“Sound thinking, Becky. I know how you feel. I’ve been totally useless at my so-called day job for the past few weeks. To be honest, the attraction of worrying about the ups and downs of Greek bonds or $/yen or even the price of gold has lost its allure. I haven’t told Cyrus yet,” said JJ lowering his voice, “but I’m thinking about resigning from MAM.”
“I heard that,” interrupted the boy. “Don’t blame you Dad. Why don’t you do something useful? Hire Becky,” Cyrus announced with that complete look of cheek that he often could muster.
“Cyrus!” exclaimed Becky, blushing a bit partly because she quite liked that idea.
“I will think about it Cyrus. Maybe Becky’s had enough of us. Firefight in Scotland probably wasn’t the best job advertisement,” said JJ. The three of them laughed and for the first time today JJ felt a little less fed up.
* * *
Days passed, then weeks, then months. The coalition lost the general election. Who knows why. Possibly their inability to kickstart the economy into a self-sustaining recovery. Possibly too much corruption surrounding former Chancellor Walker and his murderous acolyte Neil Robson. More likely, thought JJ, that it’s one thing being a team player and quite another being a team of clones. They all just looked too alike. No individuality, no personality. In any event Labour were in power, slim majority and probably unstable.
JJ was back in his office at Momentum Asset Management. He wasn’t looking at screens or switching assets in the fund’s portfolio. He was packing up. Toby knocked on the door and was inside before JJ could say anything. There he was in all his glory, thought JJ, small head, chunky body, wonky glasses and, yes, his sartorial trademark, shirt almost free of pants. This was the real and original Fathead, no clone be he.
“JJ, this is bad news. What’s this place going to be like without you? What am I going to do without you? You’re my boss, my friend, my bleedin’ inspiration. It’s not fair, JJ.”
“Come in Toby, take a seat. Let’s chat.” They both sat down at JJ’s meeting table. “Toby, I just don’t have the enthusiasm for this anymore. All that stuff with Robson, North Korea, gold, Cyrus. Horrible as most of it was, it was real. I know this is real too but it doesn’t seem so to me anymore. It’s like a giant, never ending video game. You’re up, you’re down. You collect your bonus and press go then it begins all over again. I’m just played out with it all. Please understand.”
“I do understand, JJ. It’s just that I’ll miss you. Whoever replaces you won’t be doing any of that crazy Greek bond stuff or seriously dodgy gold stuff. I mean what about the Christmas quiz and limerick for fuck’s sake!” he exclaimed.
“Toby. You and I have sure done some stuff,” said JJ, chuckling. “I’m not sure that it was all above board right enough. However, we can all walk the streets in comparative safety. We can all go straight to a hospital and be cared for if needed and we can all sleep in our beds at night unperturbed by the fear of mass burglaries, looters and hordes of half-wits wanting to do us harm. You did that. You got the government the readies it needed to pay the essential workers of our land. The end may not always justify the means but, in our case, I believe it did.”
“I’m still going to miss you though,” was all that Toby could say, feeling even more emotional about the whole chebang.
“I’ve spoken with David Sutherland, of course,” said JJ. “He values you highly and so do I. Whoever replaces me will be made crystal clear aware of that. Don’t worry, your job’s safe – as long as you don’t drop a packet! How’s Yves-Jacques taking the news?”
“He’s cool with it. He loves his job here. The special bonus you gave both of us means we don’t have to work, ever, but I still love the buzz of the markets, trying to make profitable sense from market chaos, all that jazz. Yves-Jacques loves the mental challenge, the odd belief he has that you can model everything or at least give it some mathematical order. First foreign bloke I’ve ever liked!”
“Look Toby, I need to get on. I’ll let you know what I’ve decided to do. I know already actually but I need to run it by a couple of people first. I don’t have many friends, Toby, but the ones I have I regard as family. You’re my family and you’re welcome to come round whenever you want. We need to down some Macallans and you need to banter with Cyrus and avoid Gil’s wrath. I really mean it. I want to see you soon, don’t dare be a stranger,” JJ was welling up a bit. Toby was welling up more than a bit and needed to exit before it became embarrassing. The two friends stood up and shook hands firmly. There was a strong bond.
JJ finished packing his personal stuff in crates and boxes. The MAM facilities department would organise his gear to be delivered to his house the following day. JJ left, jumped into a taxi and headed home. Ethel and Victor were back in their homes and had been for several weeks. Ethel was also back on SCO19 duty. Cyrus was on mid-term break, studying for his exams, and Gil and Becky were enjoying some girl talk.
“Cyrus, are you busy?” JJ shouted up the stairs on entering his home.
“Yes, but I need a break. Do you want something?” the boy called back.
“Just a chat, me, you, Gil and Becky. Will I bring you anything from the kitchen?” asked JJ.
“Yes please. Surprise me!” replied Cyrus. JJ knew that when Cyrus said ‘surprise me’ what he meant was bring me loads of treats that I really like. Armed with this prior knowledge, JJ climbed the stairs to the living room balancing a packet of curlies, chicken flavoured crisps, a packet of chocolate buttons and a small bottle of still water. Cyrus was pleasantly ‘surprised’.
“OK, let’s all gather round,” said JJ, sitting in his favourite armchair, opposite Cyrus, with Gil and Becky on the sofa. “Cyrus, we didn’t want to burden you with the early stage outline, especially with your exams coming up, but the time seems right to let you in on what your dad and your friends here may be doing next.”
“Sure,” said Cyrus, keen but not desperate to know.
“Becky, do you want to start?” asked JJ.
“Of course,” replied Becky, dressed today in a bright pale blue dress and calf length designer black boots. “Your dad is setting up and funding a consultancy cum charity that will have two objectives. We’re calling it Project LFD.”
“What? From the Lemony Snicket books?” interrupted Cyrus.
“That was VFD, Cyrus, you dimwit. Voluntary Fire Department among other variations of the acronym,” said JJ laughing.
“I knew that,” replied Cyrus. “Just checking that you knew.”
“Anyway,” resumed Becky, “it stands for Light From Dark. The charity part of it will distribute funds to worthy causes and aims to provide support in ways that major charities may have overlooked. Your dad has very kindly proposed that victims of Alzheimer’s Disease will be our first project.” Becky felt a bit emotional at this point because it was her mum and her mum’s care home who were to be the first recipients.
“Cool,” said Cyrus. “What is Project LFD’s other objective?”
“Our other objective,” replied JJ, “is to help seek the release and return of innocent people incarcerated in jails around the world, political prisoners, victims of oppressive regimes, people who have disappeared for no good reason. Anyone who has carried out an act of violence, terrorism or other heinous crimes can be left to rot.”
“That’s awesome, guys,” declared Cyrus. “Who’s running the show and how is it all going to be paid for?” The boy’s clearly paying attention thought JJ.
Gil spoke. “Your dad’s Managing Director and he has supplied the initial capital.”
“How much?” asked Cyrus.
“A lot,” replied Gil. “Becky and I will be project managers, Becky concentrating on the charity side and me on the human rights side. We will have a small team of project associates to help.”
“Can we call the associates projectiles?” asked Cyrus, obviously finding himself amusing. JJ thought it was funny. Gil and Becky not so much.
“No Cyrus, we can’t,
” said Becky.
“Are you guys going to be running this from the house?” Cyrus asked.
“No,” replied JJ. “I’ve signed a lease agreement for the top floor offices at 1 Grosvenor Place. It’s near Hyde Park Corner, not that far from Buck House. We’ll have moved in most of the furniture and equipment we need by the weekend.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Cyrus. “It’s all go-go-go. Hey Dad, seems you took my advice to hire Becky!”
“Yes, Cyrus. Seems so, and good advice it was,” replied his dad.
The four of them then discussed Project LFD for a little longer. After consuming his treats and water Cyrus headed back upstairs to his room to re-engage his studies. Gil decided to go down to the basement gym. She’d taken a break from her training after all the Scotland action, her injury on Cyrus’s kidnapping night and the ensuing scramble to find him. JJ and Becky were still in the living room.
“JJ, this is super exciting for me. Thanks for the opportunity, I’m really looking forward to it. I can help my mum directly and then other people who are similarly afflicted. It’s very satisfying.”
“No problem Becky. You deserve it, and you’re all qualified now. No cooking the books mind,” he jested.
“JJ!” exclaimed Becky. “As if.” Becky got off the sofa and was heading downstairs for a snack.
“Before you go, Becky, have you got a minute?” asked JJ.
“Sure,” she replied, sitting back down.
“You know your bank account?”
“Of course,” replied Becky “There’s not much in it, with me being unemployed after the Treasury.”
“About that. There may be a little more in it now. So when you check you may want to transfer some to a savings account, maybe invest some, that kind of thing. I can advise on the investments if you like.”
“Explain, JJ, please?” asked Becky, somewhat confused.
“Well, I knew that if I tried to give you any money, you’d refuse. Didn’t want handouts and all that.” Becky nodded, and JJ continued. “So I had Victor hack your account and deposit some money in it. He created a sweet paper trail of legitimacy so that there would be no questions of money laundering and the like. I can give you details. Is that OK?”
“Is what bit of it OK, Mr Darke?” asked Becky standing, hands on hips and giving her new boss a stern look. “The bit that you’ve given me a handout that I didn’t ask for or the bit that you had Victor the safe cracker, yes I know about him, hack my account, or the false paper trail bit?”
“All the bits really,” said a visibly sheepish JJ. “C’mon Becky, go with the flow, please. You’ve got a good legitimate job now, no more handouts, hacking, anything, I promise. Regard it as payment for services rendered. No! Don’t…I could have phrased that better. I put you in danger, in Scotland, so call it danger money, anything. Please accept, it’ll be a real bind to unravel it now.”
Becky pondered for a few seconds not shifting her gaze from JJ. “Alright then, but never again and only because I don’t want you and Victor getting into trouble.”
“Great,” said JJ, feeling well relieved.
As Becky sat back down on the sofa to take this all in, JJ decided to quietly head for the door and downstairs.
Just before he exited, Becky called out, “By the way, JJ, how much is in my account?”
“Eh, well, let’s call it £3 million,” he replied and hotfooted it down to the kitchen. Becky was not far behind. JJ managed to placate her by explaining that everyone in JJ’s circle who had been involved in events in Korea, Scotland, London and the hunt for Neil Robson had earned healthy bonuses. Hers was nowhere near the highest. She calmed down on that news, thanked JJ profusely and went back to organising herself in preparation for project LFD. JJ also said that Becky was most welcome to stay with him, Cyrus and Gil for as long as she wanted. Neil Robson was still out there, though nobody knew where. Becky accepted but said that with her instant wealth she might consider buying an apartment in Pimlico.
JJ was satisfied with the day’s events. He was sitting on the small sofa in the front room, ground floor, next to the kitchen. He could see out onto Markham Square, nothing much was going on, thank goodness he thought. It was early evening now. He had a glass of Macallans with him and placed it on the small table at his left hand side. He decided to read through again the lease agreement for the new premises of Project LFD. It all seemed fairly straightforward. One section, however, had been highlighted by his solicitor who had thoroughly checked the terms and conditions. That’s interesting, thought JJ, making a mental note to contact his lawyer for clarification. He was in a twilight dreaming state now, going over all the action of recent months. Against all the odds things seemed to have worked out. His dad was recovering from his gunshot wounds on schedule, his son seemed to be bearing no psychological damage from his kidnap ordeal and Kwon had been rescued by Jim Bradbury’s team with the critical support of a highly skilled MI5 unit.
JJ was in the process of leaving his old life behind and embarking on a new venture, with friends, and one whose aim was on higher moral ground than finance. Babikov was locked up. Carolyn, who had been absolutely brilliant in Scotland, seemed to be settling into life with Commander O’Neill, in the sunny climes of Southern California. There were no FCA or any other type of charges hanging over his head or those of his friends. Sandra Hillington at MI5 and the former Home Secretary between them had taken care of all that. He was flush. All that excess cash that Victor had identified in the DPRK’s central bank vaults. Admittedly, Robson had stolen a chunk but the rest had either been paid out to those who had put their lives and reputations at risk or earmarked for charitable and human rights purposes. The country was functioning normally, and he could take a little credit for that. It was all good, but it wasn’t completely, locked down good.
There was one niggle, one omission, one itch that needed scratched. JJ had made a promise to his son. ‘On your mother’s love’ he had said to Cyrus. That was a promise that had to be kept.
14: CAVE NE RAPTOR
“My name is Iqbal Quintus Ahmed,” announced the 6ft plus black man, middle aged, with colourful attire and an embroidered kufi on his head. “I am the fifth Iqbal of my family. My friends call me IQ. They say ‘Hi IQ!’ I like that. I say thank you.”
“Well, Mr Ahmed, I am a police officer, not your friend. I am here to prevent crime, solve crime, support victims of crime. How can I help you today, with that in mind?” asked PC George Ramsbotham, a 5ft 8in extremely white Geordie, not yet interested enough to desist from his report filling.
“I come originally from a small group of Kenyan Muslims, only 11% of the population. You may think I am a terrorist. I am not. I am here to report a crime, maybe help solve one. I need to see a detective please.”
PC Ramsbotham looked at Iqbal. He couldn’t really be stuffed to check if there were any detectives around. Still, he didn’t want to have some racial discrimination accusation launched at him, so he thought he’d better pay attention.
“Can you give me any details of this crime, Mr Ahmed, before I go digging out a detective?” asked Ramsbotham.
Iqbal reached into his robes and pulled out a computer generated picture of a man’s face. “I know this man. He is a robber. He owes me money. He is late in his legitimate payment to me. I want justice,” proclaimed Iqbal, getting a little animated.
PC Ramsbotham had a look at the print out. He thought it might be a good idea to find out if any detectives were on duty. A few minutes later another white man, younger and taller than Ramsbotham, wearing a suit, appeared.
“Mr Ahmed, you say you know this man? How?” asked the detective.
“To whom am I speaking?” enquired Iqbal, politely and in clear English.
“I am Detective James Crockett,” said the suited man.
“From Miami Vice?” asked Iqbal enthusiastically. “You do not look like him. He was blonder, more hair, thinner, but that was a long time ago. You look well!”
“N
o, Mr Ahmed. I am not detective Crockett from Miami Vice. I’m from here, in Kingston upon Hull, where you are now. Can we get to the point please?” asked Detective Crockett, feeling that he was doing well in not arresting this clown for wasting police time.
“Certainly, Detective Crockett,” replied Iqbal, keen to impart his tale of misfortune.
Crockett listened, albeit reluctantly at first. The man in the picture had rented a lock-up garage from Iqbal. He paid in cash, no questions asked, three months in advance. Those three months were now over. His van was still in Iqbal’s garage. No sign of more cash. Iqbal had just come back from visiting his family in Kenya, on the coast, near Kipini. On his return, his son, Iqbal Sextus, had shown him the man’s face. It had been on the news, in the papers, on social media sites. The boy, a teenager, had recognised him as a man who had rented from his dad. Occasionally, Iqbal Sextus worked in his father’s makeshift office on the industrial estate, after school. “He is a bright, observant boy,” said Iqbal proudly.
“You say the van is still there, in your garage?” asked Detective Crockett.
“Yes Detective, it is. I did not want to break into it or drive it out and leave it by the roadside. That might be against the law and I am a most law abiding citizen of this United Kingdom,” replied Iqbal, glossing over the fact that cash transactions on garage rentals might not be to the liking of HMRC.
Detective Crockett looked again at the printed copy of the man’s face. Then he looked at Iqbal and then back to PC Ramsbotham.
“George, didn’t we have some dedicated numbers to ring if anyone spotted this guy?”
“Aye, we did Jimmy-lad,” George replied but drew a look from the detective which said more formality please. “I think there was one for Interpol and one for MI5 Detective Crockett, Sir,” added Ramsbotham suitably chastised.
“Ring the MI5 one George,” instructed Crockett. “Interpol’s full of foreigners, they wouldn’t understand a bleedin’ word you utter.”
Darke Mission Page 58