Darke Mission (30 page)

“Guess not, my friend,” replied Jim. “C'mon you need to meet some folks.”

Kwon, the Iceman and Lily stood at the side of one of the tankers, out of plain sight, and gave each other a warm Korean handshake, with a few backslaps thrown in.

“Hey Kwon, your new nickname is ‘the Doctor',” said Lily with mirth. “Because the stuff you left us yesterday was spot on.”

“I like that,” replied Kwon. “I do have a medical qualification and my mum was a big fan of the sci-fi TV show.”

Under different circumstances JJ would have been content for the bonhomie to continue but time was flying and they were dawdling in a North Korean seaport. There was sure to be a military presence there. JJ stepped out of his tanker's cab, committing the same fashion faux pas as Jim Bradbury.

“Hi Kwon,” he greeted the Doctor with a warm handshake. “I'm JJ Darke. I'm an ex-MI5 officer, good friends with Jim Bradbury and, for better or worse, the team leader for this mission. Great job yesterday, thank you, your work is much appreciated.”

Kwon returned the greeting. He knew that standing on the Songnim dockside was not the place for the many questions he had for JJ Darke. Before departing Songnim for Pyongyang, JJ, Jim and Kwon sat in the cab of one of the tankers. JJ and Jim gave Kwon much of the information he needed to know and answers to most of the questions he asked.

It appeared that Kwon's immediate responsibility was to babysit the moaner Ji-hun. JJ wanted Kwon to keep Ji-hun with him that night, but to stay in contact in case he was required. If all went well then the next morning Kwon was to deliver Ji-hun across the border to awaiting PAU operatives, with his nine million won intact. The CIA team at PAU would then organise Ji-hun the correct papers, a new identity and a South Korean passport, as promised. Kwon thought that it was a lot of effort for one day's worth of snitching but he was professional and would do his best. He also admired the fact that this JJ Darke wanted to keep a promise in a profession where promises were often worth ziltch.

It was 9.30am and it was time to leave. Ethel, Victor and Ji-hun were in the Sprinter van, Jim Bradbury, Kwon and Lily in one tanker, and JJ with the Iceman in the other. The road from Songnim to Pyongyang was straight and should take about thirty-five minutes to get to the targeted petrol station to park the tankers. There was only one checkpoint on the remaining part of the road, near Chollima. Hopefully it would be as simple as the crossing at Kaesŏng. It wasn't.

The road was quite busy, insofar as any roads in North Korea could be termed busy. It certainly was not the M25 car park but there was a short tail-back at the checkpoint. One of the military guards had recently been promoted and, that morning, he was clearly hell-bent on thoroughness.

The Iceman was driving the lead truck and the guard asked him to step out of the cab. He checked his papers completely. They seemed fine but then he spotted JJ. With his rifle pointing at JJ he made the Scot get out of the cab and started barking orders at him. Of course, JJ hadn't a clue what he was saying but the Iceman translated. Do not move and give me your papers was the gist of the barking. JJ handed them over. Jim Bradbury saw the mini commotion, got out of his cab and walked, slowly and unthreateningly towards JJ. While the guard was inspecting JJ's papers, Jim politely interrupted. He explained in Korean to the guard why they were on the road. Delivering new petrol tankers from PetroChina to Pyeonghwa Motors in Pyongyang. He handed the guard the letters of authorisation from Pyeonghwa Motors along with all the other necessary paperwork. Your average military guard at these checkpoints would probably just look at the papers, maybe peek into the trucks and, if all seemed in order, then that would be that. Not this soldier on this morning. He signalled to his buddy to stand guard over these foreigners and their indigenous companions while he went to call Lee Gun-woo, Assistant Vice President for Logistics at Pyeonghwa Motors.

Lee was real enough, Victor had discovered correctly who the man in charge of transport vehicle logistics at Pyeonghwa was, but he hadn't ordered any new petrol tankers from PetroChina. The rest of the Darke mission team realised that something wasn't going smoothly. They had a vast array of weaponry with them, and they would have liked to be getting prepared if there was to be a shootout. Their vast array of weapons, however, was still snug as a bug in a rug in the Gore-Tex waterproof bags in the tankers. They were, de facto, totally unarmed.

“Hello, Kim Min-su speaking, personal assistant to AVP Lee,” said the pleasant voice at the end of the telephone.

“This is Lieutenant Muk Woo-jin from the Chollima checkpoint, may I speak to Lee Gun-woo?”

“AVP Lee is on one day's vacation, Lieutenant, can I be of any assistance?” replied Min-su.

Muk thought for a moment. He could try and get Lee's PA to track him down, but that would probably take a while and the tail-back at the checkpoint was building up. While he wanted to be thorough, Muk didn't want to cause a traffic jam. One of the ruling party's politicians or army generals may be in the queue and he didn't want a bollicking for being overzealous. Lee Gun-woo existed alright and the letter of authorisation seemed real enough. It was probably OK, he thought, but I'll ask one more question anyway.

“Ms. Kim, are you aware of AVP Lee authorising the delivery of two PetroChina tankers to your company?”

Kim Min-su tried to open up her work email account on her antiquated computer. Everything electronic was going slow this morning and she wanted to catch a tea break with her friend. When the cat's away, the mouse will have a tea break she thought. This lieutenant fellow could be on the phone all day if I don't get rid of him.

“I do not recall, Lieutenant, but we often take delivery of cars and trucks from China. If the driver has a letter of authority from AVP Lee I am sure it is in order.”

“Thank you,” said Muk, and hung up. Lieutenant Muk Woo-jin waved the Darke mission convoy through.

There were silent sighs of relief all round in the PetroChina tankers and the Sprinter van. This mission was moving rapidly towards the business end of matters and with it the concomitant risk of discovery, imprisonment and death.

* * *

Dannielle Eagles phoned in sick that morning. She told her friend Carolyn that she had eaten some bad fish and was chucking up all over the place. Carolyn wished her a speedy recovery and said that she'd pop round to see her later in the day.

In truth, Danniellle wasn't feeling that great, but it was more in the mind than in the stomach. She really wanted to know why JJ Darke was in town and she really wanted to know the status of Operation Philidor Defence. Carolyn hadn't been very forthcoming on the former though Dannielle did conclude that effective radio silence on the latter was to be expected. Yet, she still had a disturbing feeling in her gut, not the result of bad fish, but of nervous tension.

It was nearly midday in Seoul, so close to 7am in Moscow. Time to phone Mother Russia, Dannielle felt.

Dannielle's apartment in Gangnam was very pleasant. It was on a short term let, just for two weeks. She was on the fourth floor of a high-rise building, roughly equidistant from Gangnam station and the PAU Travel office. Carolyn was on the sixth floor. It made sense for them to be close, they worked with each other, got on well and went to the Gangnam office every day, bar today, together.

Today, though, Dannielle went into the keypad lockable safe in the wardrobe of her bedroom and extracted her iPhone. It wasn't any old iPhone but one with a Thuraya Satnav sleeve attached which turned it into a satellite phone. It weighed 3½ ounces and was a bit bulkier than a naked iPhone but the sleeve meant that you could make secure calls from more or less anywhere in the world, with a guaranteed signal and unobstructed transmission. It was not NGA issue. Dannielle only used this phone on special occasions. Today was one of those. Dannielle dialled, she was through.

“Kruglov,” came the curt greeting.

Dannielle announced herself.

“Anyata Ivanovna!” responded the man, sounding delighted to hear from his caller, and using the familiar patronymic style of greeting to a Russian woman that he knew well.

“Igor,” responded Dannielle, more formal but a friendly enough way to address the first Deputy Director of the SVR, the agency responsible for Russia's foreign counter-intelligence.

“These numbers seem a bit suspicious,” said Joel Gordon as he bounded into Neil Robson's office on the third floor of the Treasury.

Joel looked a little like Usain Bolt – not, maybe an inch shorter in height but outweighed by being several inches wider around his midriff. He was around the same age as the fastest man on the planet, came from a Jamaican background, and had indeed progressed up the two flights of stairs that separated his and Robson's office with a decent turn of speed. The similarities more or less ended there. Joel Gordon was a financial accountant and there was a lot less of the showman about him than in the Jamaican super sprinter. Joel Gordon was a top-notch number cruncher. He gained a BSc, first class, in Finance and Accounting from London's Brunel University, joined HM Treasury's finance department and gained a CIMA qualification, working at nights to complete the course. His grandparents had left Jamaica in the 1960s, determined to give their family a good education and better prospects. They settled in the east end of London, near Upton Park, and were a hardworking and honest family. Joel was the first of the UK-based Gordons to gain a place at University and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity that his grandparents had given him.

“Come in Joel,” said Robson, a somewhat superfluous offer as the tall Joel was already inside Neil Robson's office. “Take a seat,” the Financial Secretary to the Treasury continued. “Unload what's on your mind.”

Joel shuffled about with his papers for a moment or two. Although his direct boss was Craig Wilson, the somewhat dull, pro-cycling Executive Secretary to the Treasury, everyone knew that if you had an issue that you wanted resolved then it was better to go to Robson. Even with that he would still have gone to Craig Wilson first, but he was on a cycling vacation in Belgium.
Good luck with that
, thought Joel.

“Well, Sir,” began Gordon. “Mr Wilson asked me to check over our anticipated tax revenues for the current financial year and then compare them with our estimated government expenditures.”

“That's a good thing, right?” said Robson, not yet even moderately fazed by the subject matter.

“It is, Sir, and I would have gone to Mr Wilson first, and not disturbed you.”

“He's off pedal pushing in foreign parts I gather,” interrupted Robson, who did not have much time for the MP for Kensington and Chelsea.

“Yes, he is,” confirmed Gordon.

“And you felt that your number crunching could not wait till his return,” interjected Robson again, not in an unfriendly tone, but pointed enough to hint to young Gordon that he had better have something worthwhile to say.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Gordon. Robson stayed quiet but gave him a look which said get on with it. Joel Gordon recognised the look.

“The issue is, while I'm confident that the numbers we have anticipated for tax revenue in this financial year are attainable, and will stand up to scrutiny within and outwith the government, I'm less sure about the expenditure figures.” Robson nodded and intimated that Gordon should continue. “In particular, the estimates we have for expenditures, including wages, of the NHS, the police and the armed forces seem unrealistically low.”

“How low?” asked Robson now listening somewhat more attentively to the twenty-eight year old.

“I've checked and re-checked the figures, Sir,” Gordon replied. “I've run them through several computer simulations with the government's budget constraint included. It looks like, well…”

“Spit it out, Gordon,” spiked Robson.

“We're £3-4 billion adrift of where Mr Wilson, you, and indeed the Chancellor believe we are,” concluded Gordon, closing his file of jumbled papers, little realising that, of the four of them, only the pedal-pusher was not in the know.

“Can there be no mistake?” asked Robson feigning concern.

“No Sir,” replied Gordon. “I've re-done the arithmetic several times and I've no doubt that there is a £3-4bn hole in the accounts.”

“Does anyone else know about this, Joel?”

“No, I brought my findings straight to you, Mr Robson. As you know I would have gone to Mr Wilson first, but I did not feel it appropriate to divulge this sensitive information in a phone call, email or any electronic transmission.”

“You did the right thing, Joel,” said Robson, significantly relieved. “Leave it with me, I'll take a look at your findings.” Robson held his hand outstretched hoping to receive the file with the damning numbers in it. Joel Gordon hesitated ever so slightly before handing them over.

“Will you take it to the Chancellor?” Joel asked.

The Chancellor, Jeffrey Walker, already knew the UK government was in a big, black hole, £3bn plus deep, thought Robson, but he wasn't going to tell that to this overly inquisitive accountant.

“Yes, I will, Joel, thank you,” answered Robson coolly enough. “In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would keep this to yourself. The general election is not too far away and any issues regarding government finances will be even more under the microscope than usual.”

Joel Gordon nodded but didn't say anything. After a few moments pause, and urged on by the intrinsic gene of ambition in his body, he piped up.

“When you discuss it with the Chancellor, Sir, would you mention it was my work? I know it sounds pushy but the Deputy Head of the Finance department's job is up for grabs I believe and I would like to be considered for it.”

Neil Robson thought that this was somewhat cheeky by the young fellow, but also recognised that he had to keep him on side and quiet. So far, in the government only he and the Chancellor knew about the £3bn black hole and the Financial Secretary's scarily audacious plan to plug it. Now, someone else knew, or thought they knew part of it. That increased the probability of a leak by 33.3% and that was too big a percentage to ignore.

“Sure, Joel,” said Robson, trying to sound friendly. “When is Craig Wilson back from his vacation?”

“In eight days.”

“Well, let's all meet up on his return,” advocated Robson. “I'll have been in discussion with the Chancellor by then and I'll inform Craig what a sterling job you've done. Is that OK?” asked Robson, knowing, of course, that it would be.

“Yes, Sir, that would be excellent. Thank you,” said the accountant. With that, they both stood up, shook hands, and Joel Gordon left Neil Robson's office and proceeded down the stairs to his, stepping jauntily on his way.

Neil Robson re-took his seat. He had no jaunty feeling right at this moment. On the one hand, he had that wise guy JJ Darke out on a thieving mission with very little communication from the recalcitrant Scot. Now, on the other, he had some excessively upwardly-mobile Treasury accountant being way too investigative on the plight of the government finances. Both of these issues needed sorting, thought Robson, as he scrunched up a piece of paper in his right hand largely oblivious to the fact that he was doing it.

Although Neil Robson was MP for Middlesbrough, as well as being Financial Secretary to the Treasury, he spent little time there and nearly always delegated his constituency duties to underlings. While he was born and bred in the area, he didn't give one jot about his constituents. He was one for the good life, which often, for Robson, meant the bad life. He lived outside of London, in St. George's Hill, Weybridge. Houses on that private estate tended to start at £3 million and proceed higher, maybe up to £8-9 million. Robson's house was in the middle of that range as well as, roughly, being in the middle of the estate. Many rich and famous people lived in St. George's Hill. Estate agents always described it as exclusive, which, of course, it wasn't. There were over 400 houses on the 964 acre estate. Admittedly, there was a golf course and a tennis club but if truth be told it was more like a compound than an exclusive estate. Once you stepped out of the barrier controlled gates you were essentially in no-man's land, all roads and cars but nothing much to do or see in the immediate vicinity. His ten year old nephew, whom he did not like nor he Robson, called this house Bowser's Castle and Uncle Neil was King of the Koopas as far as the kid was concerned. Still, if you wished to maintain a low profile amongst A, B and C list celebrities then this was the place to be. Sirs Elton John and Cliff Richard had residences there as did the Swedish criminal Stefan Eriksson. The famous and the infamous, St. George's Hill had them all. Unknown to most of his fellow residents, Neil Robson belonged to the latter group.

As he drove his black Bentley Continental into one of his integral garages, the prime thoughts on Robson's mind were to get in touch with JJ Darke for an update on the mission in North Korea, to figure out what to do with Joel Gordon and his discoveries, whether or not to have a quick snort of cocaine and whether or not to get changed and head to the Nicolas Casino, one of London's largest casinos and the one to which he gave much of his patronage. Patronage in this context simply meant Robson turning up and giving the casino his money. He was £2 million in debt to the casino, specifically its lugubrious Russian owner Vladimir Babikov. This may not be the kind of behaviour and pastimes that the Financial Secretary to HM Treasury should indulge in, but it was the life of Neil Robson. He left MI5 under a cloud and re-invented himself as a politician. He was good with numbers, articulate and an excellent public speaker. He could hold a crowd and he could convince the unsuspecting with his quick wit and superficial charm.

He rose swiftly through the backbench ranks of the Conservative party and came to the Chancellor's attention at a fund raising event in one of his rare visits to his native Middlesbrough. The party did not have much cash to put behind Robson's first attempt at election, but his oratory and local accent saw him trounce both the Labour and Lib Dem candidates in a by-election in the summer of 2009. Jeffrey Walker liked that a lot and soon Robson was ensconced in the Treasury, eventually reporting directly to the Chancellor himself.

Neil Robson was not content with the salary and life style of a quasi-mandarin. He wanted more. More money, more recognition, more most anything including casual sex and drugs. He was a man of action, for god's sake. He had killed two Provisional IRA gunsmiths in the mid-1990s and at least twice as many Iran sponsored terrorists in a MOIS cell, discovered in Birmingham. He was an MI5 officer. That was what he was supposed to do. Well actually, he was supposed to capture and interrogate them but, what the heck; that took time and was hard work. Shooting the bastards was easier and quicker. He didn't like their stupid accents either. All that incomprehensible Irish brogue and abbydabbywallah girning of the towel heads. Even if they were giving up information after a beating, he wouldn't know what the fuck they were talking about. Maybe that was another reason he didn't like Darke. West of Scotland accents could be like Irish ones, all that Gaelic mumbo-jumbo at speed, it was a disgrace to the Queen's English.

Now he had to contend with another foreign accent, that friggin' Jamrock yardie accountant Joel Gordon. Neil Robson didn't like foreigners, he didn't like accents and he didn't like accountants. Trust that woose Wilson to promote the fuckwit who was digging way too deep for his own good and that of Robson. Wilson wouldn't be back for eight days so Joel Gordon needed to be dealt with by then. Tonight though was going to be casino night.

“Vladimir, it's Neil Robson. I was thinking of popping up to the Nicolas tonight. Any good action going on?”

Vladimir Babikov was old school Russian. He was around sixty-five years old, looked like Leonid Breznhev and smoked giant Havana cigars. He had a bodyguard squad made up of six ex-FSB thugs (actually, one of them, Vasily, was just a thug) and there were always at least two of them no further than ten yards away from his person. As he answered this phone call in his opulent office in the Nicolas Casino just off Leicester Square, he had a pair of 6ft plus ‘comrades' at his side.

“Neil, my friend,” Babikov replied, this time friend meaning not friend, not enemy, but someone who owes me money. “There is a high-roller blackjack game in a private room plus all the usual attractions,” he continued. Neil Robson quite liked blackjack, he felt he had an advantage being exceptionally numerate and quick of thought. His £2 million debt tab to Babikov suggested otherwise.

“Great,” said Robson. “I'll be up around 9pm.”

“Sure, Neil. We'll have some vodka and a chat too. I may have a nice girl for you to meet.”

Robson hoped that the vodka would be good. He wasn't so sure about the chat, and the ‘nice girl' would be some high class hooker or Russian prostituka acquired by Babikov to keep his best clients amused – at a price to their wallet and potential reputation. The chat would be about the £2 million that Robson owed. There was no realistic way to dodge the debt. Babikov was rumoured to have ordered the death or mutilation of at least eight late payers. If you owed less than £1 million and were late you lost a few fingers, or an ear and then had 50% interest added to your bill. If you owed more than £1 million and were late you were tortured, mutilated and, after an agonisingly long while, killed. Babikov then went after your family for the debt. Nothing had ever been proven against the wily Russian but Robson had no doubt that the stories were true.

As Robson was driving into the Nicolas Casino's car park, at the top end of Leicester Square, he was mulling over his blackjack strategy for the evening, the problem of Joel Gordon and whether Babikov's nice girl was to be a blonde, redhead or brunette. At least two of these mulls were quickly resolved. Robson may be numerate but he was no
Rainman.
Before midnight, Robson's debt to Babikov had increased by a further £500,000. The nice girl was a lovely creature, skinny, great artificial tits and thick platinum bottle blonde hair with extensions. A quick shag in a side room was all he had time for before he was summoned to Babikov's office.