I like to be accurate and because I’ve got your best interests at heart.”

  “How so?” asked O’Neill.

  “Well you’ve committed to taking me to dinner on the banks of Loch Lomond right?” asked Carolyn.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied O’Neill enthusiastically.

  “Well, what a plonker you’d look like if you say to the waitress ‘it’s lovely here on the Lock’. Whereas if you bother to pronounce it correctly, as I would Arkinsaw not phonetically Arkansas, then probably she won’t spit in your soup, Yank. Got it?”

  “I’m glad you’ve my best interests at heart, Carolyn,” said O’Neill, smiling.

  David McCoy was hovering. As back up driver he was aware of the new destination. “I think I know why we’re going to the Holy Loch,” said McCoy, pronouncing it correctly as befitted a man with an historic Scottish surname from the lands of Kintyre. O’Neill was already impressed but wanted to find out if his buddy had more to offer than a throaty ‘ch’.

  “OK. I’ll bite,” said O’Neill.

  “My maternal grandfather was a Gold Crew torpedo man aboard the USS Casimir Pulaski. It was one of the early Polaris ballistic missile submarines, named after some Polish general who served in the American Revolutionary War. Granddad would tell me tales of his adventures, patrolling in the North Atlantic, life on board, all that stuff. I can’t remember all of it but I’m sure he said he was based in the Holy Loch for a while,” offered McCoy.

  “What? You think there’s a submarine base there?” asked O’Neill.

  “Well we know there’s an active British Naval base at Faslane. You and the XO checked that out once we knew where we were going. The Holy Loch seems to be close. The base there was used for refits my granddad said. I thought it had been shut down after the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said O’Neill. “If anyone’s looking for this submarine they’ll be using satellites, listening for chatter, checking out all the likely submarine bases of their enemies to see what turns up. A narrow, sheltered Scottish Loch is probably not going to be top of their search list, and that’s likely why we’re headed for it.”

  Carolyn was quite excited about all this Scottish stuff. She was not going to show it, though, especially now that she was the only girl on board and the crew weren’t dumb, they knew she was the SEALs Commander’s love interest. Carolyn had not set foot in Scotland since she was a baby. Indeed, she may never have, technically, set foot in Scotland at all because when she was last there she would have been carried about or wheeled in a pram. She did not have any clear memory of being there. When she was a little older and in America her mom had shown her some photographs of the three of them at a big house with a huge garden. She saw photos of two older folk as well whom she presumed were her dad’s parents, her grandparents. Carolyn recalled that the big house was close to a vast expanse of water but she did not know where. The first thing she was going to do when she got off this sub was ring her dad. He would get the surprise of his life.

  * * *

  JJ didn’t like surprises, even when they were good. The two he had received this evening were not good. First, the criminal Neil Robson was on the run and MI5 had not yet tracked him down. They discovered that he had boarded a BA flight for Amsterdam, but no signs of the murderer since. Robson was not going to be easy to find. He was a former MI5 field operative. Stealth, disguise, misdirection, he would remember how to do it all.

  JJ’s second surprise was that his house in Markham Square had been ransacked. Following the incident with black Merc man, Gil had her security firm contact install loads of add-on safety items. One of these was to arrange for any break-in signal that was sent directly to the local Chelsea police station to be simultaneously transmitted to JJ’s smartphone. JJ did not return to his house in Markham Square until he saw the police arrive. By that time the ransackers had scarpered. When JJ went into the house with the police the place was a right mess. Spray painted on one wall, was: Remember the death of William Wallace. JJ told the constables that he did not know what that meant; but he did. The Scottish braveheart had been beheaded, hung, drawn and quartered in 1305. It was a message from Vladimir Babikov.

  JJ collected a few things from the house and put them in his kit bag. The police said they would lock up and secure the building once the arriving detectives had investigated, searched for clues and took forensic evidence, if any. JJ thanked them, went straight to Sixt rent-a-car near Victoria Station and took possession of an Audi A6 Black Edition saloon car. JJ had intended to fly to Scotland, but you can’t get the array of weapons he had just put in his kit bag onto a regular London-Glasgow flight. He knew the road route well. M4, M25, nort
h on the M6 then M8 to Greenock, onto Wemyss Bay and, finally, ferry to the Isle of Bute. Tonight, though, he might need to make a swift detour.

  “Becky, it’s JJ,” said the Scot.

  “Hi JJ,” replied the young woman.

  “Are you OK? How’s your mum?” he asked.

  “We’re fine. Mum’s had a good several days. I’m just going back to my aunt’s—”

  “Look, Becky,” JJ interrupted, “Neil Robson evaded the police. He’s on the run and nobody knows exactly where he is. You’re probably not in any danger but he may try to contact you for help.”

  “No, no, no. That’s bad,” groaned an immediately apprehensive Becky. “He’ll figure out I had something to do with linking him to Joel Gordon’s death. This is bad,” she said beginning to cry. JJ thought that this might be the reaction. He was prepared.

  “Becky, it’s OK, stay calm. I’m in my car on my way to you now. I’m on the M3. I can probably be with you in forty-five minutes. I’m going to Scotland. If you want you can come with me. Go to your aunt’s and pack your stuff. My parents are in Scotland, my son, his nanny. You won’t be alone.”

  “Yes please. I would like to come. Please hurry,” replied Becky. She hung up and drove as fast as she could from her mum’s care home to her aunt’s house. She’d be there in ten minutes. Scotland, that’ll be cold, she thought. Better pack some warm stuff, even if I have to borrow some of my aunt’s.

  JJ was concentrating on the heavy Friday evening traffic out of London and thinking at the same time. He wasn’t sure that taking Becky to Scotland was a great idea. His parents’ house was big enough OK, but he may be taking her to greater danger. The dodgy Russian brigade were unlikely to be satisfied with a quick ransack of his Chelsea home and just say ‘too bad’. They’d be looking for JJ and they would eventually suss out his Scottish connection. JJ would give Becky the chance of staying or going when they met up. If she came on the road trip then at least she would not be fretting on her own and she would have some protection in the form of himself and Gil. It wasn’t enough but it was what they had.