Darke Mission (57 page)

“What are you doing?” asked JJ.

“Don't panic Jock. It all seems in order but I'm just going to do one little transfer. It's not that I don't trust you…” he continued with a look at JJ which said I didn't come up the Clyde in the shit ship either. Less than a minute elapsed when Robson closed the top of both the laptop and his tablet. He looked JJ straight in the eye. “Seems OK, Darke.” Robson then went to his briefcase, extracted the FCA file on JJ and his two amigos and handed it over to the Scot.

“The letter of exoneration as well,” said JJ.

Robson handed it over and JJ immediately checked it. It was on headed Treasury paper, signed by Neil Robson, Financial Secretary to HM Treasury and appeared to state categorically that the three amigos had not been involved in any wrongdoing of a financial nature or otherwise. On the face of it, it was solid. JJ knew that Robson probably had other copies of the FCA file and that he could always claim that the side letter of exoneration had been written under duress. Becky had seen Robson's bleeding nose so the Fin Sec could easily claim that he had been attacked by the hot-tempered Scot. JJ also knew, however, that Becky would do nothing to help her boss and that would be cast iron true when her suspicions about Joel's death were shown to be accurate. On top of that, JJ knew that one call to Sandra Hillington at MI5 and Robson would be going down, maybe to occupy Victor Pagari's old cell in Belmarsh. That call would be one of three he was going to make today immediately on exiting the Treasury. JJ nodded to Robson and rose from his chair to leave.

“Hold on a minute, Darke,” insisted Neil Robson. “Sit down, I need to say something to you.”

Normally, JJ would just tell the slimeball to fuck off and leave. He had no idea what Robson wanted to say, but just on the off-chance it was remotely relevant, he sat back down.

“You're probably feeling pretty good about yourself Darke. You've gotten away with a clear insider trading case and helped your two hedgie miscreants to do the same. You may think that saving Britain from bankruptcy and widespread social anarchy balances that out, but let's face it, you didn't have much of a choice. We're done on this issue, but I've got my eye on you.”

JJ said nothing. He assumed Robson had finished. As he motioned to rise again, Robson indicated that he should stay where he was.
What now
, thought JJ.

“You know Darke, I never liked you. Everyone thought you were great in MI5, but apart from the odd field trip you didn't do much. You're properly representative of your nation, know what I mean?” Robson seemed to be kind of enjoying himself, maybe it was the drug of all that money or, indeed, the real thing. JJ shook his head, partly in response to Robson's question and partly at the sight of this vile human being.

“You don't?” said Robson. “OK, I'll tell you. You Scots put yourselves forward as all brave and smart. William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, even Bonnie Prince Charlie. Invented the telephone, the television, the ATM to bring it all into the modern world. Even the fucking god particle was thought up by an Englishman resident at a Scottish University. But what did you Jock wankers do with all those balls and smarts? Nothing. You're so fucking tribal. When you could have conquered England all those hundreds of years ago, what did you do? You fought amongst yourselves. Bickered like a bunch of girls. Clan versus clan. No camaraderie, no foresight, no end game. A bunch of heathens wearing skirts. You blew it. Took the English coin, let your queen have her head chopped off and that was that. Even your fucking inventions. What did you tossers do with all the televisions and telephones. Sweet Fanny Adams. Logie Baird may have shown his TV for the first time in Selfridges ninety years ago but you won't find any Scottish televisions for sale there today, or anywhere on any day for that matter. Same with phones. Nada. You're a nation of breweries, pubs and call centres. You've become so soft and flabby you can't even muster the votes to get independence. Deep down it's because you don't want it. You're still happy to be subservient to the auld enemy, to take the coin of the English queen. You can watch
Braveheart
a million times, host the Commonwealth Games, sing ‘Flower of Scotland' till you drop but you're still an English sideshow. For god's sake, the last time I saw any saltires being waved with enthusiasm was when that bastard Megrahi stepped off the plane at Tripoli airport. You lot are a fucking disgrace, way more stupid than you think and wouldn't know an end game if it bit you on the arse in broad daylight!” Robson paused for a drink of water. He managed to get that for himself.

JJ had sat there and took all of the nationalistic insults. Although they were delivered with hateful passion, there were some truths among the vitriol. Only once in his life had JJ felt ashamed to be Scottish. It was when that numpty Kenny McAskill, the Scottish Secretary for Justice, let the Lockerbie bomber go free, ostensibly because he had prostate cancer. Megrahi was supposed to have three months to live, he lasted nearly three years in the comfort of his wife and relatives. What all the families of those on Pan Am Flight 103 would have given for three more years of the company and joy of their loved ones. On that count, Robson was right, it was a fucking disgrace.

“Are you done?” asked JJ, surprisingly not mad as hell.

“I'm done, now fuck off back to your cave,” snarled Robson.

Pleasantries over, JJ rose and left Robson's office without further ado.

* * *

Standing on Horse Guards Road and deciding to walk back to MAM's office, JJ made his first call.

“Victor, it's JJ. You need to get control of the funds now! Once you've done it let me know. I think Robson may have transferred some of the money to another account of his, so check the total that we have in our authority, and see if you can get back any amount transferred out.”

“Sure,” replied Victor. “I'm on it now. I'll call you in a minute.”

JJ hung up and made his second call.

“Sandra, it's JJ. Robson thinks he's in charge of the money, in fact he may have actually transferred some of it to one of his other accounts we have no control over. As soon as I know what we've got left, I'll give instructions to transfer it to the MI5 escrow account you've set up.”

“Thanks, JJ. Is Robson still in his office at the Treasury?”

“He was a few minutes ago. Seemed to be drooling over his good fortune and celebrating by lambasting the Scots for their errors and wicked ways.”

“I'll put an end to that,” said MI5's Director General. “I'm sending a unit now to pick him up. I'm sure we'll have an interesting chat.”

“Good. Thanks Sandra. Speak to you shortly.”

JJ hung up and dialled again. “Becky, is that you? It's JJ Darke.”

“Hi Mr Darke, I mean JJ.”

“Are you OK, nothing unusual going on?” asked JJ.

“No, I'm fine. I'm at my aunt's and I'm going to see my mum tonight.”

“That's great. Look Becky, Neil Robson will probably be picked up by MI5 and officers from the National Crime Agency in a short while. He appears to have been directly involved in your friend's death. I'm sorry. It may be hushed up for a day or so but I can't rule out some media coverage at some point. They may come looking for you for a comment. I suggest lying low so stay in Hampshire until you hear from me again. Is that OK?”

Becky was still digesting the news that her boss was directly involved in Joel Gordon's death. She wasn't thinking totally clearly so just said ‘yes' and hung up.

JJ had barely finished his call to Becky when his mobile rang. It was Victor.

“Hi JJ. It seems that Robson transferred £25 million to an account I can't immediately access. I tried once to hack into it but it's got high level encryption firewall protection. I can do it, but it will take me a little longer.”

“Thanks Victor. Alright, the bulk of the £3.8 billion is still in our control. In the grand scheme of things, £25 million is no big deal. We'll retrieve that later. As soon as you can, transfer the billions into the escrow account number I gave you. Victor…”

“Yes, JJ?”

“It's an MI5 account so don't be tardy and don't be opportunistic!”

“No, Sir!” replied Victor, glad of the heads up even though he did not have any intention of interfering with that transfer.

* * *

JJ was back in his office at MAM. It was a Friday afternoon and he was mentally exhausted. He did have enough beans and enough presence of mind, however, to let Toby and Yves-Jacques know that they were off the FCA's hook. No file, no penalties, no action. Several jumping high fives ensued between the chunky Englishman and the skinny Frenchman. Yves-Jacques was going to Paris for a long weekend, one he owed his girlfriend from awhile back. Toby was heading for Nobu later that night and was teaming up with J-K with the total expectation that the three of them would get wasted. Toby was picking up the tab. The two amigos were in good shape for funds. JJ had already given them sizeable seven figure cash bonuses in thanks for their skilful efforts on selling and delivering the gold haul. They were deliriously happy. No regulatory action to worry about, huge cash windfall and the weekend coming up. What was there not to like?

It had been a landmark day for JJ. All the tasks that needed doing were done. He was going home now, to Markham Square, pack some stuff and fly to Scotland to see Cyrus and his parents. God, how he was looking forward to that. As he was leaving his office, his landline and mobile rang, virtually simultaneously. He dropped his suit jacket on his chair and, standing, answered his mobile.

“JJ, it's Sandra.”

“Hi Sandra, did you get the funds alright?” asked JJ.

“Yes. The funds are fine. They're in MI5's control. The Home Secretary is aware of the whole shebang. She's clean. We will work together next week to ensure that the British government is solvent and British life normal. The PM and Home Secretary, along with the head of the NCA are presently chatting to Jeffrey Walker. He's probably not clean. He'll be asked to resign ‘on health grounds' and quietly disappear.”

“Good stuff,” said JJ. “Have a brilliant weekend.”

“Not so fast, JJ,” interrupted the DG. “It's not all
Little House on the Prairie
. When my team turned up at the Treasury, Neil Robson had gone. His PA has the day off and nobody there knew where he was. My guys drove down to his house in St. George's Hill. His car and his stuff are still there but he isn't. We don't know where he is. We've contacted the airports, the trains, Eurostar, the cross Channel ferries but, so far, no definite sightings nor any reliable intel.”

“When did your team turn up at the Treasury?” asked JJ.

“Around 4.30pm. It took a little time to get organised and coordinate with the NCA. They may be new but they're also slow,” replied Sandra.

“If Robson left the Treasury right after our meeting, and given the traffic would have been a little lighter out of London and down the A3 than it is now then he's probably got a start on us of an hour and a half, maybe two hours,” gauged JJ.

“Probably,” replied MI5's chief.

“He may even know that he can't access the money, Sandra. That'll piss him off mega. He'll be wild and dangerous. You need to track him down.”

“I've got everybody available on it, JJ. The DA-notices have all been sent out and acknowledged. There'll be no leaks regarding your stuff. I'll be in touch when I've any news.”

“Thanks, Sandra,” said JJ and hung up.

As it turns out, Neil Robson was blissfully unaware of all the commotion that was underway in central London. He had indeed left the Treasury almost immediately after JJ had. The traffic was light and he drove his Bentley Continental to St. George's Hill in around forty minutes. He had ordered a cab to collect him twenty minutes later, enough time for the Fin Sec to pack a bag for a long weekend in Amsterdam. The cab dropped Robson at Heathrow, he caught the late afternoon BA flight to the Dutch city and was heading for the Park Plaza Victoria to the north side, not far from Haarlem and Westpark. Neil Robson decided that he would celebrate his massive, ill-gotten gains by treating himself to a dirty weekend in Amsterdam. He didn't bring a friend or companion. Robson's idea of a dirty weekend was to gorge himself in the flesh pots of central Amsterdam, fuck hookers galore and partake in as many Class A drugs that he could get his hands or nose on.

Robson settled into his executive suite on the seventh floor. He had a long, relaxing shower, slipped on the hotel's sumptuous white bathrobe, took a couple of bourbons from the mini bar and flopped, contentedly on his king size four poster bed. He'd probably just have a quick snack before he went out. Didn't want Amsterdam's ladies of the night or shop window to be on their Tod Sloan for too much longer. Before getting dressed he thought he'd open up his tablet and have a quick peek at his now overflowing bank accounts. Robson signed up for the hotel's Wi-Fi access, logged in his password and waited. His accounts appeared. Jesus, what a load of money he thought. Maybe I'll transfer out another £20 million or so, just for the hell of it. Robson put in his transfer instructions. A confirmation message did not appear on his tablet's screen but an animated version of the von Trapp children from
The Sound of Music
did. As Neil Robson looked at this anime incredulously, the children burst into song:

Victor couldn't help it. He wanted Robson to know he was rumbled. Richard Rodgers's tune was more or less intact but the young safe cracker had re-written Oscar Hammerstein II's lyrics, not for the better but for the more Robson appropriate. Neil Robson shut down his tablet and tried again. He turned the volume down as the von Trapp kids were still taunting him. He shook the tablet, tapped the screen harder and harder until his right forefinger hurt. It was no good. Resigned to the fact that he no longer had several billion pounds in his accounts and under his control, Robson threw the tablet across the room, smashing it into the wall. He went over to the fragile but attractive writing desk in his room and dialled London, England. He recognised the voice and greeting at the end of the phone.