Darke Mission (31 page)

“Neil, come in, have a drink. Help yourself,” welcomed Babikov, gesturing to an expansive burgundy leather chair on which Robson was to sit. On the dark mahogany side table next to him sat a bottle of Hangar One Vodka, with one crystal glass tumbler. Hangar One Vodka was interesting partly because it was distilled from viognier grapes and the process was done in an abandoned hangar, and partly because it was made in California. Babikov himself was downing a glass of Zyr vodka on the rocks; only pure Russian for him.

“I trust you have had a pleasant evening, Neil? Was Dina to your liking?”

“She was fine, Vladimir, thanks, short and sweet,” replied Robson knowing that the pluses and minuses of his furtive fuck were not the main course on Babikov's likely menu of questions.

“Good, I am pleased,” said Babikov. “We have this small matter of your debt to the casino, my friend. Do you have a plan?”

Under normal circumstances, Robson would not have a plan and would be fearful for his fingers, other appendages and his very life. The Englishman was a survivor, however, a sleekit beastie, but not at all timorous.

“I do Vladimir, I do,” replied Robson. “It may be a bit more complex than you would like ideally but this is compensated for by the fact that you will get ten times what I owe you plus an additional fee if you can help me with a small problem I have at work.”

Vladimir Babikov had been around on the planet long enough and had authorised the mutilation and murder of enough late payers to realise most debt repayment plans in this circumstance were a load of codswallop. Folk would say anything to save their limbs and their life and this was even more certain when they were staring at a pair of pliers or a canvas roll of shiny medical utensils brandished by evil looking Russians. Robson was different. For starters, he was a member of the British government and quite high ranking at that. At some point in the future that could be helpful. Secondly, he was an ex-MI5 operative. That made him tougher than most debtors, also more aware of the elements of darkness in the real world. He would surely not be stupid enough to try to fool this creditor. Thirdly, most debtors in this position struggle to have a credible plan just to pay back what they owe. Robson, however, was offering £25 million plus a fee paying job to offset a debt of £2.5 million. That was at least good enough economics to warrant listening to his proposal.

“Go ahead, Neil,” resumed Babikov, filling his glass with some more Zyr. “Tell me your proposal.”

Neil Robson gave Vladimir Babikov an outline of his plan. It omitted the state of the British government's finances, the outrageous nature of the gold acquisition plan and its dependence on a Scot that he neither liked nor trusted. Robson told the Russian that he was to receive a substantial sum of money in the next two weeks. That money would come from the sale of gold bullion that was to come into his possession. Robson thought it wise, on health and credibility grounds, to give some detail. He also thought that since Babikov must be heavily involved in the money laundering business, he may wish to hold gold bars instead of cash. The choice would be his.

“And you say you will have this money within two weeks?” asked Babikov, seeking additional confirmation of the timetable.

“Yes,” replied Robson, knowing that a short, decisive affirmative was probably called for at this juncture. Babikov feigned pondering for a few moments. He felt this was a great deal on the face of it and he fancied having a few gold bars to look at. Even after the deal was done he would still have a bucket load of incriminating evidence on the Financial Secretary to HM Treasury, ranging from excessive gambling and cocaine snorting to sexual indiscretions, so often the downfall of British politicians.

“OK,” said Babikov eventually. “I agree. I am a generous man. I will give you four weeks from today. There will be no extensions, my friend. I am also a man of my word and should you decide to deceive me, you will be left with nothing much to extend on your body!”

With that pleasantry, Babikov roared with laughter and the two FSB thugs at his side allowed themselves a goony smirk or two. Robson wasn't roaring with laughter, but he was confident enough in his proposal to have another swig of Hangar One. He had always planned to siphon off a few hundred million from the North Korean gold haul, so £25 million or so to get this limb-chopping crazy Ruski off his back was neither here nor there. That fucking wanker Darke had better deliver he thought and he further thought that he had better get himself some additional leverage over the Scot.

As Babikov and Robson clinked their vodka tumblers to signal an agreed deal, the Russian asked, “Now Neil, about this small problem you have at the office?”

* * *

Joel Gordon was pleased with his day's work. He had been led to believe that Neil Robson was a bit of a dodgy character, but he had seemed pleasant enough to him today. He was glad that he had put in the extra hours on the expenditure figures even though it may mean something of a headache for Robson and Chancellor Walker. Still, one man's pain and all that. If it led him to being promoted to Deputy Head of the Treasury's finance department then great. Joel thought he would celebrate in advance by ringing his girlfriend Talisha to meet him at Pizza Express on Terrace Road, only about twelve minutes' walk from the Boleyn Ground, formerly Upton Park and a further ten minutes or so from where he lived. Normally, Joel preferred eating at the
Ronak
Restaurant
in Romford Road because it had a wide selection of vegetarian dishes that he liked. Talisha liked pizza and every now and then so did Joel.

“Hi babe,” said Talisha in that loudish way that is natural to Americans but still a bit noisy for the rest of us.

“Hi sweetie,” replied Joel, standing up from the table and giving Talisha a warm squeeze. She was an African American by origin but had been transferred to London a few years ago, working for Arthur Anderson, the accountancy conglomerate. Talisha was curvy but slim, despite her liking of pizza, quite tall, with dark, thick brown hair and olive green eyes. Joel felt he was lucky to have such a looker as his girlfriend. They had been going out for about ten months, having met at a local wine bar, and were getting on famously.

“I've ordered your favourite, Margherita with extra pepperoni,” beamed Joel, pleased with himself that he knew and remembered Talisha's favourites. “A Giardiniera for me.”

“Thanks babe,” replied Talisha. “You sounded happy on the phone, good day at work?”

“Yes, I won't bore you with all the details, but I did some good forensic work on the government's finances and I'm hoping that it will lead to a swift promotion.”

“That's great, Joel!” exclaimed Talisha, genuinely happy for her boyfriend. He may not be the most handsome guy in the world, but they got on well, they both had good jobs and were ambitious. If they stuck together, she thought, they may soon be able to move from E13 and E6 to SW3 or SW1. They could still eat at Pizza Express, there was one on the King's Road she knew of but the other shops and their clientele were way more upmarket. Just where she wanted to be.

* * *

Around the same time as Talisha and Joel were tucking into their pizzas, Cyrus and Gil were tucking into theirs. Although the Pizza Express on the King's Road was literally an Olympic discus competitor's throw from their house in Markham Square, they had decided to order take away. Pizza Express didn't deliver so this meant Gil going to get them. She and Cyrus had best of three rock, paper, scissors to decide who should go and Cyrus had won 2-1. Gil claimed that, in fairness, she should, therefore get to choose the movie they would watch. Cyrus agreed but vetoed any out and out chick flick.

“Ok, so what are we watching, Gil?” asked Cyrus, having a hearty munch of his pizza.

“I'm trying to decide between
Skyfall
and
Casino Royale
. Even with the new Bond movie out, I think
Skyfall
may be the best Bond so far.”

Cyrus quite liked the Bond movies. His dad had introduced him to them and, of course, being Scottish he had always claimed that Sean Connery was the best Bond. Even his dad, however, had recognised recently that maybe Daniel Craig was better, or at least more modern realistic with slightly less cheesy double entendres. Cyrus missed his dad and he hadn't had a phone call for a couple of days; he really hoped he was OK.

“I prefer
Casino Royale,
” Cyrus piped up in between mouthfuls.

“You're only saying that because you fancy Eva Green,” teased Gil.

“Were I to fancy any of the celluloid superstar girl actresses in the movie, Gil, it would be Caterina Murino, she's hot to trot, dark and sultry, more my type than the English rose,” elaborated the young man.

“Eva Green is French,” corrected Gil, pleased with her movie knowledge.

“Whatever,” replied Cyrus, still the counter of choice for youngsters when they had lost a verbal joust. “My decision is based on the quality of the bad guy. While Javier Bardem is a great actor, I didn't like him in his role in the first three quarters of
Skyfall.
All that fake blond hair, touching up Daniel Craig on the island and pulling his own dentures out in the MI6 basement. It was gross. By contrast, Mads Mikklesen is all simmering danger, a financier of death, not someone to meet at night in a dark alley.”

“What about his bleeding eye?” countered Gil. “Wasn't that gross?”

“It was, but not as gooey as Bardem's collapsed gob,” conceded Cyrus, being especially Scottish at this particular moment.

“OK, OK,” said Gil. “We'll watch
Casino Royale
… but the song from
Skyfall
is better.”

“Agreed,” said Cyrus pleased to have gotten his way in both movie choice and pizza delivery system.

* * *

While both sets of pizza eaters did not know each other, they were about to have more in common than they would have liked, courtesy of Neil Robson. The slimy debt-ridden politician had agreed to pay Vladimir Babikov £1 million each for two stakeout operations. Robson had had only a one word reply so far to his question to JJ Darke regarding the status of the DPRK operation. ‘Fine' did not really quench the desire for information on the mission that Robson had burning within him, but that's all he had received so far. In case Darke was up to any shenanigans or even thought of double crossing his old MI5 colleague, Neil Robson convinced Babikov to allocate him one of his ex-FSB bodyguards to shadow Cyrus Darke. This shouldn't be a difficult job, thought Robson. We're talking about a fourteen year old kid who was barely aware of his willie let alone the dangers that lurk around every big city corner. The kid went to school, sometimes had after school clubs, went home, went out and seemed to have a partially crippled Asian nanny to accompany him on occasion. Hardly a serious tester for Boris the thug, assessed Robson. Still, if Daddy Darke fucked up in any way, shape or form Robson needed to have instant leverage over and above the insider trading stick. The kid would be fine and dandy as long as his dad kept his end of the bargain.

Vasily the thug may have a more involved task to earn his boss the extra £1 million. Vasily's job was to shadow Joel Gordon. On the face of it, not that much more difficult than Boris's operation. Joel Gordon went to work, came back, sometimes went out with a girl, sometimes went to the gym. He was as easy to shadow as the Darke lad. Robson, however, was iterating towards the conclusion that Joel Gordon needed to have an accident. Neither he nor Chancellor Walker could afford to have any leaks sprung regarding the hole in the government's finances. It was a sure-fire election loser. Both the Chancellor and Robson would likely join the ranks of the unemployed and while Walker may earn a few bob with his soporific memoirs and some non-executive directorships, Robson at best, could look forward to a couple of high-paying after dinner speeches and then that would be that. If they were exposed before Darke came back with the gold then the Scot might feel that he and his colleagues were off the insider trading hook, and abandon the gold mission. No, no thought Robson, the young accountant had to be either talked out of it or taken out of it.

“Come in Joel,” welcomed Neil Robson. “Thanks for agreeing to this meeting at short notice. Tea? Coffee?”

“A green tea would be nice if you have it,” replied Joel Gordon. “A plain black one if you don't,” he added. “No sugar.”

He's a fucking dreamer, thought Robson. Green tea in HM Treasury. Give me a fucking break. He's lucky to get a proper cup, the dimwit. Robson poured Joel a cup of plain black tea and one for himself with milk and sugar included.

“Joel, I have news and I have a request. The news, and I hope you consider it to be good news, is that I've had a word with the Chancellor. He was very impressed with your detailed report. He instructed me to tell you that as soon as the election is won, you will get the Deputy Head of Finance position.” Robson sounded convincing, as befitted his status as one of the government's better orators. In truth, he hadn't mentioned a word to Jeffrey Walker. The Chancellor was already having a queasy meltdown over the £3bn hole and the illegal plan to fill it. If he knew that Joel the financial Rottweiler had his teeth clamped on the issue, he'd probably throw in the towel.

Joel Gordon absorbed the news. Ideally, he had wanted the job before the election, but, hey, it was only a matter of months, he could wait.

“Thank you, Mr Robson, that's great news,” said Joel.

“No need to thank me, Joel,” Robson replied. “You've earned it through your work,” he added insincerely.

“You said you also had a request, Sir?”

“Yes, Joel. The Chancellor and I believe strongly that we need to keep this information strictly between the three of us. Walls have ears and the Treasury has a lot of porous walls. We totally trust you but each additional person that knows, guesses, implies that the government has a £3-4bn black hole increases the probability of an external leak and one which would be fatal to the government's re-election prospects.”