Darke Mission (34 page)

It was a message from Babikov. It was a short message, only two words.

* * *

Gil could not get hold of JJ. She knew enough about his mission to realise that this meant that he was likely to be in the field and could not answer his phone or communicate electronically, probably somewhere in North Korea. It may also mean that he was captured or dead but if that had happened in the recent past she hoped that some contact in the CIA would have been in touch. In any event, she did not feel in her bones that her boss and mentor was dead. The whole incident of the black Merc shadow had put Gil on alert. Her training session with Cyrus last night was reasonably hard core. The boy was exhausted and went straight to his room afterwards to chill, perchance to sleep. His self-defence skills were improving but he was still way short of being able to triumph in an unexpected street attack or having to face multiple assailants. He was only fourteen though, rationalised Gil, and he was probably in the top 1% of the earth's fourteen year olds as far as self-defence was concerned. That would mean he had about 1.5 million self-defence peers. Let's hope none of them were lurking near Markham Square.

Sometimes Gil had to mentally shake herself out of her mathematical train of thought. As a kid she was all about numbers, percentages, ratios. I mean, she thought, who else would bother to know how many fourteen year olds there were in the world at any given time? Back on point, Gil was up early today. She would prepare breakfast for herself and Cyrus. She had already told him that she would walk along the school route with him that morning, claiming she was on her way to check out a new gym but actually to check out the preponderance or not of black Mercs in the vicinity.

“Time to get up sleepy head!” Gil called up the stairs in the direction of Cyrus's bedroom.

“I'm up, I'm up, crazy woman!” Cyrus yelled back. “I'm going for a shower, I'll be down in fifteen minutes.”

I'll hold him to that precise time thought Gil, working out when she had to start cooking the four egg plate of scrambled eggs for the boy, then the toasted and buttered bagel to go with it. An orange juice, some water and an apple would complete his breakfast fayre for today.

Cyrus came lolloping down the stairs, dumped his school kit in the hallway and sauntered into the kitchen, fully dressed, apart from his trainers, and curly mop all wet and floppy.

“Smells good,” Cyrus said, feeling quite hungry after his major league physical exertion the previous night and his subsequent long sleep.

“Don't expect this treatment every morning, young man. You trained really well last night so now you have to feed those muscles. Any DOMS?”

“No DOMS,” answered Cyrus, pleased with himself. “Normally, I'd get some muscle soreness about twenty-four hours after training, so tonight may be a bit stiff.”

The pair enjoyed their breakfast and then headed out. The route to Cyrus's school took him down Smith Street, towards Royal Hospital Road. There was no sign of the black Merc. Gil was relieved. Maybe yesterday was one of those one in a million coincidences. They do happen, otherwise they'd be none in a million.

“See ya later Gil,” said Cyrus as he strolled through the school gates, fist bumping a couple of his friends.

“Bye, Cyrus, see you tonight,” replied Gil, just dawdling long enough to ensure the boy was safely inside the fairly secure school grounds.

Gil walked straight on for a few yards, just in case Cyrus decided to have a look to see if she was going in the stated direction of the new gym. He wasn't looking. She turned around and re-passed the school gates. Seconds later Gil's body tensed sharply. At the edge of her peripheral vision she could see the offside exterior mirror of yesterday's black Merc sticking out from behind a narrower girthed car, in a side street opposite the school gates. Gil didn't need to see the whole car to know it was the shadow car. While the body of the Merc in question was all black, the exterior mirrors were silver in colour and she had noted that yesterday. There were many Mercedes cars in SW3, and a good sprinkling of them were black. E-class Mercs like this one, were quite popular too. E-class Mercs with tinted windows and silver exterior mirrors were not unknown but they didn't proliferate. Gil's NSA training and her prior state of alert kicked in. She did not turn her head fully to look at the Merc and she did not change her walking pace as she continued on her route back to Markham Square. Cyrus would be safe inside the school. One of the reasons JJ and Eloise had selected this school for Cyrus was that it seemed to be security conscious. You couldn't just stroll in even if you were a parent. There was an entry phone and you had to declare who you were to get in to the main building. Then you were met by a member of the non-teaching office staff. If your name was not already on their list of approved people or if you were not recognised you got no further, certainly not to any of the classrooms. Whatever this Merc driver was up to, snatching Cyrus, or interfering with him in any way was not going to be on the agenda, not at this school, not today, or any day, vowed Gil.

As Gil made her way back to Markham Square, intent on ‘gearing up' in case things got ugly, Boris Akulov was sitting in his Merc fuming away. Not cigarette fuming but bad mood fuming. Boris was around 5ft 9in, thirty-four years old, slim, short blond wavy hair, pale complexion, uninteresting eyes and a long nose. His nose was so extensive, kids at his school in Moscow called him ‘beaky'. After he had broken one of the other seven year old's noses, they kind of stopped calling him that, at least to his face. Beaky Akulov was in a foul mood because he didn't want this job, tailing a kid. He was an ex-FSB officer and, in Moscow, he had been used to forcibly entering people's homes catching them at all sorts, listening in to dodgy domestic Russian transmissions, generally doing stuff that helped maintain the internal security of Russia. Every now and then he had to manufacture evidence against some deluded dissident but, hey, that was fun, a bit like doing a creative writing story at school. Boris did not want to leave Russia and he certainly did not want to work for a scumbag like Vladimir Babikov. Beaky's Achilles heel though, as far as Russia was concerned, was that he was as gay as a parrot. In homophobic Russia that was not good. Gay folk were lobbed in jail, disappeared, beat up. It was illegal to be a gay man or lesbian woman in Russia and while national laws needed to be respected, all it did was force gay sexual desires underground, making them more dangerous and more disease prone.

His boss at the FSB had discovered his illegal peccadillo. It didn't take much intelligence work as he was caught red handed, or red knobbed to be accurate, shafting some poor FSB mail delivery boy in a dark and dingy corner of the mail room. Due to his prior sound record the FSB hierarchy gave him the choice of a couple of years in Butyrka prison or leaving Russia and seeking gainful employment elsewhere. Akulov's cousin worked as a croupier in one of Vladimir Babikov's gambling establishments in Moscow and he had recommended Beaky to his boss. It was an option with no other option. Moscow's Butyrka prison was horrendous, overcrowded, rat infested, absolutely disgusting and inhumane. As an ex-FSB agent he would not last a month in that snake pit. Babikov and London it was.

To begin with, working for Babikov wasn't all that bad. He had topped two of the worst debtors, one a pistol shot to the head and the other smothered by a pillow as he lay asleep. However, word was beginning to spread amongst the gambling community and the idiot punters were getting the pre-match message that being in debt to the scumbag Russian was not healthy. Topping targets had dried up and now here he was, Boris Akulov, ex-FSB officer and protector of Russian national security, tailing a curly topped kid who seemed to have an Asian cripple for a nanny. Still, thought Akulov, in one of his more optimistic moments, who knows where this job will take me. The kid's quite good looking with a pert skinny arse. Maybe I'll get a chance to explore that opening further, he smirked to himself.

* * *

Neil Robson did not know by name either Boris Akulov or Vasily Yugenov. He would have recognised their faces as they were often at Vladimir Babikov's side in his office at the Nicolas Casino. Babikov rotated his six man bodyguard squad; he did not want any one or two of them getting too close and maybe learning more about his nefarious activities than he wanted. As Robson sat in his office in the Treasury, he poured himself a stiff scotch even though it was only 10.30 in the morning. He was confident that he had things in hand. He had asked Babikov for help and the grisly Russian assured him that both stakeout and surveillance operations were underway. The Gordon stakeout was likely to get a bit uglier soon, mused Robson but he could not, absolutely fucking could not, afford the Jamrock yardie accountant spilling his guts to Craig Wilson. If that limp-wristed woose of an MP got hold of the information on the government's finances he'd be all over it like a rash. As far as Robson and Chancellor Jeffery Walker were concerned that rash would develop into a terminal infection, costing both of them their jobs and probably entailing an unpleasant stay at Her Majesty's pleasure. If only the stupid dope Gordon hadn't emailed Wilson, then he may still have a career, even a life. Well, that's tough shit for him, thought Robson. In the decision tree of life choices that Jamaican had just crawled onto the last precarious branch.

Satisfied in himself that he had had no option but to order the silencing of Joel Gordon, the Financial Secretary to the Treasury turned his thought processes to the case of JJ Darke. He wasn't surprised or alarmed that he had not heard much from the miserable Scot. If the timetable was broadly intact then Darke would likely be in North Korea now and probably tooling up for the raid on the DPRK's central bank tonight or tomorrow night. It would not really be possible to have a cosy chat in those circumstances. Still, he did not trust Darke. The guy had an impeccable record at MI5 and even when confronted with this insider trading allegation he was all prepared to take the fall if his colleagues would be left untainted. The only reason he had agreed to this crazy plan, but potentially mega-profitable for HM Treasury and more importantly, Robson himself, was to protect his co-workers and, more crucially, his son. Indeed, realised Robson, young Cyrus Darke was the key piece in this particular game of clandestine chess. Whatever else was going on, JJ would strive to ensure that no harm came to the boy. If all went to plan, concluded Robson, no harm would come to him. A watchful eye on the young fellow was all that was needed for now. Anything more intrusive would be up to his dad.

* * *

Talisha had really enjoyed
Tower Heist
. Joel quite liked it too but hoped that the Ferrari 250 GT Lusso that got battered and gouged was not real. You didn't need to be a car lover to appreciate that many Ferraris of that vintage were indeed works of art. He needn't have worried on that score. As in
Ferris Bueller's Day
Off
and the TV series
Miami Vice
the on-screen Ferraris used were not real. In the case of
Tower Heist
two replicas of the Lusso were built by an American coachworker, using the platform and selected parts of a Volvo 1800. Joel was feeling a bit horny now, not aroused by anything human in the movie but by Talisha's low-cut white top, which revealed way more than a glimpse of her wicked boobs. His luck wasn't in. Talisha had gone all ‘not tonight Josephine' on him, a much quoted phrase incorrectly attributed to the most famous diminutive French general. She had had a tough day at work and while she was feeling loads better, she was becoming tired and simply wanted Joel to take her back to her apartment. It was only a brisk twenty minute walk away. Talisha would have stayed at Joel's but all her clothes were at hers and she needed to be more than presentable for an important meeting the next day. His ardour doused, Joel defaulted to his base position as the perfect gentleman.

“Sure, honey, I'd love to,” said the now deflated Joel. “Let's freshen up, get our stuff and get going.”

“Thanks babe,” replied Talisha, Joel was a really nice guy she thought. The happy couple left Oberon Court hand in hand with the intention of cutting across Katherine Road, along Grangewood Street and then into Redclyffe Road where Talisha lived. Vasily Yugenov was alert in his car. After his murderous instruction from Babikov, Vasily had been contemplating awaiting the early hours of the morning, breaking into Gordon's flat and garrotting him. That plan was up the creek for now as he espied the two black people walking along the road away from the Audi. Talisha was tired and Joel was content that he had had a nice evening with her. Neither noticed the black Audi.

Vasily did not know whether the abbyssyanas were off for a late night walk or going to a bar, or a club, or whatever. He did decide though that he would be better following them on foot, as they did not appear to have transport or at least were not using it if they had. He did not take all of his surveillance paraphernalia with him, just his garrotte and pistol. The thug's pistol of choice was a MKIII Ruger .22 with threaded barrel. The type of barrel was important because the two Ruger models which had threads meant that they could accommodate suppressors. This did not make any shot completely silent but it was a whole lot quieter than a naked gun. The Ruger .22 was light, with polymer frame, steel barrel and weighing around thirty-two ounces, probably nearer forty with suppressor attached. Vasily's designer suit was too tight for him to wear a holster so he simply tucked the Ruger into his pants, safety catch engaged. In most close altercations, however, Vasily preferred his fibre-wire garrotte. He was a skilled killer with this weapon. Provided you approached the intended target with stealth, then once the garrotte was around the neck that was that. The target's windpipe was crushed, no sounds, no squeaks and no cries for help. Strangulation also did not involve blood spurting everywhere so liquid evidence, DNA samples and other incriminating elements were not left lying around.