Darke Mission (48 page)

* * *

Neil Robson's prediction of Joel Gordon's condition was significantly more accurate than his efforts at economic prognostication. The young accountant had been rushed to Newham General Hospital, less than twenty minutes' drive from where he lived. He was accompanied by Talisha. Newham had a twenty-four-hour emergency department and an urgent care centre. Talisha had gently bullied Joel to allow her to call for an ambulance as soon as her boyfriend began vomiting and having the skitters simultaneously. She was American, built to respond quickly and not held back by a British stiff upper lip. The ambulance got to the hospital without a hitch. Joel was out and into the Emergency Department like a flash, the doctors and nurses attended to him straight away. It wasn't a weekend and West Ham were not playing at home, so the hospital traffic was relatively light. It didn't matter though. At this juncture, there were no external indications of radiation. Once Talisha had supplied the doctors and nurses with Joel's details, his job, pastimes, prior medical history, as far as she knew it, there was no reason to suspect acute radioactive poisoning. Even if they had, there was no effective treatment. There had been some research published suggesting chelation agents like Dimercaprol could be used to extend life after radiation, however, Newham General Hospital was a big city hospital, not a research centre. In any event even the treated rats in the experiments died, they just lived a little longer than the untreated ones.

The game was up for Joel Gordon. He passed away, on cue, four days later. Talisha would return to her hometown, in the USA, because London now had ghastly and painful memories. In her mid-thirties she would contract pancreatic cancer.

For Neil Robson, however, things had turned out all peachy. His nefarious plan was still intact, he hadn't heard a whisper from Craig Wilson. The local constabulary hadn't come knocking on his door to ask about cupcakes. He was going to see ‘his' gold haul tomorrow with that wayward Scot and, to top it all, he still had a hot PA. It had been a good day indeed. The Financial Secretary's meeting with the Chancellor, Jeffrey Walker, had been a little fractious, but ended up being friendly enough. The old man was in a mild state of political panic regarding the £3bn hole. The general election was only months away, approximately the same span of time that would see the government's ability run out to pay the NHS staff, the armed forces and sections of the security services.

Jeffrey Walker, as a front-bench MP, remembered the poll tax riots in early 1990. Mrs Margaret Thatcher, leader of the Conservative Party and then Prime Minister, had introduced a Community Charge that was to take effect in England and Wales that spring. The charge, essentially an additional tax on property that took no account of income, seemed to several parts of the population to be unfair, indeed unjust. Protests and demonstrations popped up all over the country, many participants reflecting genuinely strongly held views, but undoubtedly a fair sprinkling of rent-a-mob to jolly things along. The demonstrations peaked, in the capital, London, on Saturday, 31
^st
March 1990. From 11am that morning till 3am the following day central London was virtually a battleground between metropolitan police and the demonstrators. Order was eventually restored. However, John Major, who succeeded Mrs Thatcher as prime minister, announced that the Community Charge would be abolished and replaced with a Council Tax, still in force today, and linked to the value of a property.

The poll tax riots were shocking enough for the entire British public and, especially, the British government. Yet those riots would pale into insignificance if key public sector workers could not be paid. The poll tax riots involved the police in an attempt to allay personal and property damage. There were many injuries, keeping London hospitals even busier than they would be on a given weekend. What would happen if there were no police on duty to quell demonstrations, protests, riots? What would happen if there were no doctors or nurses, paramedics or ambulance staff to deal with injuries? What would be the extent of property damage, looting, complete lawlessness in parts of the nation's capital? Indeed, what would happen if the army itself, so often the back-stop of public order, was not being paid and, consequently, unwilling to risk life and limb for precisely nothing. These were the thoughts that were reverberating inside Chancellor Walker's head. For good measure he'd throw in his loss of job, career and even criminal proceedings. He had, after all, deliberately withheld the information regarding Britain's £3bn black hole from the Prime Minister. It was one big toxic mess and he was reduced to relying on his, apparently well-dodgy, Financial Secretary to clean it up.

“Neil, we need this money now,” said Jeffrey Walker. “It has to be distributed to the various departments within a month, otherwise they will know that there's nothing in the coffers.”

“I'm fully aware of that Chancellor,” snapped Robson. “My information is that the package is now in London. I'm going to check it out in the morning. If all goes well, we should definitely have the money in distributable form before the end of April.”

“I hope you're right, Neil, because if you're not we're totally shafted and beyond the point of recovery. Keep that in mind,” cautioned Walker.

* * *

As he was walking along Piccadilly the next morning, on his way to a breakfast meeting with JJ Darke, the Chancellor's caution still hung in Neil Robson's mind. It wasn't his fault that dopey-dick Walker had allowed Britain's financial position to become so fucked up. He was the one who had come up with the ingenious plan to help fix it. It didn't matter that he wanted a huge chunk of the Korean gold for himself, nor that there had been some collateral damage in the form of Joel Gordon and Vasily the thug, nor that he was blackmailing Darke on a flimsy but eminently stick-able insider trading case. The end justifies the means. Machiavelli was spot on. What's that old goat Walker got to complain about? Fuck all, thought Robson. I'm about to save his flabby spotty arse even though the useless git doesn't deserve it.

As Robson entered the Wolseley, opposite the Ritz Hotel, he spotted JJ already seated at a table on the higher level. There was no one within earshot. The canny Scot had obviously made a few bogus reservations, this was normally one busy place, even for breakfast.

“JJ,” said Robson.

“Neil,” replied JJ, neither man feeling inclined to indulge in any variety of normal pre-meal greetings.

“You don't look like you've had a tough time relieving the gooks of their gold,” started Robson with that fake smile of his attached. “A few signs of healing bruises but not bad.”

“I had a good team with me,” replied JJ stoically. “They had my back all the way.”

“Where's the gold?” asked Robson unable to contain himself.

“It's safe,” replied JJ. “It's here, in London, locked up and secure, away from prying eyes and itchy fingers.”

“Great. Now, look Darke, I – I mean the government, need this money fast. How long before you can turn this gold into pounds sterling and get it to me?”

In a sense he was telling the truth. The government did need the money fast. Robson omitted to add that so did he. Vladimir Babikov was getting a little anxious regarding his pay day. In addition to the base £2.5m that Robson owed him, the criminal Russian had had to fork out for a thug to replace Vasily and a whole lot more to get the polonium-210 for the Financial Secretary. JJ was looking straight at Neil Robson. He so didn't like this excuse of a man. Before replying JJ had some of his orange juice and a sizeable bite of his well-done bacon roll.

“It's not simple,” JJ eventually replied. “For a start, we've got 6,000 bars of bullion, each weighing about 12.5kg. It's a job moving that around. Secondly, and I haven't run this by Toby Naismith yet, selling this lot in one go may not be possible. I don't know the capacity of the physical gold market. Thirdly, at a GBP/USD rate of 1.5000 and a gold price of US$1800/oz, the gold is worth the £3bn you need. However, if the pound strengthens against the dollar and/or the gold price falls then it will be worth less. We can't control either the FX market or the gold market.”

Robson absorbed this information as he was having some scrambled egg on toast and a cup of weak tea. He didn't think JJ was spinning him a yarn. Robson himself hadn't a clue about the physical gold market but he did know that the cable rate could move about like a demented yoyo. Still, that wasn't his problem.

“I see what you're saying Darke, but I don't give a fuck. I need £3.5bn, in sterling, in a nominated bank account, within a week, two at the absolute outside. That's £3.5bn, at least, not a penny less. If there's a surprise gain then thanks. If the pound gets weaker and the gold price goes up, great, I'll take the windfall profit. Your job is to get it done, Darke, capisce?” snapped Robson.

“I cannot guarantee that,” responded JJ calmly.

“Look jockstrap, you need to guarantee it. Otherwise, you, fatboy and the French geek are going down. Damning media coverage, huge fines, lengthy jail terms. They're all coming your way if you don't come up with the goods. OK? You don't want that nice looking kid of yours to be without his dad for an extended period, do you? Him being a half orphan already.”

JJ had always been accomplished at preventing his facial expressions revealing his inner thoughts. This morning was a bit of a tester though. JJ had worn his dark blue Boss suit today, with light grey shirt, black well-polished brogues, his dominus ring and his 1995 Rolex Zenith Daytona, black dial and upside down 6 on the hour chronograph register. This meant he was in the mood for business, not playing, or relaxing, or on the beach, or even robbing a central bank. JJ had gone into the breakfast meeting with Robson, vowing to be professional, to see this task through, to get Toby, Yves-Jacques and himself off the hook and to get Neil Robson out of his life. The slimeball's mention of Cyrus, however, triggered a whole path of thought that he had not anticipated, was hoping to avoid, but in that one mention of his son, had changed the end game for sure.

“Leave Cyrus out of it dickhead. If I ever think, even for a second, that you are contemplating disturbing my son's life in any way, I will kill you, stone dead, where you stand, where you sit, where you sleep. Have you got that?”

Neil Robson looked at JJ, then let out a quiet laugh. “What are you going to do to me lady boy?” replied Robson. “You were an analyst in MI5, not a black ops specialist. Sure, you went to North Korea, maybe had to push over a gook soldier or two, but, you're no killer. You're a soft, middle-aged, hedge fund plonker, that sits behind a desk all day looking at wee green and red numbers flashing away. It's like a kid's game. There's no physical risk, no exposure to real danger. You're not capable. Just get the gold sold cupcake and don't ever threaten me again.” With that, the Financial Secretary to the Treasury pushed back his chair, got up and left.

Many parts of JJ's neural system wanted to go after Robson, break his neck there and then and leave the weasel lifeless on the floor of the Wolseley. That would not be optimal, the saner parts of JJ's brain kept telling him. In that event, JJ would certainly go to jail, for a very long time, Cyrus would be mortified and without his dad. The better part of valour is discretion, rationalised the coward Falstaff. JJ would be discreet alright, but not in the way Shakespeare meant nor the way Neil Robson hoped for.

* * *

As breakfasts go, the one JJ had with Neil Robson would not have entered either's top ten. The world is a relative place, however, and their breakfast meeting at the Wolseley was a lot better than one meeting concurrently taking place in North Korea's State Security Department. The no-option invitees were Vice Admiral Goh and Commodore Park. The hosts were SSD Major Lee and his boss, General Choi Yang-Kun, the permanent Minister of State Security. Major Lee's companion at Haeju docks, the quiet man, was not invited. That brought an inaudible sigh of relief from Commodore Park, who had first-hand knowledge of his nocturnal handiwork. As you would expect, the SSD building in Pyongyang was austere and anonymous. It had the usual flags on poles outside but it could have been any one of a number of government buildings dotted around the capital. The main SSD building was six storeys high, part of it on concrete stilts, and long, very long, taking up roughly half a street. Vice Admiral Goh and Commodore Park were seated together, at a simple metal table, hands bound behind their backs. The only other furniture in the room was two metallic chairs, similar to the ones the invitees were sitting on. They had been seated for an hour. Minister Choi and Major Lee eventually entered the room. Neither looked happy. Both sat opposite Goh and Park, but Minister Choi had taken his chair a few feet away from the table.

Major Lee began. “Vice Admiral Goh, Commodore Park, do you both understand why you are here?”

“I know you wish to find out more regarding the theft of the submarine Major,” began Goh, “but I fail to see why we need to be tied up in order to answer any questions.” Given that the Vice Admiral was being held in a basement room in one of the world's most brutal police states, that small display of defiance was unwisely courageous.

Major Lee glanced over his right shoulder at Minister Choi. On receipt of a brief nod, Lee stood up, went behind Goh's chair and undid his ties. He then did the same for Park.

“Thank you Major, Minister Choi,” said Goh.

“Do either of you have any idea who stole the nuclear submarine?” asked Lee directly.

Park responded first. “No Major, I do not. As you know I was having dinner with colleagues, then all hell broke loose. I did not see any uniforms, any insignia on the attackers, nor did I hear their voices. I am embarrassed that our submarine was stolen on my watch but I know nothing about it,” said a strained Park.