Darke Mission (54 page)

* * *

Vladimir Babikov was not tired but he was annoyed. There were several developments that had irked him. Business at the Nicolas had not been good, either less punters were willing to part with their cash or the same number of punters had less spare readies to partake in his casino's offerings. He also hadn't heard even a whisper of any missing Russian military hardware and not a peep from the debtor Robson on the same subject. His bodyguards were also costing more. After having forked out for Vasily's body to be sent home to Russia and paying handsomely for his replacement, now that idiot Boris had got himself stabbed in the leg and his private hospital bill was not cheap. It was late but he needed input. Time to phone Neil Robson.

“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the phone in that soft, fragmented tailing off way that signalled someone had been unexpectedly awoken from a decent sleep.

“Neil my friend, it is Vladimir. Sorry if I woke you but I need updates – now,” announced the criminal Russian.

“For fuck's sake Babikov…” responded Robson, now involuntarily awake, “don't you have anything better to do at this time of night?”

“No I don't,” replied the Russian. “So speak up, tell me stuff and stop complaining.”

Neil Robson wanted to tell Babikov to go fuck himself but as he had not yet paid the despot his debt plus bonus nor given him any information on his AWOL Russian equipment the Fin Sec thought the better of it.

“OK Vladimir, I'll have the money in my accounts within seventy-two hours. I'll then transfer you the £20 million or so as promised.”

Babikov thought that this was the first piece of good news that he had received in a while. “That is good, Neil, you will still be an able-bodied politician then!” he replied, laughing heartily. “What about my other request?”

“No news Vladimir. I've got a coffee meeting scheduled with the Home Secretary tomorrow but I'm at a bit of a loss as to how to bring it up without raising her suspicions. She's a smart woman you know.”

Babikov thought about this for a few seconds. “You and Walker have financial responsibility for the intelligence services budgets don't you?” he asked.

“Yes, we do,” replied Robson, not sure where this line of questioning was going to lead.

“Well, can't you link that whistleblower Snowden with increased demands on GCHQ's resources or something? That would start a US/Russian/UK discussion and then see where that goes,” suggested Babikov feeling quite proud of his late night awareness.

“Maybe, Vladimir, maybe. I'll give it a shot,” replied Robson, reluctantly also somewhat impressed by his creditor's suggestion.

“One final thing Neil… my man who was shadowing the teenage kid you had an interest in… he's got a very painful stab wound in his leg, a broken nose and is costing me repair money. I think it was the boy's father who did this. Who is he?”

“His name is JJ Darke,” replied Robson. “He's a fucking Jock loser, Vladimir, but I need him alive for a few days as he's instrumental in transferring the money that I will then forward to you. After that you can have all the payback you want from him and his family.”

“Thank you, Neil, I will,” said the Russian, and hung up.

* * *

JJ was tired. It was 7.20am. He hadn't slept well, worrying about Cyrus and concerned about the end-game with Robson and the gold. He had his cab drop him off on Piccadilly so that he could get a strong Starbucks coffee before heading to his office. He could have waited till he got to his office but the staff in the Piccadilly franchise could understand his early morning, weary Scottish mumblings. The more mumbly he was the less comprehensive his Glaswegian became. His sentences all merged together, they became quieter and they never were fully enunciated. Luckily, this regular Starbucks team recognised him and he didn't even need to speak his order. He always had the same thing, a triple shot, espresso macchiato, extra dry with soya. This morning, however, the regular team were not all at their stations. As JJ approached the counter a pleasant-looking young, small, Asian woman was there, she was probably Japanese. As they looked at each other, JJ mumbled, in a very low decibel voice, “This is never going to work.”

“Why is it not going to work, Sir?” asked the girl with the name tag ‘Kina'. “Is it my negative personal magnetism?”

JJ was taken aback, the young lady wasn't meant to have heard his doubts. “No,” he said quickly to disguise his embarrassment. “It's my Scottish accent. Difficult to understand at the best of times but especially so if I'm tired, sorry.”

“I've been to Scotland, to Edinboro. I understand Scottish,” came the reply.

“I'm from Glasgow, it's different,” said JJ.

“Glasgow is a scary place. So you're a real man?” asked Kina.

“Don't know about that… but Glasgow
is
a scary place,” he confirmed.

Kina proceeded to take JJ's order and execute the coffee preparation perfectly. She handed it to JJ. “I work here three days a week. Come and speak Scottish to me,” she said and lined up the next customer.

As JJ entered the MAM building a few minutes later he was still chuckling to himself. He didn't often get out bantered especially if it related to Scotland but the quick-witted Kina had certainly gone 1–0 up. Bend it like Nakamura he thought recalling the best ever Celtic free kick to sail into Manchester United's net. Edwin Van der Sar didn't even smell it.

JJ entered his office, coffee in hand, switched on computers, his TV and his tablet. Once settled, he checked for market prices. He was interested in all four main asset classes, as MAM had investments in all of them, but today he was mainly concerned with the price of gold and the GBP/USD exchange rate. Gold had reached a high of $1,880/oz in Asian trading but now seemed to be settling back to the $1,860 – $1,870 range. Cable had come off slightly so the combination was still good for the GBP value of the Korean gold haul.

“Toby, it's JJ. Can you and Yves-Jacques come to my office at 9am? We should finalise our gold transactions. I'll have a friend with me. He's not a financial type but he knows a bit about computers.”

“Sure JJ. I'll pick up Yves-Jacques on the way. See you in a bit,” replied Toby, wondering about, though not asking about, JJ's friend.

* * *

When Toby and Yves-Jacques entered JJ's office, Victor Pagari was already there. JJ greeted his two amigos and introduced Victor. He kept it short, simply saying that Victor was with him in Korea, and was the computer brains behind the operation. In the same way that Victor was not aware of the blackmail and insider trading threat hanging over the amigos, the two other amigos were not aware of Victor's safe cracking skills. JJ eyed Toby and true to form his shirt had yet again partially escaped from his pants. This time Yves-Jacques did not seem to be following Fathead's unkempt sartorial style. At least JJ knew that Fathead had not been captured by aliens and returned in a different guise. This was the real Toby for sure.

“Toby, Yves-Jacques, what's the up to date state of play on the gold. You can speak freely in front of Victor, he has my full confidence,” said JJ.

Toby replied, “The gold's all sold and placed JJ. The Swiss family office weren't as hungry for the bars as I expected, but they took a few hundred. HSBC took a chunk and Scotia Mocatta picked up the balance. They'd heard on the grapevine that JPM had purchased a substantial number of gold bars, and they didn't want to be left out. We're done.”

“That's great Toby, good job,” said JJ. “Yves-Jacques, what about delivery?”

“HSBC and the Swiss family office will have theirs delivered today. Brink's are organising Scotia Mocatta's and their bullion should be safely in their vaults by tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” responded the young Frenchman.

“What about the settlement price, Toby, do we have what we need?” continued JJ.

“Yes. We had a degree of good fortune in that the gold price kept rising and cable was either stable or moving in our direction,” answered Toby confidently. “We need to convert the US dollars to pounds, though, but at this morning's rate our total gold proceeds should be of the order of £3.8 billion to £4 billion equivalent.”

“Very good Toby, really excellent,” said JJ. “Start converting the currency now. Presumably that amount will take you all day and into the night?”

“Yes,” replied Toby. “The daily turnover of the global FX market is around $4 trillion so it's not the amount that's the issue. I'll use multiple brokers in multiple countries and different time zones. It will only become a problem if the market thinks we know something that they don't and we inadvertently trigger a run on the dollar.”

“You're too smart for that to happen, right?” mentioned JJ, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Sure am chief,” beamed Toby. “I'll sell the dollars in tickets of no more than $200 million each, most of them between $10m and $50m. I'll place the bulk of orders between now and 5pm. European and US markets are both in full swing then so the transacted volume will be high and big tickets less noticeable or BBM worthy. I can't guarantee that the GBP/USD rate will not move against us, but it shouldn't be because of me.”

“Sounds like a plan, Toby, good. You've got the account numbers and the banks designated to receive the proceeds, right?” asked JJ.

“Yes. I do.”

“Fine. Toby, you get on the case. Yves-Jacques you ensure that all the bullion bars have either been delivered or are on track to be delivered. Let's meet up again at 5pm,” said JJ.

With that Toby and Yves-Jacques left JJ's office. Victor had said nothing during this part of the conversation. It simply was not his field of expertise and he did not want to ask questions which, in their own right, may seem reasonable but could appear to be a bit amateurish to wizened professionals. “That was interesting,” he said eventually to JJ.

“I guess I'm thinking about it more like a military exercise than a point of interest at the moment, Victor. How's Ethel?”

“She's good. Resting at home for a few days to get her full strength back. She said she was owed some holiday so she's planning not to go back to 19 for about a month.”

“I'll visit her in a few days, before I go to Scotland. I'm so glad she's OK,” said JJ.

“Me too,” agreed Victor.

“To the business at hand, Victor,” said JJ, in the mood to tie up all loose ends. “You heard Toby. We'll have the sterling proceeds agreed by tonight and they will be transferred electronically to the designated accounts in two days.” JJ handed Victor a piece of paper. “These are the account numbers, IBAN codes and the names they will be under. Once transferred these funds, and as you've heard, it's an enormous amount of money, will be in the hands, electronically speaking, of one of the slimiest toads ever to inhabit these islands. Are you sure you can hack into them and be in full control of them?”

“Of course,” replied Victor with notable nonchalance. The expression on JJ's face, however, indicated that some elaboration was required. “All this modern banking technology, it's like the internet in general. It's a double edged sword. The internet allows you to do loads of good things very efficiently, but it also facilitates bad things done by bad people. Same with ATMs, on-line banking, banking on your mobile phone etc. Once it's out there in the electronic ether, it's mine to control. I can hack, virtually, anyone's bank account at any time and they won't know I'm doing it, except of course when all their money is gone.”

“If so, isn't that an easier option than safe cracking?” asked JJ.

“It may be, but it's the challenge I like. Defeating the world's most secure vaults is exhilarating. Hacking bank accounts is something to do while chilling having a Thai takeaway. I don't do it and I don't eat Thai. Eastern European simpletons can have that as their crime of choice. They'll eventually get caught, there's always a younger, smarter hacker on the horizon. As yet, however, there's not a better safe cracker around.”

“You're a piece of work Victor, and thank god for it,” said JJ acknowledging this extremely talented young man. JJ and Victor chatted a while longer as the Scot gave the youngster additional details re the control of the funds, communication between them and the likely schedule of events. They parted with a firm handshake.

As Victor left to go about his business, JJ reclined on his leather chair, feet on desk and casually accessed his desktop computer, tablet and new smartphone. Today may be the first day for what seemed like an age that he could spend the bulk of it doing MAM work, what he was paid too much for. Thankfully, the markets had been kind to MAM in his absence and there had been no need for any asset fire-sales or indeed any significant reallocation of the portfolios for which he was responsible. He had
Sky News
up on one of his flat screens. Chancellor Jeffrey Walker was in the Commons and appeared to be answering questions about UK government expenditures, the budget deficit and its funding. He seemed calm enough and his responses robust enough. Walker was the consummate politician, vastly experienced, could probably pass a lie detector test at will, did not have a bead of sweat on his forehead nor a hair out of place. Just like Richard Nixon. JJ had already become bored with the
Sky News
loop and there were no earth shattering financial news stories on Bloomberg. JP Morgan were to be fined a few billion dollars for mis-selling something or other. That was hardly news, in the same way that summer is hardly news. The equity markets hadn't flinched and neither had the US investment bank's share price. Déjà vu.

JJ's attention moved from the news that was no news to his emails. He scrolled through the unopened ones, nothing from his doctor or oncologist; that was good. Nothing from Neil Robson, that was even better though he was scheduled to see the Financial Secretary to the Treasury the next day. There was one email, however, with no subject heading. JJ left clicked and began reading.