“Let’s go home and get you fixed up,” said Gil, giving Cyrus a squashing hug.
“OK,” said the boy. “I’m starvin’. Can we get a pizza takeaway, maybe two for me? Have we got curlies and biscuits at home?” Gil looked at JJ, he was shaking his head, not to indicate no, just in joyous disbelief.
“Yes, of course. You can have whatever you want Cyrus. Anything,” said JJ.
The five that were all alive left the building. Everybody was headed for Markham Square, Victor and Ethel in the hatchback, Gil, Cyrus and JJ in the Porsche. Cyrus was curled up in the rear bucket seats. He felt safe in there. He also knew that Gil was the one who was going to pop in to Pizza Express on the King’s Road to collect the order she had phoned through. A few minutes later Gil did just that and JJ drove his car and his son into Markham Square. Cyrus was very pleased to see his Chelsea blue front door. He was dealing with recent events as best he could but it was a lot and he was totally exhausted. Dodgy Russians shooting at him in Scotland, discovering he had a big sister, then being kidnapped by some maniac who beat him and starved him.
“Dad, the guy who kidnapped me,” said Cyrus softly, before he and JJ got out of the car.
“Yes, Cyrus?”
“Promise me you’ll make him pay.”
“I promise Cyrus, on your mother’s love, I promise.”
* * *
A few minutes later everyone was enjoying their pizzas. Cyrus, especially, and he was on to his second one before anyone else had finished their first. His mouth hurt a lot, so every now and then he was reminded of his ordeal. Becky was very pleased to see Cyrus and the boy got a crushing hug from the attractive young woman. He liked that and had a huge smile on his face, seen by all, and generating admiring laughs from Gil and his dad.
JJ looked intently and lovingly at his son. He had grown up a lot in the past few weeks. The circumstances occasioning said growth would not really have been JJ’s first choice but sometimes you need to play the hand you’ve been dealt, good or bad. Cyrus did not seem to be psychologically harmed by his exposure to guns, bullets and capture but you never know, thought JJ. In those quieter moments when you’re on your own preparing to sleep, in the dark or in a strange environment that’s when the mind goes to dark places and plays tricks. Fortunately, Cyrus had quality back-up right now. Both Gil and Becky were staying in the house. He had also made new friends in Ethel and Victor so his protective ring was larger and stronger. Victor couldn’t do much protecting right enough but he and Cyrus could babble in the alien language known as technogeek, and they could share experiences to a degree. Both had been in a firefight that they would never have anticipated only a few weeks ago. Satisfied that Cyrus was in a good safe place, JJ’s thoughts turned to Neil Robson.
“Victor,” said JJ.
Victor had just finished congratulating Cyrus on the simple ingenuity of his code square. Cyrus was all pleased with himself and rightly so.
“We need to find Robson and the money, with the emphasis on Robson,” said JJ.
“Sure,” replied Victor, “but do we have any idea where he is?”
“No we don’t, but we’re going to need to get into gear sharpish. Here’s what we know. Somehow Robson’s plan was to use UPS to transport the money. As I was walking away from our Sprinter van, two UPS uniformed guys went into the back of the van. I ducked behind some bushes for a few minutes to take a look. I was hoping that they would take the van because I had installed a tracker, deep inside the petrol tank, but they didn’t. After five minutes or so these two guys came out of the van, loaded the money on two motorised pallets and returned to the UPS depot. They must have been working for Robson. Vans and trucks were leaving the terminal every few minutes. My guess is that the money was in one of those trucks and driven by the two guys I saw. After that, I’ve no idea, we went for Cyrus.”
“Does UPS Lojack their vehicles?” asked Victor.
“I don’t know, Victor,” replied JJ. “If they did and the van’s transceiver’s signal went straight to the police indicating it had been stolen then maybe Ethel could find that out. I’ll ask. I suspect though that Robson’s a bit too cunning to go that route. It’s more likely that he had a phoney UPS van already in the depot or driven there earlier by his two goons. Legitimate UPS personnel at the depot would be more likely to spot that they were one van or truck short than they would one too many.”
“Maybe Ethel could ask her police colleagues if any apparent UPS vans had been reported abandoned or set alight, that kind of thing,” suggested Victor. “They’d need to do something with the van.”
“That’s a good idea, Victor, at least it would give us a starting point,” replied JJ. They both went for a chat with Ethel. She was on the case straight away.
JJ was right about one thing, Neil Robson was indeed cunning. The instructions to Tim Hayworth and Jason Long were twofold. First, they were to drive the UPS van and its contents back to Bert’s Garage. Robson had told Archie Newman to ensure that the regular employees of the garage had a well-paid day off. Once there, Long and Hayworth were to strip the transit van of its UPS decals and respray the van white. They were to change the number plates, supplied by Newman. When finished they were to leave the van locked with all its contents intact and give the keys to Newman.
The second instruction was of the fail-safe variety. Robson could not be certain that his plan for the van would work as perfectly as it had. He instructed Long and Hayworth to load the UPS van with four parcels less than the fifty they had removed from the Sprinter. The two goons were then to attach counterfeit UPS labels supplied by Archie Newman in the suit bag which contained the UPS decals. Three of the parcels were to be delivered, by legitimate UPS carriers, to Post Office addresses in England, two in London and one in Hull. The fourth one was destined for foreign parts. In total, the parcels contained the equivalent of £8 million. If all else went pear-shaped thought Robson a piggybank of £8 million would be sufficient to get by on.
Archie Newman had supplied Robson with some fake ID, a driving license, a utility bill and a council tax reminder. He was working on a passport which he would deliver to Robson today. One of the four parcels could easily fit into a large kit bag, so Robson was about to be mobile and cashed up.
“Archie, it’s me. Are we done?” asked Neil Robson from his mobile phone.
“Nearly. The lads are repainting the van now. They’ve got industrial dryers on it so it’ll be ready this evening. I’ll have your papers ready then too. Let’s meet at Bert’s say 8pm, and settle up.”
“Fine, see you there,” replied Robson.
* * *
Time dragged for Neil Robson that day. He couldn’t risk going back to the Battersea loft. Either Darke would have discovered his son or the boy would be in a right mess or possibly dead. In either event the local police would be all over the place, maybe even the secret service too. Movement is freedom he thought, so he whiled away the hours in and out of busy London cafés and shops. His plan was almost complete. His only regret was that he had not topped JJ Darke. One day, he told himself, one day I will get even with that Jock asshole.
It was just after 8pm. Archie Newman unlocked the door of Bert’s garage on hearing the six knock signal from the outside. Tim Hayworth and Jason Long were still there. Hayworth was pleased with his pay packet but Long felt that they deserved an extra wedge for all this repainting stuff, it was hard and it had taken half a day.
Neil Robson entered. He was content enough to see Archie and shook his hand. The other two were not meant to be there.
“Archie, what are they doing here?” asked Robson calm, but annoyed.
“Sorry Neil,” he whispered. “I tried to dissuade them but I think they’re after a bonus, if you catch my drift.”
“OK. Do you have my papers?”
“Yes. Everything’s here,” Newman replied, handing Robson an A5 sized envelope, which he folded and put inside his jacket pocket. In turn, he took out an envelope which had £20k in it
, the last of the cash he was able to lay his hands on before tonight.
“Here, Archie, take this. You did a fine job,” said Robson.
“Thanks. Anytime. Do you need me for anything else?” asked Archie, apparently keen to get off.
“Hang about for a few minutes, will you. I’ll see if I can keep the lads happy,” Robson replied.
Long and Hayworth were standing next to the van, patiently waiting for Robbo and Newman to finish. As Neil Robson approached, Hayworth rested against the side of the van but Long was anxious to make his play for more money.
“Hi lads,” said Robson. “Good job today, the van looks sweet.”
“Glad you think so, Robbo,” said Jason Long. “We stuck to all your instructions, we did you a real solid. Any chance of a bonus?” he asked, never really having been one for small talk.
“Sure,” said Robson. The fugitive Fin Sec put his right hand into the left hand side of his parka and his left hand into the jacket’s outside pocket. He didn’t pull out two envelopes of cash. Instead, he retrieved his two SIG Sauer P229s, both fully loaded with fifteen round magazines of 9mm .357 SIG bullets. Six pops rang out in an instant. Long took two to the head and one to the chest, Hayworth one to the head, one to the chest and one in his stomach. Archie Newman was rooted to the spot, shocked and bewildered. He was not expecting that.
“Sorry you had to see that Archie,” said Robson, turning to face the pensioner.
“It’s OK…” stuttered Archie. He didn’t get the chance to say how OK or to ask questions. Robson fired again, twice. Archie took two to the head. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Robson bent over his third victim of the night and retrieved his £20k. Spending money, he muttered to himself. The pools of blood from Hayworth and Long had now joined up to form one big puddle. Robson surveyed the scene. He was satisfied. No witnesses to tonight’s crimes and no one alive capable of stitching him up to the authorities. He was in the money and in the clear he told himself as he got into the white transit van and prepared to drive out of Bert’s Garage. After he left Bert’s, he stopped the van, got out, locked the garage and tossed the keys into a nearby skip. It was 8.30pm so he probably had at least a twelve hour head start before any alarm would be raised.
Robson was heading for Hull. He had rented a lock-up garage there, in an industrial estate, not far from the port and its ferry terminals. Times were tough in England and a cash payment for three months in advance rent, no questions asked, could not be turned down by the garage’s owners. Hull was just over 200 miles away. By the time he got there it would be after midnight, too late for a ferry crossing that night. He would sleep in his van, mess around the next morning and afternoon then check in, on foot, close to 7pm for the 8.30pm crossing. He would buy some spare clothes in Hull and use them to cover the cash haul in his kit bag. This time he could buy his own ticket and use his new forged passport. A quality job thought Robson as he inspected the now deceased Archie Newman’s work.
There is no proper security on P&O ferries, no baggage X-rays, no checks and no shake downs, only passport control. The crossing would be a piece of cupcake Robson laughed out loud. The ferry crossing would take ten to eleven hours. Once disembarked he would catch a taxi for the journey to Rotterdam’s The Hague Airport, about three miles north-northwest of Rotterdam itself. There he would catch the afternoon Avianca flight to San Jose, Costa Rica. The flight would take six hours. Before boarding and checking-in his most valuable kit bag he would pop into a local Hull supermarket and purchase some aluminium foil to cover the currency parcel in his bag. His bag would be x-rayed before entering the hold of the plane. Ideally, lead has the best physical structure to reflect x-rays due to its large number of electrons and dense structure. Lead was an impractical option due to both its weight and availability to purchase at short notice. Aluminium foil was not as efficient in this operation due to its smaller attenuation coefficient i.e. its ability to be penetrated by light particles or other energy or matter. Nevertheless, a few sheets wrapped carefully and tightly around the already covered cash would be sufficient to reflect the limited penetration quality of baggage X-rays at Holland’s third largest airport. He would then go to the Post Office in Newland Avenue, Hull to collect his parcel delivered by UPS. Neil Robson was set. He would have £2 million in his kit bag, and £2 million worth of US dollars awaiting his arrival in San Jose, Costa Rica, courtesy of UPS. If his travel plan worked as expected, he could return to his van and top up his cash.
Costa Rica lay between eight and twelve degrees north of the Equator in Central America. Its climate was tropical, you could use US dollars there freely and it was a democracy. On top of all those goodies thought Neil Robson, the piece de resistance was that it had no extradition treaty with the UK. He was not intending to be discovered but if he was then it would be harder, not impossible, but harder to force him back to the UK, to face multiple murder charges and a host of other felonies. With that happy prospect Robert Nilsson, as he now was, embarked on his version of the great escape.
* * *
“Anything?” asked JJ.
“Ziltch… well maybe one avenue of interest,” replied Ethel, qualifying her negative absolute. “Local officers in Camden were called to a grease monkey garage there and found three dead bodies, all shot and all at least one bullet to the head, so probably a professional job. There was no sign of any van or any money. The two interesting things, though, were that the two dead guys apparently in their thirties were ex-military, one SAS the other a paratrooper. They had different splatterings of paint on some of their clothes and there was paint-spraying equipment lying around in the garage. The police interviewed the regular garage mechanics. They said they knew nothing about it and had been well paid to take the day off. They pointed to the dead old guy as the one who had paid them.”
“And the other interesting point?” asked JJ.
“Well, although forensics wouldn’t give me a definitive answer they said that the bullets were 9mm rounds and probably fired from a SIG Sauer, P228 or P229. They’ll get back to me soon with a clear answer.”
“SIGs are a favourite of the SIS. Are you thinking Robson?” suggested JJ.
“Don’t know yet, JJ. I thought it was worthwhile asking for DNA and fingerprint checks though, just in case.”
“Good work Ginger.”
“One more thing,” added Ethel. “The paint residue near the victims was mainly white and brown. I’ve asked 19’s lab boffins to analyse the brown samples to see if they can be a match for UPS brown. If so, we might have a lead.”
“Yes, Ethel, that would be good. If the UPS van did get painted there, however, then the white splatterings probably mean that the culprit is now a classic man in a white van. Needle in a haystack and all that.”
“At least we’d know what kind of needle we’d be looking for,” said Ethel trying to be positive.
“I guess,” replied JJ, knowing that there were nearly three million of them. SCO19’s laboratory analyst and Ethel’s contacts in the Metropolitan Police got back to her before nightfall. The brown paint around the dead ex-military pair was a very good match for UPS brown, usually called Pullman Brown because one of the original UPS partners decided that the colour of the eponymous railroad carriages would be easier than yellow to keep clean. The DNA search produced a match for Neil Robson from the dead old guy’s right hand. Likely then that the fugitive Robson had been present at the scene of this crime and was probably the perpetrator of it as well. Ethel imparted her news to JJ. He acknowledged that she had done really well to get that information so quickly. They also had an up to date description of Neil Robson provided by Cyrus. Ethel shared that knowledge with her police contacts and they with MI5 and Interpol. The police experts on evo-fit technology now had an acceptable image and it was being transmitted on all major news channels.
This was clearly an advance in the hunt for Neil Robson but JJ was still fed up. The source of his frustration was multi-faceted. He was
n’t feeling great, niggly muscle and joint aches, greater preponderance of hormonal sweats and an adrenalin downshift after the chaos of Cyrus’s kidnap. The biggest downer, however, was that he knew in his soul that Robson was well gone. The gap between the estimated time of the deaths at Bert’s garage and the discovery of their bodies was around twelve hours. The answers to the paint and DNA questions, nearly a further twelve hours. The widespread distribution and publication of Robson’s evo-fit image another few hours. If a cunning, trained ex-MI5 wetworker could not disappear off the fuckin’ planet with such a head start, then I’m John fucking Bull groaned the Scot to himself.
JJ decided that he had had enough of Robson related thinking for the night. He went up the stairs from the small, front room on the ground floor, leaving Ethel and Victor to chat a while longer. On entering the living room he spotted Cyrus first, black Minecraft T-shirt and grey No. 33 track suit bottoms on, thick woolly socks and getting stuck into some Nintendo DS challenge while dangling his long legs over the side of the sumptuous armchair. He was returning to normal, thought JJ, and thank god for that. Becky, meanwhile, was equally casual but somewhat brighter. Hot pink fluffy jumper over black leggings with socks that matched the jumper. A bit more like it thought JJ as he saw Becky on the sofa and surfing on her tablet. JJ got a huge smile and thumbs up from Cyrus. That usually meant good to see you but I’m absorbed in my electronic game so don’t bug me! JJ smiled back and then sat next to Becky.
“Is it OK if I sit here?” he asked, polite but not necessary.
“Sure, JJ, of course… it’s your sofa.”
“What are you up to?”
“I’m job hunting,” replied Becky. “I don’t really want to go back to the Treasury. Neil Robson is still out and about, too many cringeworthy memories of that slime ball and too many sad ones about Joel. I’m getting my degree soon so I’ll be qualified to be more than a PA, not that that was a bad job, I just feel that I owe it to myself and to the memory of Joel to be the best I possibly can.”
Darke Mission Page 57