Darke Mission (63 page)

* * *

There are more than five hundred armed police officers in Scotland, under the command of Police Scotland. Their capability was beefed up in response to three events; the massacre of schoolchildren in Dunblane in 1996, the terrorist attack on Glasgow Airport in 2007 and the Whitehaven killing spree in 2010.

Angus Metcalfe was a young, rookie copper when he joined the first wave of police to attend the Glasgow Airport incident. As a terrorist attack it was plain rubbish. Two deranged towelhead loonies drove a green propane canister armed Cherokee jeep into the bollards at the main entrance. They broke some glass, damaged the jeep and then fell out of it, one of them ablaze. There was no explosion. Several members of the Scottish public appeared to go to help the injured Cherokee occupants. Appearances can be deceptive. Two of the public were actually giving the burning terrorist a good kicking. The Scots got burned for their efforts and needed to go to hospital for minor injuries. The ablaze terrorist eventually died from his burns and the other idiot got a minimum of thirty-two years inside. Angus Metcalfe learned a few things from that incident. One of them was that terrorists come in all shapes, sizes and disguises.

Before departing Glasgow with his six man unit in a new ARV, Metcalfe had been briefed by the local Rothesay police. They did not know the extent of damage or carnage inside the Darkes' property but they did know that the perpetrators were travelling in Mercedes cars, one of them a black M-class AMG 4x4. Metcalfe and his team were first off the ferry and onto Rothesay Pier. As they drove up to the only set of traffic lights on the island they had to pass the three lane vehicle queue waiting to board. Sergeant Metcalfe was in the front passenger seat with Constable Duncan Robertson driving.

“Hey Dunky, pull over and do a Uee, as if we're going back on.” Without questioning the order Dunky swung round.

“What's up, Sarge?” asked the police driver as he joined the nearside embarking queue.

“I think that's one of the Mercs that's led to us being here, Dunky. Tell the lads. Get tooled up and let's go see,” said Metcalfe pointing to Babikov's 4x4.

Two of Metcalfe's team stayed in the ARV. The Sergeant, Dunky and two other officers, quickly got out. They crouched down and weaved their way towards the rear end of Babikov's Merc. A startled ticket collector almost gave the game away but didn't. Two kids in the back of a camper van spotted the armed officers and got very excited. Their parents, however, could not see the police so told them to ‘wheesht' and wheesht they did for fear of a slap round their lugs. All four Scottish policemen had Glock 17 pistols and HK MP5 machine guns, weapons that Ethel Rogers would be well familiar with. They also had tasers and batons but, from the report of the action already occurred, a wee tap on the heid may not be what was called for.

Babikov and Boris should have been paying more attention to their six. However, Boris had noticed that the first line of the three to board the ferry had gone. The Russians were in line three, Boris started up the car, ready to go, both Russians' gaze firmly on the boat that would take them off this god-forsaken island. The armed police were now in situ, one at the rear end of the Merc, one at the front, with Metcalfe and Robertson crouched down under the driver's and passenger's side windows respectively. On Metcalfe's signal, they rose in sync.

“Hands on your heads and don't move a fuckin' muscle!” yelled Metcalfe pointing his machine gun at Boris's head. Robertson had his aimed straight at Babikov's bonce and the officer at the front of the vehicle was alternating his sight line between the heads of the two Russians.

Boris, for an instant, was tempted to run over the officer in front of his car. He thought better of it as he gauged that he would surely perish in a hail of deadly bullets. If he could have seen his future then he may well have opted for suicide by cop. As Babikov and Boris exited the Merc, hands up and offering no resistance, the four Americans pulled into the ferry queue in their VW Touran. They quickly assessed what was going on. Babikov and Boris were in speedcuffs and being led to the rear door of the ARV. Metcalfe and Robertson would commandeer the Merc and head out to the scene of the crime. They had already been informed that the shooting had stopped. Local police were on the premises and an air ambulance was setting down on the front lawn of the Darkes' house. It was easily spacious enough to land a helicopter.

“You guys stash your weapons. I'll get out and talk to the polis,” said Carolyn trying her best to sound Scottish. Carolyn walked up to Metcalfe. The police officer saw the somewhat dishevelled but intrinsically pretty woman headed his way. He was taking no chances. He turned to face her and pointed his MP5 straight at Carolyn.

“State yer business and don't come any closer,” he barked. Carolyn stopped, raised her hands above her head and spoke.

“My name is Carolyn Reynolds, I am a US Intelligence Officer. My credentials are in my jacket's inside pocket if you care to verify. The two men you have in your custody are part of a Russian Mafia gang who have shot my grandfather and wrecked his house on this island. The trio in the VW are two US Navy SEALs and well, er, I guess my wee brother's nanny. Don't ask about the last bit.”

Metcalfe looked directly into Carolyn's eyes, gun still pointing. She didn't appear to be lying but it was one wild tale. On the other hand in 2007 when he had first heard about two terrorists driving their jeep into Glasgow Airport he was a bit dubious about the veracity of that one.

“Dunky!” hollered Metcalfe. “Check the young wummin's inside jacket pocket.”

“Sure Sarge. It says she's an NGA Officer from America, Sarge,” noted Dunky scanning Carolyn's wallet. Angus Metcalfe had never heard of the NGA. He'd heard of the CIA and the FBI but not the NGA.

“What's the NGA?” he enquired of Carolyn.

“The National Geo-Spatial Agency,” she replied. “We're like spies of the skies, we look at satellite images, photographs, schematics, anything to do with dubious activities of America's enemies that we can get a picture of.”

“And do you find many of them, here in Rothesay, on a remote Scottish island?” he interrupted, as yet not convinced by Officer Reynolds' story.

Carolyn was getting bored with this line of questioning. She wanted to lower her hands, get back to see her dad and grandparents. She'd had enough chitty-chat with the Scottish police.

“Look, PC fuckin' plod. Do you think you could get a move on? You've got two dodgy Russians in custody. How often does that happen on a remote Scottish island? Anyway, there's about ten dead dodgy Russians littering my grandparents' premises. Maybe you and your plod mates could come along and inspect. What'd ya think?”

Jings
, thought Metcalfe,
this wee wummin has fair got a gob on her
. Still, there did seem to be some Russian connection going on.

“Awright, wind yer neck in, we'll all go to your grandparents' hoose. Ma team will take those two tae Glesga for processing. Me and Dunky here will drive the Merc. You can come with us. OK?”

“Yes,” replied Carolyn.

“Are yer friends in the van armed Ms Reynolds?” asked Metcalfe, somewhat belatedly.

“Yes, to the teeth. Would you like me to ask them to hand over their weapons to you, Sergeant?” replied Carolyn with a look of bare-faced cheek.

“Aye, that would be nice,” retorted Metcalfe, keen to calm everything down.

Carolyn returned to the VW and explained the situation to the trio. They were reluctant to hand over all their gear so they gave the Scottish police the hardware that they could not hide about their person. Maybe Sergeant Metcalfe should have had them frisked, but he didn't.

On returning to the house, the two Scottish police officers and the four Americans saw an air ambulance take off and a local ambulance drive past them in the opposite direction. The air ambulance was headed for The Royal Alexandra hospital near Paisley. It would be only a fifteen minute flight. Both Frances and Robert Darke were on board. Granddad Darke was in a bad way and needed an emergency operation. Despite Becky's excellent first aid efforts it was touch and go whether he would make it. Frances Darke was in a bad way too, but emotionally, not physically. The local road ambulance was headed for Rothesay hospital, where the broken-legged constable would get basic emergency treatment. He would recover fully and live long to tell his mates and family about the infamous shootout in Ascog.

“Holy Jeezus,” exclaimed Angus Metcalfe on entering the Darkes' grounds. “Ah've no seen this much damage since Celtic beat Rangers on penalties in the Scottish Cup final a while back.”

JJ came out of the house to greet the returning group. He introduced himself to the police, informing Metcalfe that he was a former MI5 Intelligence Officer. On discovering that Babikov and his thug were in police custody, JJ encouraged Sergeant Metcalfe to get in touch immediately with the top dog in Police Scotland. From there they should contact Sandra Hillington, Director General of MI5. The security forces would definitely want a chat with the chief dodgy Russian.

A few days later chat they did. Boris Akulov was quickly identified as a hapless soldier in Vladimir Babikov's employ with nothing much to tell. He was also an illegal immigrant and was swiftly shipped back to Mother Russia once he had spilled the little he knew about Babikov and his operations, both legal and illegal.

The Russian authorities did not really want Boris back. He was ex-FSB but he was an unstable deviant and brought only disrepute to Russia. He was sentenced, by a judge in a closed courtroom, to life imprisonment in Russia's notorious Black Dolphin prison camp. Penal Colony No. 6, to give the correctional facility its official name, was one of Russia's oldest prisons and close to the Kazakhstan border. It housed the worst of Russia and Boris was deemed to be in that category. Black Dolphin has seven hundred inmates all serving life, and nine hundred prison officers. The inmates were allowed to exercise for ninety minutes per day and fed chicken four times a day. It seemed impossible to escape and equally impossible for inmates to harm one another or themselves, the checks were so regular and so thorough. Still, where there's a will there's a way. Aided by one of the Federal Penitentiary Service guards, who had often been rejected by the FSB, a Chechnyan terrorist lifer did for Boris one day, stabbing him thirty-five times with a prison made chiv. The rejected guard spotted Boris on the floor of his cell, bleeding out and dying. He was not going to get help or raise the alarm. Too much paperwork, too many investigations, simply too much hassle.

Vladimir Babikov fared a whole lot better. He was transferred from Glasgow into MI5 custody at Thames House. Sandra Hillington assigned the service's two best interrogators, a ‘breaker' and an ‘investigator' to quiz the Russian. He broke easily and spilled his guts. MI5 now knew precisely the connection between the Russian and the former Financial Secretary to the Treasury, Neil Robson. Babikov also confessed to acts of torture, murder, prostitution, drugs and racketeering. He had a full house of crimes to his debit and was now wholly at the mercy of MI5 and the British justice system. His fate would be decided in a matter of months. He was a broken old man with no army, no family and no friends. Sympathy, however, was not high on anybody's agenda.

* * *

In Scotland, JJ, family and friends had gone about resurrecting his parents' house as best they could. The front gates were nigh permanently closed and two local police officers were placed on guard duty. The Darkes did not need protection from any outside force other than the posses of paparazzi that seemed intent on gathering information, photos and sound-bites from the folk therein. For any number of reasons it wasn't happening and, as far as JJ was concerned, that particular blight on society could wait outside freezin', starvin' and complainin' for as long as it took for them to get the ‘no comment' message.

Robert Darke was still in critical condition in the Alexandra Hospital. His wife was visiting but would probably catch the last ferry back to Bute. She could do little but await the doctor's assessment and she missed her home.
That boy of mine had better be fixing things up
she told herself. As it happens, JJ was lolling about on one of the very comfortable sofas in the living room. Fellow lollers were Cyrus, Gil, Carolyn and Mark O'Neill. David McCoy and Becky were in the kitchen preparing snacks. McCoy always fancied himself as a chef so he was giving it a go with cheese on toast, mini pizzas, a few burgers and other unhealthy fayre.

“So, Dad, how come I've a sister that I knew nothing about? Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I've got a ready-made big sister, who's pretty, looks like me and can shoot bad guys. Nevertheless, time to fess up methinks,” said the youngest Darke, smiling at Carolyn and taking an unexpected amount of pleasure from the very visible squirming of his father.

“It's a long story Cyrus,” replied JJ, not enjoying this passage of chat. “Sister from another mother, so to speak,” said JJ hoping to raise a smile or acknowledgement from his son. Nothing. He was still in the frame. JJ reluctantly felt compelled to give details, so he did. He was respectful about Carolyn's mother, told Cyrus that, when alive, his own mother knew all about it, which she did, and tried his level best to explain that the resulting divergent paths of separate lives led to a lack of information and communication. “Never the twain shall meet, kind of.”

“OK,” said Cyrus, “that wasn't bad. I'll have a think about it but I may come back with more questions, alright?”

“Alright,” confirmed JJ not entirely sure how he was feeling, apart from the onset of a hormone-induced hot flush, which felt crap.

“Hey new big sister,” exclaimed Cyrus to get Carolyn's attention and clearly buoyed by his recently honed interrogation skills. “Are you and the Commander here an item?”