Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  “What will I say?” asked the PC.

  “Say we may have had a sighting of Neil Robson and we may have his van, George. That should be enough to get some high-falutin’ London spooks up here quick smart. Iqbal, you and I are going to take a look at your garage. OK?”

  “Yes detective. Let us go now. The sooner the better. Time may be money but so is space. Is there a reward?” asked IQ.

  Detective Crockett had a small shake of the head, not to indicate no for indeed there was a reward, but to indicate that the man from Kenya was one fine piece of work.

  * * *

  “Hi JJ, it’s Sandra,” said the Director General of MI5.

  “Hi Sandra, how are you? It’s been a while,” replied JJ from his new work premises in Grosvenor Place, London.

  “As you can imagine, we’ve been busy on a few matters. JJ, it’s just an FYI. We got a call this morning from a PC stationed at Humberside Police Station. Apparently some fellow just waltzed into the station and claimed he had rented a lock-up garage to Neil Robson. I’ve sent two officers up there to investigate. There’s a local detective called Crockett on the case. He says there is indeed a van inside this fellow’s garage. I told him to touch nothing till my team got there. I’ll let you know if there’s anything to it.”

  “Thanks Sandra. I’d appreciate that,” said JJ and they both hung up.

  JJ had tried to get Neil Robson out of his head, but he couldn’t. The slimy weasel who had kidnapped his son was still out there, somewhere, no doubt enjoying the spoils of his crimes. It wasn’t right and he had made that promise to Cyrus.

  JJ spent the rest of the morning working on Project LFD. Becky and Gil were beavering away too, checking databases, sources, any information they could find on their twin task mission. Between charity work and rescue work they were likely to be kept fully occupied and inundated for help. Project LFD seemed like a worthy cause but it was going to be more intense and time consuming than sitting watching green and red flashing asset prices on his computers at MAM or his BlackBerry and tablet at home. JJ’s phone rang.

  “Hi, it’s me again,” said Sandra Hillington.

  “Hi Sandra. Any news?”

  “Yes. The fellow, who has some exotic name, Iqbal Quintus Ahmed, was right. We got several sets of prints off the van and one of them is Robson’s. On top of that, JJ, the van is packed with hard currency, pounds, dollars, euros. My guys estimate that there’s maybe £80-90 million equivalent stashed in there.”

  “What’s your plan Sandra?” asked JJ more than a little interested.

  “Well, some of it is deductive reasoning and inference and some of it is pure instinct. The van’s in a lock-up on the industrial estate near the port. Boats from the port go to more than one destination. Since we know that when Robson first left London he flew to Amsterdam, our first port of call, no pun intended, would be Rotterdam. Somehow, he must be getting back into the country, taking another chunk of cash and then leaving. Security at these ports is pathetic. False papers, a decent disguise and an alert mind would likely get you past any checks.”

  “Well Robson’s sure got an alert mind. It might be devious, evil and fucked up, but it’s alert alright.”

  “Anyway,” resumed Sandra, “my plan is to stake out the garage. Apparently, Iqbal, the garage owner was hopping up and down because Robson was a few weeks late on his cash rental payment. That’s why he went to the police, clutching a print out or something of Neil Robson’s e-fit face that his son recognised. It was a piece of luck and we’re grateful for it. Something must have delayed Robson, but he’s not going to leave that amount of money just lying there forever. He’ll know he’s behind in his rental payment and will need to try to fix that. It’s a cash arrangement so he might turn up in person eventually. I’ll have a team of two keep the garage under surveillance, day and night for as long as it takes.”

  “That sounds like a plan Sandra,” said JJ. “Anything I can do?”

  “No, JJ, just sit tight but thanks. I know you’ve got a score to settle but let’s try to get the fugitive first.”

  “Sure, Sandra, thanks. Keep me in touch,” responded JJ and their call ended.

  JJ reclined in his favourite leather chair that had been transported from his MAM office and put his feet up on the desk. Sandra’s plan was logical enough he thought. The Hull to Rotterdam route made sense and the estimate of £80-90 million still in the van meant that Robson already had £10m or more with him. He wasn’t broke but he was a greedy fucker and would want the rest of his illegal stash.

  JJ concluded that he would stay out of it, for now, hoping that MI5 were on point.

  * * *

  Neil Robson was feeling like crap. He was flat out in his expensive wicker bed, penthouse apartment in San Jose, capital of Costa Rica.

  When some folk go into hiding they tend to opt for the most remote village, well off the beaten track. That is not a good strategy. Strangers, foreign strangers, in particular, stand out like sore thumbs. Gossip ensues and the tittle-tattle eventually finds the willing ears of some intrepid nosey parker who wants to snoop around, find something out and report it for a reward, usually either from the legitimate law enforcement agencies or a local gangster. In the middle of this city, population of over 300,000, an anonymous foreigner did not attract any attention.

  Robson rented his spacious apartment in the Mata Redonda district and had a fine view over the Sabana Metropolitan Park. He had changed his appearance yet again, now less Nick Nolte in Down and Out in Beverly Hills and more Anthony Hopkins at the tail end of Silence of the Lambs. His hair was buzz cut and a stylish goatee had replaced the previous full beard. If he had to talk to anyone and they asked what he did he said he was a travel writer preparing an extensive insight into Costa Rica and San Jose in particular. That way no one would question his apparent lack of daytime employment or his lazing around the local cafés and restaurants, or dives and clubs in the night.

  He banked with the Grupo Mutual. They didn’t ask too many questions as to his extremely large deposits of US dollars. He had a reference from the realtors he had rented from, for a fee of course, ID and a passport that seemed in good order. He explained that he had come into an inheritance but that he was a travelling man and did not like to bank in places that he was not expecting to be resident in for long. He expected to be in Costa Rica for quite some time. Sizeable deposits are hard to come by thought the Assistant Vice President of Grupo Mutual so he was happy to accept those of this Robert Nilsson.

  You can take the man away from his usual dens of iniquity but you cannot take the iniquities away from the man. Robert Nilsson could have been feeling rough because of some drug overdose or a variety of STDs from the local senoritas, whose fee-paying company he had often enjoyed since arriving in this fair city. Miraculously, he wasn’t. The vice-loving criminal was out for the count, drained, too weak to move very far because he had a dose of Leptospirosis. This disease has a variety of nicknames of which Rat Catcher’s Yellows is perhaps the most vibrant. It is a common disease in many parts, including Costa Rica and is often contracted by humans after inadvertently coming into contact with water contaminated from animal urine.

  At first, Robson thought he had the flu; he felt feverish and had a splitting headache. Vomiting and an unusually dark brown colour to his pee led the local physician to conclude it was Rat Catcher’s Yellows. He was correct. Robson was prescribed the appropriate antibiotics and his condition had been caught early enough to prevent any of the more serious results like kidney or liver failure. However, it had laid him low for the best part of two weeks and he still did not feel up to walking around let alone getting on a long haul plane journey. As he lay there in his misery, he knew he had missed the flight he had booked about ten or so days ago, he knew he was late with the cash rental payments on his Hull lockup and he knew he’d better get on that as soon as he physically could.

  * * *

  “Jace, how long have we been on this gig?” asked Wins
ton Gregory, weary from the grind of surveillance.

  “About eight days and nights now, Winston,” replied Jason Harper. “It’s not glamorous, that’s for sure, but the high heid yin said we’re on it for as long as it takes.”

  “I’m fuckin’ bored!” complained Winston from inside their Mazda CX-5, packed to the gunnels with electronic equipment and night sights. “All we’ve seen is rain, trucks, a few sad locals and a randy couple getting at it in a shed. It’s not illuminating and it’s not why I joined MI5.”

  Admittedly, the Marfleet Lane Industrial Estate, Burma Drive, Hull was not the most glamorous and exciting location. It was full of sheds, lock-ups, warehouses and other industrial units. It was less than half a mile from the port where the Rotterdam ferry would dock so an easy drive, or indeed walk for anyone who wanted to make that journey.

  Winston Gregory was in his early thirties, skin black as the dead of night and had been in MI5 for six years. He was 6ft tall and of mid-level seniority in the service. Jason Harper was younger, shorter with pasty white skin. He had been in MI5 for four years, one as an analyst and the balance as a field officer.

  “I agree Winny,” said Jace. “It’s not up to much but rumour has it that if we capture this Robson fellow it will be 5’s best result for quite some time.”

  “I’m not sure I care anymore Jace. It’s dark, miserable, wet and freezin’ up here. This is a pokey tin van for my 6ft frame, you and all this fuckin’ gear just to survey a pigeon. That fuckin’ guy is never coming back here,” declared Winston. “I’m off for a pee. I’m going to do some urine target practice on that bunch of pigeons over there. See how they like being pissed on from a great height.”

  “Don’t miss big fella,” said Jason, keeping his eye on the screens inside and well away from his partner’s urinating dong.

  At the far end of this particular line of industrial units, north, north-east and a few hundred yards from the scattering pigeons there was a shadow looking on. Partly hidden by the substantial hood on his dark green parka and partly by the vertical edge of one of the temporary structures the shadow was surveying the surveyors, through his night vision monocular. Standards must have dropped, thought Neil Robson, since his time in MI5. This was Hull and an industrial estate, not Knightsbridge or a heaving square in Covent Garden. Two guys in suits in a 4x4 whose make is often deployed by the intelligence services. Give me a break. If I had a weapon on me, thought Robson, I’d shoot that black bastard’s johnson clean off. Fortunately for Winston Gregory, Robson did not have any means of mutilation on him so the now relieved MI5 officer could carry on moaning.

  It was, nevertheless, well up shit creek thought Robson on spotting the 4x4 and besuited occupants. He was feeling shattered after his flight and overnight ferry ride, not having fully recovered his pre-Rat Catcher’s Yellows energy. Now it looks like those MI5 morons have twigged his lock-up garage. No chance of getting the rest of his millions now he concluded. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he muttered angrily to himself. Nothing for it but he’d need to head to London and collect at least one of the parcels he had placed in the good care of Royal Mail Keepsafe. He’d catch a train to King’s Cross, rent a car and then proceed to Clapham Post Office where €2 million in readies awaited him. If that went smoothly he might pick up the second parcel deposited for him by the sham UPS twosome, now dead, at the main Post Office in Chelsea. He’d mull it over on the train.

  Neil Robson had a lot to think about on the train and around two and a half hours to do it. He was still on antibiotics for his Leptospirosis and he did not feel properly recovered. He looked OK, having acquired a light tan in San Jose. He had donned his thick-rimmed black plastic glasses again so, with the tan, the new haircut and the goatee he was not recognisable as the fugitive former Financial Secretary to the Treasury. As the train whooshed along, down the tracks to the nation’s capital, Neil Robson felt an aura of injustice descend upon his inner thoughts. He wasn’t badly off, he had a few million in Grupo Mutual, he liked the ambience of Costa Rica, especially that inside a tight senorita or drug house. What was he going to do, however, when that ran out? Eight or ten million dollars was a tidy sum alright but it was not enough to fund the lifestyle that he wanted, nay craved, for the next thirty to forty years. At each and every turn he had been thwarted by that Jock bastard JJ Darke. He could have had him locked up on his insider trading gaffe, but no he gives the fuckin’ heathen a great idea to relieve that despot Kim Jong-un of his gold. Save the country and make me four or five hundred million, that was the fuckin’ plan, a plan that had been unceremoniously flushed down the toilet.

  He had let Darke Jnr live, quite nice of him he thought but, no, the daddy jockstrap couldn’t leave it there. Now the van with £90m in it had been found. Neil Robson felt that he’d soon be on his uppers and it was the fault of one JJ Darke. That prick needed a lesson, a message, a final reminder to stay out of his business. In the midst of all this scheming and plotting, Neil Robson fell asleep on the Hull to King’s Cross train with a grimace of evil intent stretched across his lightly tanned face.

  Neil Robson had just caught the last London bound train from Hull. It didn’t get into King’s Cross until 9pm so he took a taxi to the Wyndham Grand Hotel in Chelsea Harbour and booked in under the name Robert Nilsson. It was a modern hotel, nice view over a small harbour and much favoured by away teams scheduled to play Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on the weekend. He had stayed there before, in his previous life, and had sat close to the crooner Lionel Richie at breakfast. Seemed like a nice bloke, but rubbish slushy songs. The one where he didn’t know who he was looking for was especially gooey. I mean, don’t you fuckin’ know who you’re looking for you ignorant foreigner. Wake up you tosser, thought the fugitive, clearly never having seen the accompanying music video.

  Robson had a late night snack in his room on the fourth floor and was contemplating phoning for the services of a nearby hooker. After some thought he decided that a bit of DIY would be more efficient and cheaper. He was tired anyway and needed to have a clear mind in the morning.

  He was impressed by the Royal Mail Keepsafe service. At a Post Office of your choice they would hold on to a parcel for you for sixty-six days. Robson guessed that he may be away from London for longer than that so paid extra for an extension. The Clapham Post Office had one parcel of around £2m equivalent in euros. He would get up in the morning, have breakfast, hopefully nowhere near any visiting singer, ask the concierge to acquire a rental car for him and then drive to get his parcel. Once cashed and geared-up he’d decide on his next move and escape route back to Costa Rica.

  * * *

  While the fugitive Neil Robson was settling down for the night, Toby Naismith was leading Yves-Jacques astray, well as astray as the young French analyst would allow. They were downstairs in the bar at Nobu, still Fathead’s favourite night time haunt, along with Toby’s broker friends, Jay and Kai.

  “Tobester!” exclaimed Kai, spraying the atmosphere with only a few morsels of canapé. “What’s your new boss like? Is he better than JJ?”

  “Nobody’s better than JJ,” replied Toby. “The new guy’s OK. He came from Goldman Sachs so he’s all full of vim and vigour. Wants to stamp his own ways and personality on things, that kind of stuff. He’s from the east coast of America and has an unhealthy work ethic. He gets in before I do, has lunch at his desk and leaves after me. He clearly has no life though he claims to have a wife and daughter.”

  “How about you Yvester? You think the same?” continued Kai with his interrogation-lite.

  “He seems fine,” replied Yves-Jacques, not at all impressed by Kai’s habit of adding –ster to everything and everybody. “JJ was a one off, I feel. Working for him was very exciting, different, frankly off the wall on occasion and always out of the box. The new guy’s more mainstream. He seems solid and knows what he’s talking about. He’d be unlikely to ask me about the Noman Tebbit test though,” reminisced Yves-Jacques.

  “What’s the Norma
n Tebbit test, Yvester?” asked Kai.

  “Too complex to explain Kai-ster,” responded Yves-Jacques with a grin, “and it’s too noisy in here for me to go through it,” he added, before sitting back in his chair and hoping that the night would end soon so that he could go home for a decent sleep.

  The four friends and acquaintances departed Nobu before midnight and headed home. Unsurprisingly, Toby was perhaps the worst for wear and he just about managed to hail a cab on Berkeley Street to take him back to his Islington pad. He had enjoyed the evening but as so often happens after a few too many and being reminded of a sad event, Fathead was feeling increasingly maudlin. He really missed JJ. The new guy was OK, Toby acknowledged that, but he was straight from that Yale/Harvard Business School production line so embraced by US investment banks. No Greek bond fun was likely under his regime, no clandestine gold fun and definitely no Christmas FX quiz and limerick challenge. Jeesuz, he even told me to tuck my shirt in my pants! There was no option, Toby decided, he would text JJ. They needed to meet up, have a Macallans, banter with Cyrus and maybe a little non-salacious ogle at Gil. As Toby flopped semi-conscious onto his sofa the cloud of ordinary that had descended upon him began to lift, his moderately chubby fingers pressing away on his smartphone. The spelling may not be that great he thought but JJ would get the message.

  JJ got the message but not until the following morning when he was back in Project LFD’s offices and had turned on his smartphone. The text was incomprehensible even allowing for text-speak abbreviations and mis-hit keys. JJ knew it was from Toby and two of the few correctly spelled words were ‘Macallans’ and ‘meet’. The rest could be deduced. JJ missed Toby too. His joie de vivre was infectious. The Scot would never forget Fathead’s drunken sailor jig in his lock-up at the sight of a van full of stolen gold bullion bars, nor would he forget the irregular limerick that amused him on his flight back from Seoul. Toby was a one-off. A man with no recognisable style bar the one that he made his own. An old school trader but one that was at the pinnacle of his game. JJ was so glad that Toby had not taken any flak from the insider trading issue and was heartfelt pleased that a few of the Korean millions had found their way to the Fathead fun fund. With a broad grin on his face, JJ replied to Toby’s text, inviting him round to dinner that night, promising rare Macallans and the occasional portion of food.