Darke Mission (51 page)

“Did you get it?” asked Toby with enthusiasm, and fully aware of what JJ's mission had been.

“Yes, Toby, we've got it.”

“How much? Does it look big and shiny? When can I see it? When can we sell it?” asked Toby firing in the questions like a Gatling gun.

“Whoa, slow down, Toby. If you come round to the house tonight, I'll take you for a gander. It's locked up in a secure van in a secure garage, walking distance from Markham Square. You can judge for yourself whether it's big and shiny enough. As for selling, ASAP would be the order of the day.”

“Good stuff,” said Toby, “I'll be around by 6pm. Can't wait.”

“By the way, Toby, I came across your limerick entry for last year's quiz, stuffed in my pants pocket. Jesus, it was hopeless!”

“Ooh, it wasn't that bad,” replied Toby in a feeble effort at a Scottish accent. “In any case, what was the answer to the currency question?”

“The New Zealand dollar,” informed JJ.

“The New Zealand fucking dollar!” exclaimed Toby. “What has that got to do with a Scottish dwarf opening a bleedin' door backwards, may I ask?”

“OK,” said JJ, “what's the nickname of the New Zealand dollar?”

“The Kiwi,” replied Toby.

“So, kind of backwards, that's wiki or wee key. Ta-dah!” exclaimed JJ enjoying revealing the answer almost as much as the pained look of disbelief on Fathead's face.

“Jesus Christ, JJ, I've said it before and I'll say it again, you've got one warped fucking mind, chief.” With that the two friends and colleagues headed back to the main trading floor. JJ enjoyed Toby's company and he felt much more at home, here in the land of flashing screens, general hubbub, sound-bites and perennial news loops than he did in the desolate streets of Pyongyang or in the vaults of its central bank.

It was 3pm and JJ was beginning to feel tired. So far today he had seen Neil Robson, Harold McFarlane, Tom Rogers, David Sutherland, Toby and Yves-Jacques. He was also going to meet Toby again in a few hours' time so he wanted to go home and see Cyrus and Gil. Despite not having taken all of his supplements and vitamins with him to Korea, his latest blood test results from the Marsden indicated a PSA reading of below 0.1. To all intents and purposes that meant that his cancer was undetectable. The proof of the pudding though would not be for another year or so. The prostate cancer cells may have been starved and burned but the best of the medical profession could not tell, for certain, whether they would stay dead once the hormone treatment stopped. It was entirely possible that the life destroyers were in a deep coma and that when JJ's testosterone started to recover, so would the cancer. JJ was still having the occasional unannounced hot sweat, and intense feelings of tiredness could also strike without warning. But there it was. He did, however, have Cyrus and that gave his heart the warmest of glows.

* * *

“Dad, is that you?” called out Cyrus on hearing the Chelsea blue door of his house close.

“Hi Cyrus, it's me. Where are you?”

“I'm in the living room. Just got the latest version of
Mario Kart
. It's brilliant. Really difficult. Some of the courses are in outer space, some are underground. There's new characters and new cars. Love it!” replied Cyrus.

“Do you want me to toast you at it?” asked JJ.

“Glad to see your expedition to foreign parts didn't kill your sense of humour, Dad. Let's play anyway. I'm going to be Metal Mario. You can be Princess Peach if you like!” said Cyrus laughing, because JJ would never be any of the girl characters in the games. He was from Glasgow, tough, hard, no androgyneity allowed.

“You're a cheeky monkey, young man,” said JJ, as he sat down next to Cyrus on the sofa, ready to play. He sat on Cyrus's left hand side and cosied up real close to his son. Cyrus was right handed but JJ was corriejukit as the Scots would say or sinistre in archaic Latin. This was ideal. They could be shoulder to shoulder and not impact the dexterity required for extreme
Mario Kart.
They played and they laughed and they laughed and they played. Father and son, enjoying their time together. It could not get better. In mid-game, Gil came in, having been out to get a few messages.

“Hi Gil!” said both JJ and Cyrus.

JJ put down his remote, stood up and gave Gil a hug. “Good to see you, thanks for looking after Cyrus and all the other stuff.”

“No problem. He's fun to be with,” replied Gil. “What are we going to do about the shadow?” she whispered as Cyrus was totally absorbed in his game.

“Is he still tracking the boy?” asked JJ.

“I haven't seen the black Merc for a day or two, so it's possible I was just a bit hyper-sensitive. I don't think so, though. We should keep our guard up,” replied Gil. “Did Korea go okay?”

“Broadly speaking. We got the gold. Ethel took a shot but she'll be fine. Toby's popping round in a wee while to look at the stash. I guess he needs to see what he's going to sell.”

“That Fathead,” said Gil, “better lock up your malt. He can consume more of that stuff than any known human should be able to.”

JJ retired defeated from the
Mario Kart
challenge with Cyrus. He stayed in the living room, on his comfortable chair, partly so that he could just be near his son, and partly to relax with him and Gil. Relaxation had been off the agenda for a while and it was going to be off it again in short shrift. Time to savour a few hours of quality down time.

“Hi JJ,” said Toby as JJ opened the door. “I'm not early am I?” he added, not really bothered whether he was or was not. He had bars and bars of the barbarous relic to touch and view. This was fun time. It was 5.55pm.

“No you're right on time,” said JJ, a small white lie, intended to allow Toby's clear joy to continue untethered.

“Let's go then,” said Fathead, already turning around to go back out. Jesus, thought JJ, Toby hadn't even asked for a Macallans nor had he started any banter with Cyrus. He sure was keen.

“Cyrus, Gil,” called out JJ. “I'm just popping out with Toby, won't be long.” Cyrus and Gil acknowledged JJ's cheerio and the Scot and the Englishman headed for Elystan Street and JJ's lockup.

“Holy fucking baloney!” exclaimed Toby on sight of six thousand bars of gold bullion. He was doing something that looked like the drunken sailor's jig – it wouldn't get him in
Riverdance,
that was for sure. He was laughing away, bent over half the time in between jigs, you would have thought it was his gold.

“I've never even thought about this much gold, JJ, let alone touched it. It's fucking unbelievable. How did you get it? No, don't tell me, it would probably take too long. Do we really need to sell it? Can't we just keep it and look at it every day?” continued Toby in his happy mood.

“We need to sell it Toby. Don't forget that shit face Robson and the FCA have us by the plums. This is our passport out of that hole my friend. What do you think?”

“I think it's big and shiny enough OK,” replied Toby.

“I had gathered that by your mad Irish jig, Fathead! I meant what do you think about selling it?”

On that question, Toby stopped jigging, laughing or displaying any further signs of merriment that were percolating through his veins.

“It's a lot of gold,” said Toby. “I'll need to check all my stuff in the office. Before I do, I'd guess there is too much of it to sell on the physical gold market in one go. I take it time is short?”

“Very short, Toby, maybe ten days max,” replied JJ.

“In that case we'd probably need several private placements. Gold bars come in various shapes and sizes. These 12.5kg ones are known as good delivery gold bars or good gold for short. This is to distinguish them from novelty gold bars or other sized ones of lesser purity. These are the most sought after by certain gold bugs. Gold investors come in all shapes and sizes too. Is there anywhere or anybody that I should not approach?” asked Toby.

“Don't call Korea, north or south and don't call anybody with a Korean sounding name,” said JJ.

“What about Kim Cattrall, the actress?” quipped Toby.

“Not her, and not Kim Philby either.”

“He's dead, JJ, I think,” responded Toby.

“He won't be wanting any gold bars then, Fathead. Get serious!” replied JJ, still smiling at his friend.

“I can't give you a definitive answer tonight, JJ. I'll spend tomorrow checking all my non-Korean gold contacts, check out the physical market and get back to you. Gold dropped $50/oz today, so do we have limits on the price when we sell?”

“Ideally US$1,800/oz would be the gold floor and 1.5000 the ceiling for the cable rate. You can juggle between the two but the target net sale proceeds should not be less than £3.5bn.”

Toby nodded and understood. With a final, admiring peek, Toby helped JJ lock up van and garage. The van was alarmed and locked and the garage had a sophisticated security system which went straight thought to a private security firm, which was less than four minutes' walk away. For now, JJ felt that the gold was safe.

The two amigos went back to JJ's to imbibe some decent malt. The Scot had not taken Gil's advice. Cyrus and Toby bantered away for a while. Gil gave Toby one of her disapproving looks and JJ simply enjoyed the happy social scene.

* * *

Neil Robson was back in Vladimir Babikov's casino office. He never really liked being there. He was vulnerable in that Mayfair establishment. He had to check any hardware he was carrying. He was always surrounded by and glowered at by the Russian's ex-FSB thugs. He never got offered the good vodka and he never knew when or if Babikov would lose patience and order his hands to be chopped off.

“Neil, my friend,” said Babikov as he entered through his own private door. “How are you? In good health I hope?”

“I'm fine Vladimir. Why do you want to see me at such short notice. My enhanced debt repayment to you is on schedule. You should have the £20 million plus within ten days,” spouted Robson, thinking it wise to give this villain the good news early on.

“No, no, it's not about that Neil. I trust you on the money. I am sure you will pay me as promised. It's in both our interests, no?” enquired Babikov smirking.

“Yes, Vladimir,” replied Robson knowing for sure that it was in his interests to keep all his body parts attached.

“Look, here it is. I have been asked, by a power greater than me, so you know it's a big power, to find something out. That something seems to be that a band of devilish lunatics have stolen an important piece of Russian military hardware. I do not know what it is, boat, plane, missile, it could be any of these or something else. The big power thinks it might involve the CIA, maybe Mossad, maybe MI6, who knows. And if it does not involve them directly then maybe they know something about it, or have heard some chatter. We need to know and I need you to find out. That's the bottom line, my friend.”

This fucking murderous Cossack must think I'm a prize winning idiot, thought Robson. ‘A big power', the only big power that could get this criminal's ass into gear is Russian intelligence, probably SVR.

“You know I'm no longer in MI5, Vladimir,” replied Robson. “I don't really have any contacts there anymore. I—”

“Who does the head of MI5 report to?” interrupted Babikov.

“Ultimately the Prime Minister, but it's the Home Secretary who really knows what's going on. The Director General of MI5 reports to him, or her in the case of the current government.”

“Then you need to get cosy with her, Neil, just to find out. There may be nothing but there may be something.”

“I rarely have direct contact with the Home Secretary, Vladimir, my—”

Robson was stopped in his tracks by Babikov rising and slamming his right palm on his desk.

“No excuses, Neil,” he yelled. “Find a way to have direct contact with her, use your boss the Chancellor, eyeball cabinet meeting minutes, shag her, do what it takes. I want a report within a week. Do you understand me?” said Babikov in a somewhat calmer tone, but with a clear threat implied.

“I'll do my best, Vladimir,” replied Robson, not sure that he could accomplish anything but very sure that if he ever had to have a confrontation with Babikov, right here, right now was not the place or time to have it.

“Excellent, Neil, excellent,” said Babikov in a much cheerier way. “Help yourself to some vodka,” he continued, pointing to the cheap stuff.

Neil Robson drove back to his house in St. George's Hill, not knowing whether to be happy or sad. He had seen off the problem known as Joel Gordon and he had put that woose Darke in his place at breakfast. The gold was in town and would shortly be in the form of useable readies for himself and the government. Now to spoil things that motherfucker Babikov had popped up needing information that may or may not exist from a source that he may or may not be able to get close to.
I've had enough of this shit
, thought the Financial Secretary to the Treasury. Life's about choices. He had made some good ones but mainly bad ones. Tonight he was in the frame of mind to choose the same path that Michael Corleone took in
The Godfather.
‘Settle all family business' the new Don had decided and on one day all the enemies of the Corleones met their doom. Fiction that may have been, but it was the right idea.

In a few short days, Robson would have skimmed off hundreds of millions of pounds from the gold haul brought back from North Korea. He could go anywhere in the world, live it up, have the time of his life. The only obstacles in his way were human; JJ Darke, Vladimir Babikov, those other two MAM hedgies, Naismith and Durand. He could get Babikov to grab the Darke kid and top his crippled nanny. JJ would then want to kill Babikov. That would probably signal the end of both of them. The fat fellow and the French dude could be sent some cupcakes, it didn't look like the trader refused anything to eat. Maybe it was fanciful, mused Robson, but unrealistic or not these sinister thoughts had cheered him up no end.