Darke Mission (17 page)

It didn't take JJ long to work out that two articulated lorries, or American semi-trucks, each carrying forty tonnes could carry the load. Caterpiller, Volvo, Ford all made appropriate tractors and trailers but these makes would stick out like a sore thumb in the streets of Pyongyang. FAW semi-trucks were all over China so that would be a possibility. More worrisome than finding an appropriate truck was the transport plan itself. It didn't really make sense. While the border with South Korea was only 60km away, there would be various military checkpoints along the route and heavily fortified ones near the demarcation line. Two trucks, of whatever make, with two to three foreigners in each of the cabs would arouse more than a passing interest. A quick glance at the load and all hell would break loose. Bars of gold just didn't migrate from North to South in the dead of night. Even DPRK citizens couldn't do that in the middle of the day. The transportation plan needed to be better, a whole lot better.

JJ had done enough thinking about this for the day. He was exhausted and had taken the day off work to concentrate on it. He thought he'd better give Toby a call. In fact, he needed to fill Toby in because Fathead's skills were going to be essential later on and JJ needed a credible cover story for his upcoming ‘vacation'.

“Hi Toby, it's JJ.”

“Boss man!” exclaimed Toby, happy to hear from his leader and mentor. “How are you, how's your day off? Did you get up to no good?” asked Fathead, clearly in a buoyant mood.

“How are the markets today, Toby?” asked JJ, more or less ignoring all of Toby's questions.

“They're good for us, JJ,” replied Toby. “Gold and crude were up, bonds were down and stocks have been treading water. We're in good shape.”

“Do you fancy coming over for a couple of those rare Macallans that I keep hidden? I need to run a few things by you,” asked JJ.

“Sure JJ, you know me, never say no to a rare malt. What time?”

“Around 8.30pm if that suits. Cyrus will have done all of his project and school work by then and Gil's going for an evening gym session.”

Toby knew JJ well enough to tell that his tone was not full of the joys of spring. “Is there anything up JJ? You don't sound like a happy bunny.”

“I've been concentrating all day Toby on stuff that I don't want to be concentrating on so I'm a bit brain-tired. I'll give you the scoop when you come over. See you at 8.30.”

Toby said his cheerios and hung up. He always liked having a good malt with JJ, maybe even some banter with Cyrus and the opportunity of an ogle at the hot Oriental Gil. It was 6pm. He'd pack up now and grab a bite at Franco's in Jermyn Street. JJ never had enough food supplies in as far as Toby was concerned and if he tried to raid the fridge Gil would just look at him as if enquiring if he still wanted to live. No, Franco's was the better, the tastier and the safer option.

Toby arrived at JJ's house in Markham Square at 8.30pm prompt. He knew the Scot didn't like being late for anyone nor anyone being late for him. In fact, Toby mused to himself as he rang the bell, JJ was so time conscious that he knew when he was going to pee next. I'm going to the loo in about twenty minutes he'd say, and he would. Who
does
that?

JJ met Toby at the door, took him inside to the living room and settled him down with a large glass of twenty-five year old Macallans single malt whisky. JJ had one too.

“Toby,” began JJ. “I'm going to tell you stuff that you'll believe and I'm going to tell you stuff that you won't believe, but on my honour it will all be true. It'll take some time so feel free to help yourself to a top up whenever you want.” Toby knew immediately that something wasn't right. JJ never said help yourself to him as far as whisky was concerned. Sensible enough.

JJ began his tale of woe with the meeting with Neil Robson. Toby was well slumped and uncomfortable in JJ's large, cosy armchair at the thought of an insider trading case. He'd be bankrupt with little hope of re-employment in the financial sector and no hope of a boss as good as JJ. He'd need to go abroad. He didn't want to do that as he didn't like foreigners much. He'd only just taken a liking to Yves-Jacques and even then only because he was one of the three amigos. Three amigos who were facing jail time if the worst came to the worst according to JJ's tale. Toby was on his second Macallans before he had the nerve to interrupt JJ and ask any questions but his Dutch courage was mounting.

“I haven't even heard a whisper about this JJ,” said Toby. “Am I, are we, going to receive formal letters from the FCA soon?”

“No Toby, we're not.”

“How come?”

“I used to work with Neil Robson. He has a plan, well let's call it a tadpole of a plan when you need a Goliath frog one, to keep us all in the careers we're in now,” said JJ.

Toby began to cheer up a bit.
That's cool
he thought.
Trust JJ to be buddies with the Financial Secretary to the Treasury
. “That's all good then, JJ. Wow, you had me going for a while. I thought I was going to be destitute or holed up in some mud hut in a rainforest.”

“It's not all good, Toby,” replied JJ somberly and uncharacteristically omitting to nail Toby's comment as a rainforest would be the last place you'd want to be holed up in a mud hut. Toby was visibly coming back down to the real world of pain and unhappiness.

“How so JJ?” asked Toby with concern. “You're buddies with Robson, right? You worked with him, right? He has the power to make this go away, right?”

“Well, you've got two out of three right and one of them is a curse not a blessing,” said JJ. “I'm not friends with Robson. I think he's a slimy toad, mainly out for himself and a touch power mad—” JJ was going to continue but Toby butted in.

“You said he was prepared to make this insider trading thing go away. Why would he do that if he wasn't your friend?” asked Toby, reasonably enough he thought.

“Because he wants me to do something for him in return, something outrageous but something if it works that may leave our normal daily lives intact.”

The next hour or so was taken up mainly by JJ informing Toby that he used to be an MI5 intelligence officer, the outline of Robson's either audacious or stupid plan, JJ's role in it and Toby's late stage appearance if the plan actually got that far. There was not enough malt whisky in JJ's cabinet, maybe even in all the whisky cabinets in Chelsea and Knightsbridge combined that could relieve the aching pain in Fathead's pinhead. He heard what JJ was saying, and he believed it, because JJ had never lied to him about anything, but he couldn't really take it in. It was too much, too crazy, too outwith the realms of his life to date. Strangely, though, after about three or four double whiskies, Toby was beginning to sober up. Bleary eyed but sharper of mind, he simply asked, “Tell me again, JJ, how much physical gold am I going to have to sell?”

* * *

Police Officer Ethel Rogers was following her normal daily routine. She was in the women's changing locker at West End Central Police Station in Saville Row putting on her uniform and tools of the trade, baton, speedcuffs, CS spray, pistol and taser. Her normal routine had been disturbed a couple of years ago when she had to appear before the Independent Police Complaints Commission, but that went well for her and her two colleagues who appeared with her. She had been promoted as well to senior Authorised Firearms Officer (AFO), not bad for an early forty-something woman in an occupation dominated by men. Rogers was pleasant looking but no stunner. She was around 5ft 6in in height, slim and toned with thick mousy brown shoulder length hair.

Ethel's normal routine was to be disturbed again today. Her boss told her she had to take a meeting in the station in a few minutes and that the as yet unnamed visitor had requested her specifically. Rogers grabbed a disgusting cappuccino from the rickety tin vending machine outside the locker and headed into the meeting room on the first floor of the station. As she entered the sparsely furnished room she recognised the man in the well-cut dark suit, but no tie, sitting down at the plain wooden table. She could not immediately put a name to his weathered but attractive face.

“Hi Ginger,” he said.

Now that immediately set her memory banks into overdrive. Only her close friends and a few special colleagues addressed her by her somewhat obvious nickname. This guy was none of those. Fortunately, he had the good grace to introduce himself before that awkward moment when you just can't remember somebody's name turns into a major embarrassment.

“JJ Darke,” he said extending his hand.

Ethel Rogers shook JJ's hand and her memory now had a slightly clearer picture of how they knew each other. “It's been quite a while JJ, and I believe you've changed occupation since I last saw you.”

“Well, I have and I haven't Ethel,” replied JJ, not exactly sounding at ease with his reply.

As they engaged in a few more minutes of small talk and catch-up, Ethel's memory banks were putting the pieces into place of the jigsaw that connected them. She had been the youngest police officer to be accepted into the ranks of CO19, Scotland Yard's specialist firearms unit. In total CO19, now SCO19 due to a police merger, has around 700 members, including training staff, specialist firearm officers (SFOs) and armed response vehicles (ARVs) operators. Their specific mandate was to tackle any armed incidents in London. The SFOs were the proactive wing of SCO19. These days this comprised of around 120 officers in six teams, stationed around different areas of London or driving around in ARVs. A small group of SFOs were also earmarked for training duties. Primarily this was to show all British Police Officers authorised to carry weapons how to use them. Very rarely they would also be asked to undertake some weapons training of the UK's Security Forces, MI5 and MI6. Now it was all becoming HD in Ethel's mind. She had helped train MI5 Officer JJ Darke.

“So, JJ do you still prefer the Glock 17 that I trained you to use or have you advanced to those fancy SIG Sauers?” Ethel smiled, partly because she recalled that JJ was top-notch accurate with a Glock and partly because she remembered him at all.

“Well, Ginger, in recent times I haven't really had much need of a Glock 17, but I still have my original one, tucked up and locked away,” he said, pleased that Ethel remembered something of their connection. “How about you?”

“I still prefer the Glock, JJ, and a cut down MP5. The bad guys are getting badder and better armed, so the good girls need to be too.”

“So how come you tasered that Adebolajo arsehole in Woolwich last year instead of taking him out?” asked JJ getting down to business.

Ethel was taken aback by the abruptness of the question. One minute they were chitty chatting about old times and the next a guy she hadn't seen for ten years turns up and asks her one of the same questions that the IPCC had asked her. Ethel Rogers was a well-balanced, mentally robust woman. Her boss had told her to give JJ all the help he needed but she was not used to being questioned by folk outside of the police system and she sure wasn't going to spill before she knew what the hell was going on.

“I might answer that question JJ but you're going to have to give me a whole lot more info before I do. Why are you here? What do you want? Why me?” she said. “And it better be good because, as interesting as you are, I've got better things to do than small talk away an hour or so with a former trainee of mine.”

JJ was glad that Ginger had not lost any of the spark that he remembered. He told Ethel about the mission at hand, leaving out the blackmail by Robson and the concomitant insider trading issue. As far as Officer Rogers was concerned, he had been called out of MI5 retirement to extract from North Korea monies owed to the British government and people but which North Korea adamantly refused to pay. It was a last resort but one that had been sanctioned by the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner had rubber stamped JJ's approach to Officer Rogers but it was ultimately down to her whether or not she wanted to volunteer for this off-piste mission.

Ethel thought that JJ's outline was one wild plan. It seemed to have the moral high ground and the fact that the head of the police force had authorised her personal involvement added to its credibility. She wasn't scared of the dangers involved. Whether it was a North Korean soldier running at her in Pyongyang or an armed lone wolf terrorist in Woolwich, didn't really matter. They were going down.

JJ could see that Ethel was taking his story in, but he too was on a timeline. “So, Ginger, why didn't you shoot to kill in Woolwich?”

“You need to understand a little about that day, JJ,” she began. “I was in a small ARV with two colleagues and driver, parked just off Lewisham High Street. We got the call that there was an armed attack near Woolwich Barracks. We were the closest 19 unit, so we responded. We were there in under ten minutes. Given London traffic at that time of day, it was quick. When we got there it was mayhem. Locals were milling around on the street, unarmed police officers from the nearby station were keeping small crowds of people back. A couple of armed youths, standing in the middle of the road were shouting and bawling some stuff you couldn't understand. One of them was hovering over a prostate body, Lee Rigby, as we later found out.” Ethel paused for a sip of the now cold disgusting coffee. “Our driver stayed in the ARV. One of us took up position at the rear of the car. Peter Blackwood and I hunkered down at the front. We had the doors open for protection. The two armed guys made no attempt to run or hide. They could have been out of their minds on drink or drugs. Pete called out for them to drop their weapons and get on the ground. Instead, they rushed at us, the lead one with a meat cleaver and a gun. Pete shot low and stopped the second suspect. In the instant that you need to make a decision, I decided to taser the lead suspect, rather than shoot. It would have been easy for me to say I don't know why I tasered rather than shot. The IPCC asked me the same question and I just replied ‘instinct'. Looking back, my decision was more complex than that even though all the complexities had to be weighed up in a split second.”