Darke Mission (47 page)

“Right, Gary, good,” said O'Neill. “Send the photographs to John Adams at the CIA. Tell him it's most urgent that we get an answer to whose they are. Get back here as soon as you have one.” There was no way O'Neill was going to Reynolds' direct boss, just in case he was her direct handler too. Gary Whitton got his gear together and went back to his station to upload the photographs for John Adams. He gave Barry his tablet back. Dannielle Eagles had noticed that there had been something going on and had also noticed the absence of O'Neill, Harris and her friend.

“Anything the matter?” she asked Gary Whitton as he sat only a few stations away from her.

“No, nothing,” replied the young medic, trying to be even toned but sounding a little rattled. “Just have to send some photographs to Langley and await a reply,” he added, again attempting to be casual. A few minutes elapsed and Gary Whitton had his reply. He got off his seat and made his way at normal walking pace to the goat locker. He did not acknowledge Dannielle as he left nor any of the SEALs that were on the conn.

“Gary, what have you got?” asked O'Neill. Harris re-took hold of Reynolds' arm. She fired him a look that could kill but said nothing.

“Assistant Director Adams said the photographs were clear enough to detect three sets of prints. Two were ours but the other one was…” he hesitated, aware of the company.

“Hers!” exclaimed Harris, pointing accusingly at Reynolds and tightening his grip on her arm.

“No, Sir,” responded Whitton immediately, “the other NGA officer, Dannielle Eagles,” he blurted out. As Gary Whitton's blurt was finalised and before apologies, recriminations and admonishments could begin, Dannielle Eagles entered the goat locker, arms extended and clasping a Stechkin automatic pistol firmly in both hands. She was aiming directly at Mark O'Neill. Nobody moved.

“Your gun looks Russian, Dannielle, a bit like yourself,” said Carolyn, truly shocked but trying to be professional and calm.

“Yes, Carolyn. I always have been, always will be,” replied Dannielle, keeping the gun firmly pointed at O'Neill's head but eyes darting around the living quarters, scanning the other three Americans. The Stetchkin was heavy and unladylike but it could fire 750 rounds per minute, twelve per second. Mark O'Neill was not likely to be the only victim if Eagles let loose.

“I don't know what's in your pathetic Ruski mind Dannielle and I don't much care, but you're not getting out of here. You know that, right?” said Carolyn.

“Oh, I don't know about that, my friend. I suggest we all go to the conn and surface. A Russian submarine or warship will probably be on its way to pick us all up. Then we can have a cosy chat,” said Dannielle cool as an ice cube. “Go on, Commander shift your well-formed butt. You too Harris. Whitton you and my ex-BFF stay here. If I see either of your pea-heads coming through this partition you'll have around four 9mm rounds each in them,” she added, fully in control of the situation. Neither O'Neill nor Harris really knew what to do. They could rush her but at least one of them would die. Eagles' gun would probably have released up to a dozen rounds before she was toppled to the deck. In addition to either O'Neill himself or Harris being dead or injured, half a dozen of the bullets would be ricocheting around like a puck in a tilt machine. If the Stetchkin was loaded with 9mm parabellum rounds then some armour piercing was possible. Any of the five of them could be hit and the submarine's external skin punctured.

Eagles had the drop on O'Neill, and probably Harris but she was outnumbered and could not take all her adversaries down before being overpowered. As Commander O'Neill was contemplating moving his well-formed bum, with the intention of buying time and forcing Eagles into having to contain the rest of the SEALs on board, the Borei took a massive lurch to the port side. Both Moskit missiles from the
Admiral Vinogradov
had entered the water and exploded. There was no direct hit but the resulting shockwave was powerful. Shockwaves from this type of missile come in two stages. The primary shock causes the target to lurch, often causing significant damage to personnel and equipment on board. The second shock comes from the cyclical expansion and contraction of the gas bubble created by the rapid chemical reaction of the volume of water displaced by the solid object now occupying that space. This secondary shock can cause the submarine to bend backwards and forwards. In extremis, it can cause a catastrophic breach of the sub's hull.

The Moskit missiles' shockwaves had not been close enough to breach the Borei's hull. They had been strong enough, though, to send flying the three navy SEALs and two NGA officers in the goat locker. Gary Whitton fell backwards, through the goat locker's partition and into the submarine's main area. O'Neill went crashing into a bunk and split his forehead. Harris was down too. Eagles had lurched forward and lost her footing as she careered into her NGA colleague. Her right hand had hold of the Stetchkin until she flattened Carolyn and she had unintentionally let off twelve rounds as she tumbled. Two of the 9mm parabellums ricocheted off of the ceiling of the living quarters and both of them hit Evan Harris, one in his right thigh and one in his right arm. The rest of the bullets ended up nowhere interesting and had not caused any further human damage as far as could be told.

Eagles reacted first. Reynolds had broken her fall and now the Russian was on top of her former friend. Carolyn was not injured significantly; she was sore as her head had hit the floor, just missing a pillow randomly ejected from one of the bunk beds, whose bedding was now everywhere. Reynolds was rudely awakened from her daze by Eagles' hands pressed around her throat and the yelling of ‘bitch' resounding loudly in her ears. Reynolds put both her arms together, outstretched and drove an arm wedge inside the gap in her assailant's arms anchored by her own throat, and drove them outwards with force. Eagles had to let go of her grip. As Eagles' head dipped, Carolyn raised hers swiftly and firmly planted a ‘Glesga kiss' on the bridge of the Russian's nose. Dannielle Eagles let out a painful scream. Her once attractive nose was broken and her nasal blood was spreading voluminously into the artificial atmosphere. Both NGA women rose to their feet. Eagles was now the more disoriented. Reynolds took advantage of this. Left-hook to the side of the head, followed by right spinning elbow to the other side. The big Maasai wouldn't think so much of his love interest's looks now, thought Carolyn, in a pico second of self-mirth. Eagles tried to fight back, but her vision was impaired, as Carolyn's spinning elbow had led to an instantaneous cracker of a split eyebrow and swollen eye. Carolyn was not contemplating mercy. Her BFF had betrayed her, and all of American society in which Eagles had been educated and trained. On top of that, the Russian slut had just tried to choke her to death. Carolyn pounded on, right cross, low kick to the left shin, knee to Eagles' chin as her head jerked lower when the Russian clutched her damaged leg. Eagles crumpled.

Suddenly, the submarine lurched again, this time less dramatically than before. The Silex missiles from the
Admiral Vinogradov
had arrived on the scene. No direct hits. The primary and secondary shockwaves were less powerful than from the Moskits but strong enough to topple Carolyn. Flat on her back again, she managed to support herself on her elbows, only to find Dannielle Eagles already on her knees but in renewed possession of her Stetchkin, now pointing directly at Reynolds' head.

“This time, you American whore, you will die,” gurgled Eagles through a river of blood, snot and other bodily fluids. In that millisecond of time that it would take for Eagles to pull the trigger and at least one 9mm Parabellum round to exit the barrel and enter Carolyn's head, JJ's daughter saw images of her dad, her mum, her brother, the children she would never have. The images were like blipverts in
Max Headroom
but they were there and sharply visible in her mind.

Carolyn felt nothing but she heard a piercing wail. It was not from herself. Evan Harris had been conscious enough to see and comprehend the NGA girl fight. As Dannielle Eagles was about to pull the trigger, he had silently extracted his ka-bar knife from its weathered leather sheath. Harris was attached to this weapon and kept it on his person at all times. It weighed only half a kilogram and had a blackened 7 inch blade. With his uninjured left hand he drove his ka-bar into Eagles' right leg Achilles tendon. Eagles swung to her right in excruciating and noisy pain, intent on shooting Harris, but Carolyn was on it like a shark on meat. From her supine position, Carolyn launched into a figure-four choke hold, right leg bent around Eagles' neck, left leg keeping the right in place and also trapping the gun-wielding right arm of the Russian. This move, expertly performed by several UFC champions is known as a triangle choke because the aggressor's legs look like a triangle with the victim's head popping through the hole. Carolyn wasn't a UFC champion but her application of the triangle was good enough. She applied as much pressure as she could with this restraint, restricting Eagles' blood flow from her carotid arteries to her brain. A skilful choker and a strong, stubborn UFC fighter could probably take this for forty-five to sixty seconds before the chokee tapped out, desperate to breath, admitting defeat. Eagles, though, no longer had any strength, she was exhausted, bleeding from her nose, her right eye and her right leg. She had nothing left. Carolyn was not letting go of her choke hold. As Eagles dropped her gun and went full body limp, Carolyn could hear a voice but it wasn't clear yet in her aural channels. She had tunnel concentration, squeezing, forcing the last ounce of breath from her former friend's lungs.

“Carolyn, Carolyn, let go, she's done,” said Harris, finding it difficult enough himself to speak. Mark O'Neill was in the process of getting up too, blood pouring from his head wound. Eventually, Carolyn understood what Harris was saying. She released her hold and Dannielle Eagles collapsed, lifeless on to the deck of the goat locker. Igor Kruglov was down one committed Illegal, his favourite, Anyata Ivanovna.

The next few minutes on the Borei were hectic. There were no more explosions to worry about. Gary Whitton was beavering away patching up the wounded SEALs, Harris was in the worst condition and the Commander's head wound needed quite a few field stitches. Once O'Neill had been stitched up and had checked that his team and Carolyn were alright he was on the conn. He ordered Fairclough and McCoy to alter their course slightly just in case more missiles were going to come their way. Before the goat locker confrontation, Eagles had partly disabled the radar and sonar system which was why the Borei crew had no forewarning of the incoming missiles. Evan Harris was recovering in the goat locker lying in a bunk directly opposite Carolyn who was less injured but more worn out by her physical trauma and, perhaps understandsably, occasional feelings of guilt that she had just killed Dannielle. Whitton had sorted out Harris with a couple of tourniquets, some Kerlix gauze and bandages. His bleeding had stopped.

“I'm sorry, Reynolds,” muttered Harris. “For thinking it was you, and roughing you up a bit.”

“It's alright frog features,” responded Carolyn, her spirit recovering and glad even for a moment to be relieved of her thoughts. “I'd have probably thought the same, if I'd had a one-dimensional empty box for a brain in my jarhead,” she replied, attempting a smile.

“A jarhead is a marine, Reynolds, not a—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever Harris. I know that. It was pointed out to me a while back by that dead bitch there,” interrupted Carolyn. Harris didn't have the energy to respond. The navy SEAL and the NGA officer looked at each other. It was a score draw in saving each other's life and they were both glad the other had survived.

Once the captured Borei had settled and its crew were back on point, Mark O'Neill returned to the goat locker to see how Harris and Reynolds were doing.

“Evan, how do you feel?”

“I'm good thanks, Mark. Whitton got the bullets out, gave me some blood, stitched me up fine and, Bob's your uncle, I live and breathe.”

O'Neill turned his attention now to Reynolds. “Carolyn. I'm so sorry we even doubted you, I…”

“Oh it's Carolyn again is it? No officer Reynolds, or just Reynolds, or fucking Russian spy Reynolds then? You're worse than Harris. He's admitted he's a brainless frog, but you're supposed to be smart!” she hollered. Harris looked moderately confused at this point. He did not recall admitting to being a brainless frog. O'Neill was contemplating a response but, wisely, thought the better of it. “So, Commander,” continued Carolyn. “Do you think, with that big, ugly gash in your head, that you are still capable of getting this submarine to Scotland?”

“Yes, I am,” O'Neill replied, not sure yet whether or not his desired date was about to let up on her attack.

“Good. In that case,” stated Carolyn, “I'm going to find a top class restaurant on the banks of Loch Lomond and you, Mark O'Neill, are going to take me for the most expensive, slap-up, steak dinner ever, on planet Earth, known to mankind, nay thought about by mankind. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” replied O'Neill, both happy and feeling poorer already.

“I don't want to spoil this lovely moment,” moaned Harris. “But what are we going to do with Eagles' body?”

Before his Commander could respond, NGA officer Reynolds interjected.

“We're going to put her in a body bag and fire the treacherous bitch out of one of the torpedo tubes and into the Indian Ocean.”

O'Neill and Harris looked at each other. Harsh but fair seemed to be the conclusion.

JJ had decided to sit in the Mercedes Sprinter van for the first part of the journey from Seoul to London. The pilots of the Hercules C-5 transport plane were friendly but JJ wanted to be with his thoughts for a while, on his own. He would join the pilots later.

It had been a humid morning in Seoul so JJ donned his favourite dark blue polo shirt and the cargo pants he hadn't worn since Fathead came a-visiting his house in Markham Square on Greek bond night. As he was ferreting about in his pants' pockets he came across around £120 in sterling, mainly twenties. That was cool, finding cash that you had forgotten about or ‘lost' always gave you a mini-boost. Mashed in with the cash was a scrap piece of paper with some writing on it. It was from Toby aka Fathead. He must have given it to JJ on Greek bond night but the Scot had overlooked it in all the confusion. It was Fathead's limerick entry for last year's Christmas quiz. As a MAM employee Toby was not eligible for the case of champagne prize but that didn't stop him having a go every year. He wasn't a poet and everybody did indeed know it.

JJ couldn't help but laugh even though it was a grievously bad limerick, and didn't even follow limerick rules! True to form Toby hadn't tried to solve the currency question, which you needed to do to win the prize. The limerick was meant to be the tie-breaker in the event of several correct answers. The MAM Christmas quiz had attracted more than 200 entries last year. The winner was a client from R-Squared Capital in Toronto. She had correctly worked out the currency answer was the New Zealand dollar and she was the only one who had it right.

As he rested his head on the back of the passenger seat in the van, JJ recalled how much simpler life was back then, only a few short months ago. It was a time before cancer, before Neil Robson, before the FCA hounds, before terminating North Korean soldiers and before catching up with his nigh estranged daughter. At least the last of that list was good. On arrival back in London, he really needed to be on the case like Lieutenant Columbo at his best. JJ was well-disturbed by his call home last night. After being so happy to hear Cyrus's voice, all positive and looking forward to beating his dad at some Wii game or other, JJ had spoken with Gil. She told him that someone was tracking Cyrus. Don't worry about it, she said, she was alert and on it. How could he not worry! He was thousands of miles away and couldn't have lifted a finger to help his teenage son if things had turned seriously hairy. Gil was capable and loyal and she would protect Cyrus with all her might, but JJ was his dad and he was meant to be the ultimate protector. JJ did not know why Cyrus was being shadowed but the only logical deduction was that it had something to do with Neil Robson. JJ would find out and woe betide Robson if he even thought about harming Cyrus.

Once JJ had run his full course of Cyrus-thinking he had a list of other tasks to accomplish. Catching up with Ethel's husband and smoothing over her absence from SCO19 would be high on the list, as would making the transfers to pay Ethel and Victor. He would also need to dod some money to Harold McFarlane at McLaren and Vincent Barakat at PLP. Although Vincent's brilliant and innovative sunbeds were not, in the end, used they were fully functional and available for selection. Harold's conveyor systems had worked efficiently in the DPRK's central bank's vaults and the disguised petrol tankers had also done their job, although not in the way initially intended. They would both be paid generously for their skill and effort.

JJ also needed to get in a head to head with Toby. The man he had bigged-up as the best FX and commodities trader in the financial community was going to need to be on the case and in the zone. JJ himself did not have the know-how and the contacts to sell billions of dollars' worth of physical gold. It was going to be down to Toby. If successful then that should be enough to get Robson off JJ's back and that of the other two amigos. Deep in his subconscious, though, JJ knew that getting rid of Neil Robson's blackmail stick wasn't going to be that easy. The scumbag Financial Secretary to the Treasury was probably behind some other scumbag tailing Cyrus. It also did not seem plausible to JJ that the Robson he knew would be so altruistic as to hand over £3bn to HM government without extracting his cut first. Once again JJ realised, even if he did not want to think about it right now, that Neil Robson needed to be dealt with.

* * *

While JJ was flying, Neil Robson was sleeping, tucked up in his expensive and gaudy bed in Bowser's Castle, near Weybridge. He had had a hard night. He had confronted Vladimir Babikov over the botched job on Joel Gordon, though he had to tread carefully in his admonishment. If Babikov had felt unjustly chastised and turned ugly then he would probably have sacrificed the £20m+ that Robson was going to give him and just shoot the Fin Sec or torture him a little. Fortunately, the murderous Russian did feel that he had let down his star debtor, apologised profusely and promised to make it up to the UK government official. Babikov had also offered Robson a free night with one of the casino's top ‘models' and some drugs gratis as well. Robson had enjoyed the voluptuous red head's company while JJ was worrying about Cyrus; after all a quick free fuck and a few snorts of cocaine made for a fine evening.

Today, however, was a new day. It was going to be a good day, and at the pinnacle of it was going to be the demise of one fucking Jamrock yardie, Joel Gordon. Robson got up, kicked the redhead out of bed, literally, and went downstairs to have breakfast. He showered, a little longer than usual, to eradicate any stench of Russian prostituka, got dressed, grabbed his Treasury boxes and briefcase and meandered down to his garage and Bentley Continental. Everything was in order. Hopefully, his early morning drive into London would be traffic light and he could finalise his plan to get rid of Gordon the curious accountant. Gordon's boss, Craig Wilson, Exchequer Secretary to the Treasury, would be back in his office tomorrow. Via the skills of the candescent Becky, his curvy PA, Robson knew that the yardie had scheduled a meeting with Wilson for 3pm on the day of his return. It was 7.30am now so Robson had a day and a third to make Joel Gordon disappear. As he pulled out of the barrier gates of St. George's Hill, he spotted his prior evening's pleasure waiting near the main road, presumably hoping to hail a black cab. Good luck with that, tart, he thought as he drove past her with no acknowledgement whatsoever.

“Good morning, Becky,” said Robson as he entered his Treasury office on Horseguards Road, taking time to give Becky a full visual body scan. Her outfit was skin tight orange today, accentuating tits and bum and her heels were
Reservoir Dogs
killer, making her shapely legs look even more like a catwalk model's.

“Good morning, Mr Robson,” replied Becky, on automatic and not caring one jot about her boss's bum or any other part of his anatomy.

“What's my schedule today?” Robson barked.

“Free in the morning,” responded Becky. “One meeting with Joel Gordon at 2pm and another with Chancellor Walker at 3pm.”

“Fine, get me a cup of tea, would you?” asked Robson, giving a modicum of politeness a brief outing. As Robson was having his tea and morning biscuit, he was mulling over his time in MI5. He had enjoyed it, especially the field trips and more especially when he could top some annoying foreigners. The majority of his wetwork missions usually involved killing by gun, sometimes torture was an appetiser but for the most part a Beretta placed at the captive's temple and bang was the preferred route. Robson had pretty much ruled out shooting Joel Gordon or slitting his throat. Babikov had declined to offer another of his ex-FSB thugs or even just thugs to replace the expired failure Vasily. The Russian had decided it was a bad omen that Vasily had been the unwitting victim of a football gang fracas and did not want to risk any police attention finding its way back to him. Although not entirely happy, fair enough concluded Robson. In any case, he thought, one of the advantages of being an MI5 field officer was that you were trained in more than one way to skin a cat. The morning passed slowly for Neil Robson. His full attention was on his 2pm meeting with Joel Gordon. The Financial Secretary to the Treasury had a clear plan in his mind.

“Joel, good to see you, come in and take a seat.”

Robson appeared very cheery to Gordon, given the parlous state of Britain's finances.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” replied the accountant. “May I ask what the agenda is for this meeting? There were no notes in my planner.”

“I wanted to go over again some of the details that you had uncovered on the government's expenditures. I know that you'll probably see Craig Wilson soon so I just needed to refresh my own information,” replied Robson, with a fake smile. He could hardly tell Gordon that his death was top of the agenda.

“Sure, no problem,” said Joel. “Is my promotion to Deputy Head of the Finance Department still on track Sir?”

“Of course,” replied Robson knowing that it had never been on track and was about to stay that way for good. “Let's have some green tea and cupcakes,” offered Robson. “I know you like green tea and Becky's mum made these delicious cupcakes. Help yourself, Joel, there's a carrot cake kind of one, and a plain vanilla one, try whichever you wish.”

“Thanks, I do like green tea,” replied Joel, happy to see that the Financial Secretary had finally entered the modern, healthy world with his tea selection. “I might try a carrot cupcake if that's alright. I didn't have much lunch.”

“Sure,” replied Robson, his cheery high-pitched tone having dropped back into its more common matter-of-fact level. Neil Robson watched intently as Joel Gordon ate his carrot cupcake, with no emotion in his staring eyes. Another of the advantages of being a shady ex-MI5 officer with even shadier Russian acquaintances was that there was always a method of inflicting death on any enemy that could be tailor-made to fit the occasion. Today's diet of demise involved a variant of polonium-210, the compound which allegedly killed Alexander Litvinenko, former FSB officer, SVR agent and Russian defector in London in 2006.

Polonium is a metal and has thirty-three isotopes, all of which are radioactive. 210 Po which has a half-life of over 138 days is the most widely available. It is not widely available in the sense that cereals are widely available in supermarkets, but, unfortunately for Joel Gordon, it seemed more readily available to Russian bad guys than it should have been. In the old days, isolation of polonium from natural sources was a tedious and laborious process. However, in the modern world, polonium is obtained by irradiating bismuth with high-energy neutrons or protons. This process had been applied by Russia since the turn of the Millennium. Polonium-210 is around a quarter of a million times more toxic than hydrogen cyanide. It is extremely dangerous to handle due to the radioactivity of its alpha emitters. Vladimir Babikov had explained all of this to Neil Robson as he handed over the polonium-210 in its special container, gloves and syringe to the Financial Secretary to the Treasury. About fifty nanograms of this most lethal compound would do for a human if ingested. Babikov was taking no chances. The dose which was in the possession of Neil Robson was around ten micrograms, around 200 times the expected lethal dose and similar to what Babikov had supplied to the former KGB officers who had visited Litvinenko the day before he took ill. Shortly before his 2pm meeting with Joel Gordon, the Financial Secretary to HM Treasury had syringed both cupcakes offered to the accountant with polonium-210. Before Gordon had entered the Fin Sec's office, Robson had, very carefully, with specialised gloves on distributed this deadly substance evenly with precision and a cold heart. Robson had previously placed his own cupcake on a side plate. There was no way he was going to take any roulette chances with this radioactive killer.

Neil Robson knew exactly what was going to happen to Joel Gordon. He would not die in the Financial Secretary's office nor even the Treasury. That night when he had returned back to his flat near Upton Park, the Jamrock yardie would feel ill, have diarrhoea, vomiting, headaches and an overall feeling of nausea. He'd be forced to dial for an ambulance and be rushed to hospital. The staff at A&E would have very little idea what was ailing the otherwise fit-looking man. All the while, the 210's deadly alpha particles would go about their painful destruction. Some would enter his spleen, his liver and his kidneys. Others, maybe 10% or so, would enter his bone marrow. Given the dose, Gordon would be helpless within a day and would likely die within a week, looking like a terminal cancer patient at the end. His will to live, the focus of his mind, his spirit would all have departed well before then. There would be no tell-tale meeting with Craig Wilson.

Once Joel Gordon had eaten his fatal cupcake, Neil Robson made an excuse to end their meeting there and then. Robson wasn't going to hang about close to Mr Glowalot even if Babikov had told him that polonium-210 does not emit radioactive gamma rays. Once Gordon had left his office, Robson used his specialist gloves and put plate, knife, crumbs, napkin, cup and saucer into a haz chem bag supplied by Babikov. Robson then put this trash into an industrial bin bag and asked Becky to dump it in a skip on her way home. If Babikov's chemistry knowledge was up to scratch then he'd probably see his hot PA in the morning and she would not be any more candescent than usual.