Darke Mission (66 page)

“Thanks Becky.”

* * *

Neil Robson was also making plans. Considering that he was a wanted man, wanted indeed by the British police, Interpol and MI5, he had done remarkably well at avoiding their radar. His disguise was convincing. Beard, glasses and longer, unkempt hair helped. Only his closest acquaintances would recognise him. Also gone were the suits, shirt, tie and the polished leather shoes. These were replaced by jeans, a hoodie, trainers and an olive green parka. It was
The Big Issue
look and it made him more or less anonymous in this and most other areas of London.

On returning to London via Rotterdam, Hull and St. George's Hill he found a few freelance, ex-military mercenaries in need of work. It wasn't that difficult to find this genre in London especially if you had kept a file of all your old MI5 contacts, which Neil Robson had. Two of them had grabbed the Darke kid. Their job was done. Now he needed another two, this time with a slightly higher IQ to help carry out the final stages of his escape. Neil Robson had also been informed of the fate of Vladimir Babikov and his thugs. He couldn't help but smile. The mutilating murderer was locked up in a top security British gaol, had no money, no employees and most relevant to Robson, no ability to call in debts, basic or enhanced.

How ironic, he thought, that plonker Darke had got Babikov off of his back and now he was going to hand him £100 million to lubricate the lifestyle of a serious multi-millionaire. Every cloud has a silver lining. The Darke kid was a problem. If he let him go then the boy could give details as to his new appearance. If he killed him then the kid's father would hunt him down to the ends of the earth. Robson wasn't scared of JJ. He always thought the Scot was an analytical pussy. However, he did get all that gold out of North Korea and, somehow, he saw off Babikov and his ex-FSB thugs. It may be better to leave the kid alive but Robson decided that he would not make that call until £100 million was safely in his hands.

“Archie is that you? It's Neil,” said Robson, dialling his contact on his pay-as-you-go phone.

“Yes Neil, it's me,” replied Archie Newman, small time crook who made his living putting the right people in touch with each other.

“What have you got for me?” asked Robson.

“The best I could do on such short notice is Tim Hayworth and Jason Long. Tim is ex-SAS. Done a few security jobs. Decent bloke but finds it hard to settle into anything that seems like nine to five. He's solid, doesn't drink or do drugs. Quite smart but no genius.”

“OK, and the other guy?” asked Robson.

“Jason is an ex-paratrooper. Saw action in the Gulf. Recovered from PTSD and needs cash. He's smart. Doesn't want to kill anybody but is happy to be a delivery boy,” replied Newman.

“Do they know who I am?” asked Robson.

“No. I told them you needed to collect some items and that they would be required to drive a van. Told them you were known simply as Robbo and that you were reliable as far as payment went.”

“Good job, Archie. I'll leave your fee in the usual spot. Text me their numbers and tell them I'll be in touch no later than tomorrow.”

Neil Robson had come across Archie Newman many years earlier. Essentially he was an MI5 snitch. The secret service did not have much interest in most of Archie's shenanigans but, occasionally, some wannabe terrorist lone wolf would ask to be put in touch with some other low-life, bomb-maker, lawless cleric, the usual suspects. Neil Robson was Archie's handler. In return for information on the low life terrorists, Robson turned a blind eye to Archie's other activities. He also paid Archie for good information. Their relationship was casual but it worked.

Satisfied with the cohorts Archie had supplied, Robson checked in on Cyrus, apparently sleeping, still tied to the bed. He returned to the living room and switched on his laptop, not
The Sound of Music
one, but the knock-off he had picked up in a local pub. However you sliced it, £100 million weighed a lot. Robson knew that Archie could easily supply a Ford transit van with an appropriate payload capacity. Robson emailed Newman as to his new requirements. The van needed one of those rushed overnight paint jobs and a couple of enhancements. Newman was on it. Hayworth and Long would supervise it. It would be done by breakfast the next day.

Neil Robson was mulling over his plan. The problem with most drop offs is that the location needed to be known by the dropper and the collector. This gives the dropper plenty of time to stakeout the location and catch red-handed the collector. If a transfer, let's say kid for money, is involved then once the kid is safe the collector will likely be followed by well-placed lookouts or these days, follow some GPS tracker attached to or hidden in the money or its transporter. Robson knew these traps needed to be avoided.

“Hello?” said JJ, answering his smartphone.

“It's me,” said Robson. “Have you got the money?”

“Yes. How's Cyrus?”

“Your kid's fine, now shut up and listen. Given the amount, I assume you've got it in a van. You can speak.”

“Yes,” said JJ.

“OK. First, I want you to package the notes in forty-eight to fifty separate parcels so that they are not visible to any snoops. Separate the packages by currency. Circle for pound, square for euros, star for dollars on the top. Thick brown paper will do or something like that. Secondly, I want you to drive the van yourself, no accomplices, to 353 Regis Road in Camden. You need to arrive by 9am. If you're late the deal's off and it's bye-bye boy. Park the van, get out and walk away. I'll be able to see you so no stupidity on your part. Once I've checked the cash I'll give you your son's location. If I detect anything then it's… you know the score jockstrap.”

JJ immediately hated this plan. If Cyrus was being held in Battersea then at 9am or later in the morning it would take at least thirty minutes to get there from Camden. Robson had proved skilful at avoiding detection and capture so far. There was no reason to expect that he'd suddenly become easy to spot. Robson would have the money and JJ would not have Cyrus contemporaneously, or at all.

“I want Cyrus to be dropped off once I've left the van, so that I know he's OK,” insisted JJ.

“I want to be in the Caribbean fuckwit! We don't always get what we want. This is a one track plan, asshole, no options, no deviations, no augmentations or deletions. My way or the bye-way for your kid. Got it?”

“I've got it Robson, don't hurt him please,” pleaded JJ.

“I quite like you begging Darke, can't really remember you doing it before. Do as you're told and you'll see your kid,” said Robson and then he hung up.

JJ half slumped onto his chair in the living room. He felt sick. ‘You'll see your kid' did not necessarily mean that he would be alive when seen. Robson was a slimy, untrustworthy toad who wanted revenge. Gil spotted JJ slumped with head in his hands. She appeared bearing a double Macallans with some Canada Dry.

“Robson?” she asked. JJ looked up, saw his friend's face and a welcome drink in her hand.

“Yes,” he replied, downing some of the whisky. “He's got it all worked out Gil. We're to drop the money off in Camden and once he's got it he'll let us know Cyrus's whereabouts. Robson's bound to be alert to any tracker we could put on the delivery. Other than completely going along with it. I haven't a clue what to do.”

“Something brilliant will enter that head of yours JJ, it usually does,” said Gil. “I was once told to get my, and I quote, ‘big brain into gear'. It didn't do me much good. I got a gammy leg out of it, but it's the thought that counts!”

JJ made a decent effort at a small chuckle. He knew Gil was right. If he was indeed smarter than Neil Robson this sure was the time to prove it. The stakes could not be higher. Time to engage thought JJ, recovering some mental composure and physical strength. He got up off his chair and walked over to Ethel and Victor.

“Any luck guys?” asked JJ, not expecting a particularly positive answer.

“Some,” said Ethel. “Victor's done some fancy computer graphics. On the screen here we can see a kite shaped vista which encompasses the most likely spots in Battersea from which you could spot the power station's chimneys. It is anchored on Ascalon Street. Victor reckons that Cyrus's location has an 87% probability of being within the kite. Gil and I have been trawling Zoopla, Rightmove and all the main letting websites for top floor apartments or lofts that have recently been on the market or let for short periods. There's barely a handful and only three within Victor's kite perimeter. That's kind of the good news. The bad news is that we can't quiz the three letting agents until tomorrow morning at 9 or 10 when they open up.”

“I need to be in Camden by 9am tomorrow,” revealed JJ. “With a bag full of money, suitably packaged. We might all need to get in on that act within a couple of hours. Victor, is 353 Regis Road anywhere interesting?”

The young safe cracker and now code breaker did his usual digit flash dance across the laptop's keyboard. “Depends what you deem to be interesting, JJ. It's a UPS deposit and distribution terminal.”

* * *

The three men sitting away from the main window of Café 43 in Pratt Street did not appear anything special nor did they know each other well. Archie Newman, a grey-haired sixty-four year old, sat with his back to the door. The other two, younger men, probably in their thirties, would never do that. They were trained to protect their six and the main door of the café was the only visible point of entry and exit. Tim Hayworth, about 5ft 9in, stocky with short brown hair and blue eyes, spoke first.

“Archie, are you sure this Robbo guy is good for it? I mean £10k each to do a bit of unloading and loading then drive a van seems well generous.”

“He's good for it Tim. I've known him for twenty years or thereabouts. Never reneged on a deal yet.”

Jason Long hadn't said much up to this point. He was about the same height as Hayworth but looked a little taller with his longer gelled-up hair. He was slim but well-defined. “Do we need to be carrying Archie? I don't want to be in a firefight at all but if we are I'd rather know in advance?”

“Robbo says no guns required. If you feel better packing then take something but the expectation is that you won't need it,” replied Archie. “Look guys, you've got work to do. The transit van has been delivered to Bert's Garage, just down the road from here. They've got the paint and equipment and a couple of guys to help you with the spraying. I've given them a wedge and they're happy. Don't talk about the job, they know nothing and it's better kept that way. Archie continued, pointing to a suit-bag. “In here are the decals you need and a diagram as to where to position them on the van. I advise you two to put these on yourselves, let the Bert's Garage guys go before you start. The less they can guess the better.”

“Fine,” said Jason Long. Tim Hayworth nodded his agreement.

Archie acknowledged their understanding and said, “Robbo's also enclosed in this envelope, precise instructions as to what to do and where to go once your van is loaded. Follow them to the letter. If any deviation leads to the plan going tits up he'll come after you. You guys may not think that's much to worry about with all your military nounce and whatever, but let me assure you that you do not want to cross this guy. Don't mistake his generosity for softness. He's a hard-assed killer and you would not see him coming.”

Long and Hayworth looked at each other and just shrugged. They did not have sufficient knowledge about Robbo to know whether or not they should care that he was a hard-assed killer as described by Archie. They had been trained killers too. Still, why risk the hassle. They were being well paid for a driver's job and one during which guns were not expected to be in play.

The three men left Café 43 and went about their business.

* * *

At the same time, JJ, Becky and Gil were in JJ's lock-up in Elystan Street. After obtaining suitable wrapping paper, string and Sellotape the three of them were in the back of the Mercedes Sprinter van, wrapping and taping the money. Ethel and Victor had remained in JJ's house, trying to narrow down even further possible locations for Cyrus. It was going to prove to be a forlorn task, they would need to await the opening of the target estate agents the following morning. By midnight the van was packed and ready. Nearly fifty parcels of equal amounts totalling £100 million equivalent in pounds, euros and US dollars.

“OK guys,” said JJ. “We're done. Thank you. Let's go back and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is a big day and we all need to be alert.”

JJ knew that he would hardly sleep a wink. He had Cyrus on his mind. All the good times they had together. The games, the banter, the joy of seeing him become a decent young man. The agonising pain when he had to tell him that Mum had died. Cyrus had been fantastic in Scotland. Brave, alert, unfazed. He was the best boy in the world and his father sorely needed him back alive.

* * *

The UPS facility in Kentish Town, Camden was a massive glass structure. There were the obligatory trees dotted around the place to make it look a lot less industrial, but industrial it was. There was a customer car park, already filling up at 8am on this wet Monday morning. Opening hours were 8 till 8 and Monday was the busiest day for the delivery vans, all those folk with nothing better to do at the weekend but order stuff on Amazon or arrange unwanted items to be shipped back. Neil Robson knew all of this. He was already in situ, across the street and hunkered down in a black Fiat 500 that he had rented at the weekend.

When Robson left Battersea young Cyrus Darke was still alive. He was tired, drained, bruised and no doubt hungry and thirsty, but he was alive. He was tied up and taped up and if he needed the loo, then tough shit, literally and metaphorically. Whether or not he stayed alive was now down to his father, the delivery man. No money, no boy would seem to be the order of things. The fugitive was parked up in a line of cars in the narrow street opposite the main UPS building. He could see clearly the entry and exit of the UPS vans. There was nothing about his little car or him that would attract any attention.