Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  * * *

  The next morning, Ethel and JJ were seated in a small room off the main HSU building at Belmarsh Prison. As the guards escorted the prisoner into the room before leaving, the convict’s garb reminded JJ of the first time he had set eyes on Victor Pagari. The jailbird sitting opposite him, however, deserved to be there and was older, fatter, uglier. The three chatted for a while. The prisoner seemed to have a sense of bravado to begin with but this slowly dissipated. He had been sentenced to thirty years inside, no parole and at sixty-five, was unlikely to see the light of day again in his miserable lawless life, bar the supervised exercise break in the prison yard each morning. Ethel offered him the chance of having fifteen years cut from his sentence and the possibility of parole. She had no authority to do this but the incarcerated one was foreign and he was looking at a serving policewoman and an ex-MI5 officer. He didn’t know any different.

  “Do we have a deal, Babikov?” asked JJ impassively.

  “Yes,” replied the Russian, feeling it wise not to add ‘my friend’ in response to this particular Scot’s question. JJ then handed Babikov a cell phone and he and Ethel sat there silently, preparing to absorb the half of the upcoming conversation they could hear.

  “You will have what you ask by this evening,” said Babikov, hanging up and returning the phone to JJ.

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Ethel as she and JJ rose to leave. This was a white lie, clearly being for the greater good that this criminal never again was released to the public domain. As it happened, fifteen years off of his sentence would have made no difference as the overweight semi-alcoholic had liver cirrhosis which would later develop into chronic liver failure and death before his seventieth birthday.

  JJ drove Ethel back to her station base in Mayfair and he thanked her for her help.

  “JJ, you’re obviously going back into some lion’s den. Do you need me to come with you?”

  JJ pondered and looked caringly at Ethel.

  “Ginger, you’ve done so much for me, had my back in North Korea, introduced me to Victor, and now this favour with Babikov. In return, I got you shot. I think you’ve done enough.”

  “You left out the part that you made me a multi-millionaire, JJ, that this facilitated my burning desire to have children and have them raised in a good environment, not to mention the best excitement I’ve ever had in the field!” exclaimed Ethel.

  “It’s OK, Ginger, you can stand down on this one. It’s personal. Gil and I will be the field team for this mission. I don’t want to put anyone else, especially my closest friends, in danger again.”

  “Alright. You better come back in one piece you stubborn Scot. My future kids will need a godfather, one that can shoot and protect them if necessary. You’re in the frame for that JJ Darke and I won’t accept any weaselling excuses. Got it?”

  “Yes Ginger, I’ve got it.”

  Just before JJ drove off, Ethel tapped his side window and JJ pressed the button to lower it.

  “Regarding your second favour, JJ. I should have the paperwork through by tonight. I’ll send it over to your house by courier.”

  “Great, thank you. Take care Ethel.”

  It took JJ about fifteen minutes to drive from Ethel’s police station to Markham Square. He was paying attention to the traffic but he knew the route well so he was simultaneously going over the plan in his mind. Becky and Cyrus would stay in the Chelsea house while Gil and JJ were away. JJ was confident that if Neil Robson was in Costa Rica then neither of the youngsters were in danger. However, just in case that evil bastard eluded them again he had arranged for one of the Project LFD Gurkhas to stand watch over them, day and night. If Babikov came through and Ethel’s paperwork arrived on schedule then everything would be set for Gil and him to travel to Costa Rica.

  Tomorrow was Toby’s funeral. That was a harrowing prospect, especially as Toby’s family had asked him to say a few words about his friend. Guilty as he still felt, JJ would man up and deliver the most sincere, heart-felt eulogy he could muster. Toby had earned that and the entire funeral congregation deserved to know what a quality man Fathead was. Once safely and respectfully in his final resting place, JJ would then seek to avenge his friend and keep his promise to his son.

  * * *

  Neil Robson was glad to be back in Costa Rica. After seeing to that uppity Scot’s best friend he had caught a regular BA flight from Heathrow to San Jose the next morning. He had managed to stay awake long enough to deflect any serious jet lag and his dose of Rat Catcher’s Yellows had now completely gone. He was back to his full energy. Later that day, he thought, he’d go to Grupo Mutual and deposit the money he had brought in with him on the flight. In total, he reckoned he would then have around US $6-7 million deposited there. It was a far cry from the hundreds of millions he had initially planned to siphon off from the money earmarked to keep Britain afloat, but with some common sense and a decent rate of interest he’d be comfortable for the rest of his life. Even with the measly 2% rate offered by Grupo Mutual on US$ deposits, he’d make $120,000-150,000 per annum, at a minimum. That would fund one whole lot of sex and a fair ration of drugs.

  Today, though, he’d take it easy before going to the bank. He might take a stroll around the Sabana Park, take a seat near the lake therein, and puff on a joint or two. This was the life.

  “Mr Nilsson! How nice to see you again, so soon,” exclaimed AVP Alfonso Barrichello, clearly well trained in the banker’s art of bonhomie and bullshit.

  “Senor Barrichello. How are you?” asked Robson.

  “I am fine, I am fine,” he espoused in decent English. “How can we help you today?”

  “Just a few more dollars to deposit,” replied Robson.

  “Excellent, excellent,” said Barrichello, clearly partial to his new deposit-boosting customer. “May I suggest that you consider some of Grupo Mutual’s investment services? You have large deposits here now, Mr Nilsson. The interest rate is quite low. Still no inflation!” he laughed.

  “I’ll consider it,” said Robson, keen to leave and return to the sun. The fugitive criminal had no real interest in investing with this bunch of backward amateurs.

  Grupo Mutual’s offices in Mata Redonda were just outside the south west corner of the park. Robson was feeling good so he thought he may walk to the Costa Rica Tennis Club near the south east corner, have some lunch and maybe even join the club. He could play a bit of tennis though he hadn’t done it regularly since university days. Still, his main interest was not in the quality of his tennis or that of any of the club’s members. He just assumed that there would be some hot tamale tarts there that he could shaft in the changing rooms. Robson’s day was good. Even if he had no pussy success at the tennis club, he’d meander his way back to his apartment and get ready for a night on the town. Armed with a wad of US dollars and a flash suit, sleazy success was guaranteed, a sure thing, a done deal.

  * * *

  JJ had received both courier deliveries he expected on the eve of Toby’s funeral. As anticipated the funeral was tough going but not as tough, by a long shot, as what Toby went through at the hands of Neil Robson.

  The following morning Gil and JJ made their way to Heathrow to catch a Voltea flight to San Jose. Although neither of them expected Neil Robson to be checking incoming flights to his hideaway, taking seats on a low cost Spanish airline would reduce the chances of their arrival being monitored.

  Losing MI5’s tail was easy. Gil left the house with kit bags over her shoulder looking, to all that cared to look, as if she was headed for a local gym or Pilates session. A few minutes later, JJ left the house, went down the west side of Markham Square, traversed the zebra crossing on the King’s Road and went into Marks & Spencer via the main door. Sandra Hillington’s tail got out of his car that was parked in the Square and followed JJ on foot, keeping the required distance behind to avoid being made. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for JJ, the Scot had already made him a few days earlier. JJ walked quickly through M
&S, ducking down the stairs to the menswear department and out the side door heading to the underground car park. He then walked briskly up to the outside ramp and into the waiting taxi containing Gil and gear. Tail lost, game on.

  The flight was a little late in landing at Aeropuerto Internacional Juan Santa Maria San Jose, but Gil and JJ still had plenty of daylight time to get to their hotel. They had booked connecting rooms at the four star Hotel Balmoral between 7th and 9th Streets. JJ liked the Scottish connection and while he was confident that Robson would be unlikely to have stayed in a hotel for the length of time the villain had been here, he was absolutely certain he would not stay anywhere that reminded him of Scotland.

  Once checked in, JJ and Gil had work to do. They would eat with each other but in one of their rooms. Neither wanted to be a victim of Murphy’s Law. How totally FUBAR would it be if they bumped into their target inadvertently and unprepared. Gil freshened up and went into JJ’s room via the connecting door. JJ already had his tablet open and working. Gil put hers down on the coffee table as JJ had commandeered the writing desk in the room. They were fairly sure that they were in the right city but that was about it. They needed more intel on Robson’s activities or whereabouts. They were waiting for Victor or Carolyn. Eating, drinking, waiting. There was no point wandering the streets asking ‘have you seen this man’ especially since this man was a master of disguise and probably wouldn’t look anything like his photograph or e-fit. JJ was waiting and hoping that the techno-whizz kid or his NGA daughter had one more choice piece of information to reveal.

  Young Pagari was not about to let them down. At 10.05pm local time, JJ received an email.

  Robert Nilsson deposited US$4 million at the Grupo Mutual’s bank in Mata Redonda, just outside the Sabana Park, yesterday morning. He used his Visa card at the Costa Rica Tennis Club later that afternoon. Victor.

  JJ replied to Victor and thanked him. Gil downloaded a map of Mata Redonda, which showed the park, the tennis club and the Grupo Mutual offices. JJ picked up his smartphone and speed dialled. A familiar voice answered.

  “Hi Princess, it’s Dad, can you speak?”

  “Sure, Dad, are you far away?”

  “I’m closer than you think. I’m in San Jose, Costa Rica. The co-ordinates are 9° 56ˈ latitude North and 84° 5ˈ longitude West. My particular interest is focused on the southern perimeter of Sabana National Park in the Mata Redonda district, bounded by the ring road to the west and a hospital, I think it’s the Hospital Nacional de Linos to the east. Any chance of a decent image from your eye in the sky?” asked JJ.

  “Well, there might be. The first thing you could do though would be text or email me all that information. My Korean’s better than my Spanish and on this connection you sound like Rab C. Nesbitt after one bevy too many.”

  “Sure Cally, will do,” replied her father, smiling at the memory of Rab C. Nesbitt being shown on English television channels yet needing English subtitles.

  “Am I looking for anything in particular?” asked Carolyn.

  “I’m tempted to say you’re looking for a man, Carolyn, but that wouldn’t be that helpful, I guess. I’ll include a description in my mail though his appearance may have altered. He’ll probably look like a tourist or at least not somebody obviously local. I’ll give you height and estimated weight if that’s any good. If you can send me the footage to my laptop, I’ll know what I’m looking for,” said JJ.

  “OK, Dad, I’ll get on it and keep you posted. Love you,” said Carolyn.

  “Love you too Princess and thanks.”

  “That could be something or nothing,” said Gil. “Do you really think we’ll be able to recognise Robson from satellite imagery even assuming he’s treading a similar path in the next few days?”

  “The corrosive stench of evil doesn’t evaporate just because you change your appearance. I’d smell that bastard from 200 yards and through my laptop screen,” he added, unrealistically but with feeling.

  JJ got himself and Gil a drink from the minibar, a white wine for Gil and a miniature bottle of a whiskey whose name he didn’t recognise for him. They needed a good night’s sleep to be alert and fit the next day so they would wind down now and retire after their nightcap. They had asked the Balmoral’s concierge to rent them a car for a few days, something like a Suzuki Grand Vitara which was popular in the area and had enough space for their gear. They would select a discreet surveillance spot on the route that Robson had been on the day before just in case he was a creature of habit or that JJ’s nasal powers weren’t as superhero as he thought. Gil was tasked with checking out some local premises. Then they could wait and watch, hope that Neil Robson unwittingly revealed himself, or that Victor uncovered even more precise intel, or that Carolyn’s imagery analysis was revealing. JJ knew they were close but there was no cigar, the fat lady hadn’t sung, and he knew it wasn’t all over. A good night’s sleep was going to be hard to come by.

  Gil slept well but JJ slept fitfully. They were both up and awake by 7.30am, dressed by 8am. Were it not for the fact that JJ was a Scottish man and Gil an Oriental American woman they looked like sartorial twins. JJ had on dark, olive green cargo pants, brown Gore-Tex boots, a black polo shirt and his MTM extreme watch, black case, black dial, orange hands and a ballistic Velcro strap. Gil had green combat pants and a black top, brown hiking boots and a G-shock Baby-G orange Casio on her left wrist. It was meant to be a warm day but they were in the middle of the rainy season and rain was forecast for the capital. They sat down to breakfast together, delivered on time by room service. JJ had scrambled eggs, toast and bacon that was so well done it was nearly black. Gil opted for more healthy fayre, smoked salmon, cream cheese and fresh fruit. They each had an orange juice and the coffee pot was steaming hot and most welcome. There wasn’t much conversation at this point. Gil asked JJ if he had received any more intel from Victor or Carolyn. No was the answer.

  After breakfast JJ and Gil checked their gear. Favour number two from Ethel was to provide JJ and Gil with official documentation that allowed them to stow their array of weapons on a scheduled flight from London to San Jose. JJ had taken his crossbow, Glock 19 and antique commando knife, a few flashbangs and some sticky foam. He also had a small plastic case, the subject of favour number one from Ethel and delivered via the criminal Babikov. Gil had her sniper’s rifle, her SIG Sauer P229 and a backup Smith & Wesson model 386 pistol. They both had high intensity binoculars, speedcuffs, duct tape, and first aid equipment. They were good to go.

  JJ and Gil went to the lobby of the Balmoral and collected the keys to their Grand Vitara, dark blue and in the hotel’s underground car park. It was left hand drive but this didn’t bother JJ who had driven many a left hooker in his racing days. They exited the car park and took the direct main route from their hotel to the southern perimeter of the Sabana National Park. It was a short journey. They parked up, hunkered down and began their day of surveillance.

  It was mid-morning now and the watchers had perceived nothing of interest. There were no messages or images from Victor or Carolyn. This is boring and unproductive thought Gil. At least if you had to watch paint dry, it might smell nice. JJ did smell OK right enough and Gil was sure she did too but the previous renters of their jeep must have enjoyed many garlic-ridden takeaways because the pungent odour had not been totally eradicated.

  “JJ, I’ll nip out and get us a coffee. Surprisingly, I spotted a Starbucks back there, a couple of minutes’ walk. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  “Sounds good, Gil. Double espresso macchiato extra dry if they do that here. Keep alert,” he replied.

  Gil exited the jeep, crossed the main road and headed down the side street where she thought that she had glimpsed the iconic green and white mermaid sign. She was right. Costa Rica had only four Starbucks outlets, with two more planned for the end of the year, and Gil had indeed eyeballed one of them. She ordered JJ’s requested drink and a tall latte for herself. She had a discreet scan around the café. No sign
of anyone that may look like a foreign fugitive. Gil thought that Neil Robson may not even know what she looked like, but she was taking no chances. One fleeting moment of lost concentration in a Boston suburb had cost her a good leg. That wasn’t happening again, for sure. Gil returned to the jeep without incident.

  “Anything?” she enquired of JJ.

  “Not a thing, Gil. We need some real time intel. I mean, what was I thinking? You could be at Sloane Square in London and I’d be a few hundred yards away at Markham Square, we’d never know each other was there. We’re not going to bump into the prick, this could turn out to be a fool’s errand with me as the prize plonker,” said JJ, venting his frustration. “Thanks for the coffee, Gil, it’s beezer,” he added.

  “No probs. Don’t get too down JJ. We’ve only been here a couple of hours. It’s unlikely that Robson is going to walk the same route at the same time every day. We need to be patient,” said Gil though knowing her friend well enough that patience wasn’t an ingrained characteristic.

  A couple more hours passed of nothing very much. It was close to lunchtime and the rain had started to fall making the visibility of nothing even more obscure. JJ had at least one hot sweat and needed to pee, which he did around the back of some blue wheelie bins at the rear of a Mexican restaurant. As with the North Korean mission, JJ had failed to bring the plethora of vitamins and supplements that were helping his battle with prostate cancer. He knew he wasn’t going to die of it right here, right now but the killer disease needed attention and JJ was a bit too preoccupied with pressing matters to give the cancer the respect and beating it warranted. Just as a deep, black cloud of health angst was about to settle in, JJ’s cell phone rang.

  “JJ, it’s Victor. He’s there now. Right this minute,” said the hugely excited voice at the other end of the phone.

  “What, Neil Robson? Where is he exactly?”

  “Robert Nilsson, Neil Robson. He’s using his Visa card right now at the tennis club. I was doing a routine hack, just to see if there was any more intel, and up popped a transaction in progress. I tell you it’s happening now!”