Darke Mission (69 page)

“I'm still going to miss you though,” was all that Toby could say, feeling even more emotional about the whole chebang.

“I've spoken with David Sutherland, of course,” said JJ. “He values you highly and so do I. Whoever replaces me will be made crystal clear aware of that. Don't worry, your job's safe – as long as you don't drop a packet! How's Yves-Jacques taking the news?”

“He's cool with it. He loves his job here. The special bonus you gave both of us means we don't have to work, ever, but I still love the buzz of the markets, trying to make profitable sense from market chaos, all that jazz. Yves-Jacques loves the mental challenge, the odd belief he has that you can model everything or at least give it some mathematical order. First foreign bloke I've ever liked!”

“Look Toby, I need to get on. I'll let you know what I've decided to do. I know already actually but I need to run it by a couple of people first. I don't have many friends, Toby, but the ones I have I regard as family. You're my family and you're welcome to come round whenever you want. We need to down some Macallans and you need to banter with Cyrus and avoid Gil's wrath. I really mean it. I want to see you soon, don't dare be a stranger,” JJ was welling up a bit. Toby was welling up more than a bit and needed to exit before it became embarrassing. The two friends stood up and shook hands firmly. There was a strong bond.

JJ finished packing his personal stuff in crates and boxes. The MAM facilities department would organise his gear to be delivered to his house the following day. JJ left, jumped into a taxi and headed home. Ethel and Victor were back in their homes and had been for several weeks. Ethel was also back on SCO19 duty. Cyrus was on mid-term break, studying for his exams, and Gil and Becky were enjoying some girl talk.

“Cyrus, are you busy?” JJ shouted up the stairs on entering his home.

“Yes, but I need a break. Do you want something?” the boy called back.

“Just a chat, me, you, Gil and Becky. Will I bring you anything from the kitchen?” asked JJ.

“Yes please. Surprise me!” replied Cyrus. JJ knew that when Cyrus said ‘surprise me' what he meant was bring me loads of treats that I really like. Armed with this prior knowledge, JJ climbed the stairs to the living room balancing a packet of curlies, chicken flavoured crisps, a packet of chocolate buttons and a small bottle of still water. Cyrus was pleasantly ‘surprised'.

“OK, let's all gather round,” said JJ, sitting in his favourite armchair, opposite Cyrus, with Gil and Becky on the sofa. “Cyrus, we didn't want to burden you with the early stage outline, especially with your exams coming up, but the time seems right to let you in on what your dad and your friends here may be doing next.”

“Sure,” said Cyrus, keen but not desperate to know.

“Becky, do you want to start?” asked JJ.

“Of course,” replied Becky, dressed today in a bright pale blue dress and calf length designer black boots. “Your dad is setting up and funding a consultancy cum charity that will have two objectives. We're calling it Project LFD.”

“What? From the Lemony Snicket books?” interrupted Cyrus.

“That was VFD, Cyrus, you dimwit. Voluntary Fire Department among other variations of the acronym,” said JJ laughing.

“I knew that,” replied Cyrus. “Just checking that you knew.”

“Anyway,” resumed Becky, “it stands for Light From Dark. The charity part of it will distribute funds to worthy causes and aims to provide support in ways that major charities may have overlooked. Your dad has very kindly proposed that victims of Alzheimer's Disease will be our first project.” Becky felt a bit emotional at this point because it was her mum and her mum's care home who were to be the first recipients.

“Cool,” said Cyrus. “What is Project LFD's other objective?”

“Our other objective,” replied JJ, “is to help seek the release and return of innocent people incarcerated in jails around the world, political prisoners, victims of oppressive regimes, people who have disappeared for no good reason. Anyone who has carried out an act of violence, terrorism or other heinous crimes can be left to rot.”

“That's awesome, guys,” declared Cyrus. “Who's running the show and how is it all going to be paid for?” The boy's clearly paying attention thought JJ.

Gil spoke. “Your dad's Managing Director and he has supplied the initial capital.”

“How much?” asked Cyrus.

“A lot,” replied Gil. “Becky and I will be project managers, Becky concentrating on the charity side and me on the human rights side. We will have a small team of project associates to help.”

“Can we call the associates projectiles?” asked Cyrus, obviously finding himself amusing. JJ thought it was funny. Gil and Becky not so much.

“No Cyrus, we can't,” said Becky.

“Are you guys going to be running this from the house?” Cyrus asked.

“No,” replied JJ. “I've signed a lease agreement for the top floor offices at 1 Grosvenor Place. It's near Hyde Park Corner, not that far from Buck House. We'll have moved in most of the furniture and equipment we need by the weekend.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Cyrus. “It's all go-go-go. Hey Dad, seems you took my advice to hire Becky!”

“Yes, Cyrus. Seems so, and good advice it was,” replied his dad.

The four of them then discussed Project LFD for a little longer. After consuming his treats and water Cyrus headed back upstairs to his room to re-engage his studies. Gil decided to go down to the basement gym. She'd taken a break from her training after all the Scotland action, her injury on Cyrus's kidnapping night and the ensuing scramble to find him. JJ and Becky were still in the living room.

“JJ, this is super exciting for me. Thanks for the opportunity, I'm really looking forward to it. I can help my mum directly and then other people who are similarly afflicted. It's very satisfying.”

“No problem Becky. You deserve it, and you're all qualified now. No cooking the books mind,” he jested.

“JJ!” exclaimed Becky. “As if.” Becky got off the sofa and was heading downstairs for a snack.

“Before you go, Becky, have you got a minute?” asked JJ.

“Sure,” she replied, sitting back down.

“You know your bank account?”

“Of course,” replied Becky “There's not much in it, with me being unemployed after the Treasury.”

“About that. There may be a little more in it now. So when you check you may want to transfer some to a savings account, maybe invest some, that kind of thing. I can advise on the investments if you like.”

“Explain, JJ, please?” asked Becky, somewhat confused.

“Well, I knew that if I tried to give you any money, you'd refuse. Didn't want handouts and all that.” Becky nodded, and JJ continued. “So I had Victor hack your account and deposit some money in it. He created a sweet paper trail of legitimacy so that there would be no questions of money laundering and the like. I can give you details. Is that OK?”

“Is what bit of it OK, Mr Darke?” asked Becky standing, hands on hips and giving her new boss a stern look. “The bit that you've given me a handout that I didn't ask for or the bit that you had Victor the safe cracker, yes I know about him, hack my account, or the false paper trail bit?”

“All the bits really,” said a visibly sheepish JJ. “C'mon Becky, go with the flow, please. You've got a good legitimate job now, no more handouts, hacking, anything, I promise. Regard it as payment for services rendered. No! Don't…I could have phrased that better. I put you in danger, in Scotland, so call it danger money, anything. Please accept, it'll be a real bind to unravel it now.”

Becky pondered for a few seconds not shifting her gaze from JJ. “Alright then, but never again and only because I don't want you and Victor getting into trouble.”

“Great,” said JJ, feeling well relieved.

As Becky sat back down on the sofa to take this all in, JJ decided to quietly head for the door and downstairs.

Just before he exited, Becky called out, “By the way, JJ, how much is in my account?”

“Eh, well, let's call it £3 million,” he replied and hotfooted it down to the kitchen. Becky was not far behind. JJ managed to placate her by explaining that everyone in JJ's circle who had been involved in events in Korea, Scotland, London and the hunt for Neil Robson had earned healthy bonuses. Hers was nowhere near the highest. She calmed down on that news, thanked JJ profusely and went back to organising herself in preparation for project LFD. JJ also said that Becky was most welcome to stay with him, Cyrus and Gil for as long as she wanted. Neil Robson was still out there, though nobody knew where. Becky accepted but said that with her instant wealth she might consider buying an apartment in Pimlico.

JJ was satisfied with the day's events. He was sitting on the small sofa in the front room, ground floor, next to the kitchen. He could see out onto Markham Square, nothing much was going on, thank goodness he thought. It was early evening now. He had a glass of Macallans with him and placed it on the small table at his left hand side. He decided to read through again the lease agreement for the new premises of Project LFD. It all seemed fairly straightforward. One section, however, had been highlighted by his solicitor who had thoroughly checked the terms and conditions. That's interesting, thought JJ, making a mental note to contact his lawyer for clarification. He was in a twilight dreaming state now, going over all the action of recent months. Against all the odds things seemed to have worked out. His dad was recovering from his gunshot wounds on schedule, his son seemed to be bearing no psychological damage from his kidnap ordeal and Kwon had been rescued by Jim Bradbury's team with the critical support of a highly skilled MI5 unit.

JJ was in the process of leaving his old life behind and embarking on a new venture, with friends, and one whose aim was on higher moral ground than finance. Babikov was locked up. Carolyn, who had been absolutely brilliant in Scotland, seemed to be settling into life with Commander O'Neill, in the sunny climes of Southern California. There were no FCA or any other type of charges hanging over his head or those of his friends. Sandra Hillington at MI5 and the former Home Secretary between them had taken care of all that. He was flush. All that excess cash that Victor had identified in the DPRK's central bank vaults. Admittedly, Robson had stolen a chunk but the rest had either been paid out to those who had put their lives and reputations at risk or earmarked for charitable and human rights purposes. The country was functioning normally, and he could take a little credit for that. It was all good, but it wasn't completely, locked down good.

There was one niggle, one omission, one itch that needed scratched. JJ had made a promise to his son. ‘On your mother's love' he had said to Cyrus. That was a promise that had to be kept.

“My name is Iqbal Quintus Ahmed,” announced the 6ft plus black man, middle aged, with colourful attire and an embroidered kufi on his head. “I am the fifth Iqbal of my family. My friends call me IQ. They say ‘Hi IQ!' I like that. I say thank you.”

“Well, Mr Ahmed, I am a police officer, not your friend. I am here to prevent crime, solve crime, support victims of crime. How can I help you today, with that in mind?” asked PC George Ramsbotham, a 5ft 8in extremely white Geordie, not yet interested enough to desist from his report filling.

“I come originally from a small group of Kenyan Muslims, only 11% of the population. You may think I am a terrorist. I am not. I am here to report a crime, maybe help solve one. I need to see a detective please.”

PC Ramsbotham looked at Iqbal. He couldn't really be stuffed to check if there were any detectives around. Still, he didn't want to have some racial discrimination accusation launched at him, so he thought he'd better pay attention.

“Can you give me any details of this crime, Mr Ahmed, before I go digging out a detective?” asked Ramsbotham.

Iqbal reached into his robes and pulled out a computer generated picture of a man's face. “I know this man. He is a robber. He owes me money. He is late in his legitimate payment to me. I want justice,” proclaimed Iqbal, getting a little animated.

PC Ramsbotham had a look at the print out. He thought it might be a good idea to find out if any detectives were on duty. A few minutes later another white man, younger and taller than Ramsbotham, wearing a suit, appeared.

“Mr Ahmed, you say you know this man? How?” asked the detective.

“To whom am I speaking?” enquired Iqbal, politely and in clear English.

“I am Detective James Crockett,” said the suited man.

“From
Miami Vice
?” asked Iqbal enthusiastically. “You do not look like him. He was blonder, more hair, thinner, but that was a long time ago. You look well!”

“No, Mr Ahmed. I am not detective Crockett from
Miami Vice
. I'm from here, in Kingston upon Hull, where you are now. Can we get to the point please?” asked Detective Crockett, feeling that he was doing well in not arresting this clown for wasting police time.

“Certainly, Detective Crockett,” replied Iqbal, keen to impart his tale of misfortune.

Crockett listened, albeit reluctantly at first. The man in the picture had rented a lock-up garage from Iqbal. He paid in cash, no questions asked, three months in advance. Those three months were now over. His van was still in Iqbal's garage. No sign of more cash. Iqbal had just come back from visiting his family in Kenya, on the coast, near Kipini. On his return, his son, Iqbal Sextus, had shown him the man's face. It had been on the news, in the papers, on social media sites. The boy, a teenager, had recognised him as a man who had rented from his dad. Occasionally, Iqbal Sextus worked in his father's makeshift office on the industrial estate, after school. “He is a bright, observant boy,” said Iqbal proudly.

“You say the van is still there, in your garage?” asked Detective Crockett.

“Yes Detective, it is. I did not want to break into it or drive it out and leave it by the roadside. That might be against the law and I am a most law abiding citizen of this United Kingdom,” replied Iqbal, glossing over the fact that cash transactions on garage rentals might not be to the liking of HMRC.

Detective Crockett looked again at the printed copy of the man's face. Then he looked at Iqbal and then back to PC Ramsbotham.

“George, didn't we have some dedicated numbers to ring if anyone spotted this guy?”

“Aye, we did Jimmy-lad,” George replied but drew a look from the detective which said more formality please. “I think there was one for Interpol and one for MI5 Detective Crockett, Sir,” added Ramsbotham suitably chastised.

“Ring the MI5 one George,” instructed Crockett. “Interpol's full of foreigners, they wouldn't understand a bleedin' word you utter.”

“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 Winston 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.