Darke Mission (59 page)

Thank god this perennial conflict is contained to the sporting arena, thought JJ as he sped past the exit sign for Manchester. He had filled up the Audi with unleaded petrol before leaving Victoria. He had also quickly purchased a few CDs to help keep him awake on the journey. He was getting tired of Passenger so he flipped the disc and inserted
The
Proclaimers Greatest Hits
. ‘Cap in Hand' would be the track to extend the current mood of intense Scottishness. Maybe if that economic lightweight Alex Salmond of the SNP had it as his smartphone's ringtone and could also understand why Scotland would benefit enormously if it had its own currency, the Scottish public might actually pay more attention and vote ‘yes'.

JJ drove on, the Audi's powerful xenon headlights illuminating the dark roads. The motorway wasn't empty but traffic was sparse. He was in his rhythm, comfortable but alert. He was thinking about Bute. Mum and Dad were mainlanders, Mum from Glasgow and Dad a native of Inverness. A few years ago they had had enough of the hectic hubbub of city life and though they had a spacious apartment on Byers Road, in Glasgow's west end and near the university, they decided to sell up and move to Bute.

Bute meant ‘fire island', JJ had no idea why, the place was fucking freezing most of the time. By Scottish island standards it was quite big, about forty-seven square miles with a total population of over 6,000. There were businesses, mainly agricultural or small retail and not all pubs and call centres. There were stand-out ventures on the island. The butchers were fantastic, the tiny electronic retailer super-efficient and the bicycle shop good enough to have been successful in Glasgow or Edinburgh. There was a health centre, of sorts, and a police station that looked as if it was straight out of
Assault on Precinct 13.
JJ couldn't fathom that one. There was the odd serious crime on the island but most of the law breakers were either public relievers, window breakers or young hoons going too fast in their souped-up garish Ford Fiestas.

From JJ's perspective the two best places on the island were the garage and the cinema. What luck that the only full service garage on the island was a Ford one, so they maintained with aplomb JJ's big block Ford V8 in his AC Cobra. The cinema was small, in the Isle of Bute Discovery Centre, capacity of ninety patrons but with a huge wide screen. It is rumoured that Lord Attenborough, long time Bute resident, screened the first showing of
Jurassic Park
there even before the premiere in Leicester Square, London. Bute had highlights alright, but daily life could be sleepy. If you needed an emergency plumber then either don't bother or contact the mainland. ‘Island time' meant whenever they could be fached, if ever. It was a sore point for many islanders in an otherwise excellent place.

All that island night dreaming allowed JJ to burn up the miles. He was in Glasgow, following the Audi's GPS system to find George Square, the location of the Millennium. He remembered a lot about Glasgow, but like any big city, the centre of it could be a labyrinth of one way streets, road works and other obstacles. He parked up and gently roused Becky. She was disoriented and JJ hoped that she would not become too awake to prevent her from grabbing a few more hours sleep in a comfortable bed. JJ asked reception to give them both a wake-up call at 6.30am. By the time they were showered, dressed and fed it would be 8am. Wemyss Bay was just over thirty miles from Glasgow, down the west coast, a total drive time of around forty-five minutes, half of it on the M8. If lucky, they would catch the 9am Caledonian MacBrayne ferry to Rothesay, main centre of Bute, turn left at the only set of traffic lights on the island and head for Ascog, his son, his parents and his friend.

* * *

On hearing the car come up the long and winding gravel drive, Cyrus was first out of his grandparents' large wooden front door. “Dad!” he called just before crushing JJ's frame with a seriously powerful bear hug. As the boy decided to let his dad breathe, Cyrus caught sight of a less than fully candescent Becky. “Who's she?” he enquired with concern. “She's not your girlfriend Dad, is she?” JJ and Becky looked at each other and shared a wee laugh.

“No, Cyrus. This is Becky. Lovely as she is, Becky is not my girlfriend,” noted JJ getting straight to the point to alleviate young Darke's worries. “She is, however, a friend and one that needs our help and protection.”

Cyrus felt daft and was blushing a bit. Becky was pretty and now he had appeared to her to be an immature dimwit, or so rationalised the mind of the young teenager, full of angst and awkwardness around most pretty young women, bar Lucy.

“Hi, I'm Cyrus,” he eventually uttered, approaching Becky and extending his hand. “Sorry about that,” he added, his eyes slightly lowered.

Becky shook Cyrus's hand warmly.

“That's OK, Cyrus, I'm very pleased to meet you. Your dad's told me good things about you. It's lovely up here.”

Cyrus then went to help Becky with her bags. JJ had already taken his from the Audi's boot and was entering the front hallway in search of his parents and Gil. He saw that Becky and Cyrus were now chatting away, all awkwardness gone in a flash.

JJ unleased a mischievous smile.

“Hey Cyrus,” he called, “you never know, if Becky ever feels like having a toy boy, your luck may be in!”

“Dad!” yelled Cyrus, this time wanting to crush his father's diaphragm a lot more, the embarrassing scunner that he was.

JJ walked past the living room on the left and library on the right. He was headed straight for the kitchen, he knew his mum and dad would be there, having tea or coffee, probably assailing Gil with some tale or other of island life. His mum spotted him first.

“JJ!” she exclaimed with clear pleasure at seeing her only child. His mum was hugging him and not really wanting to let go.

“Hi Mum, Dad, Gil. Great to see you all.”

Cyrus had now entered the kitchen, old fashioned and spacious but with a sturdy sizeable, wooden table right in the middle and the heat from an established AGA cooker to warm up a chilly spring morning in Scotland.

“Everyone, this is Becky,” announced Cyrus. “She's not Dad's girlfriend, so don't go thinking that!”

That boy's quick, thought JJ. The kitchen table was large enough to seat eight. Frances and Robert Darke liked the queen and king spots at either end, so JJ sat next to Gil on one side and Cyrus next to Becky on the other.

Frances Darke was around 5ft 6in tall, slightly above average for a Scotswoman, looked younger than her years and had done a decent job in keeping her figure. She had thick, luscious light brown hair, today cut in a long fringe. Frances was a good hostess. She had supplied a variety of teas, coffee and biscuits for the gathered band of six. Robert Darke was about five inches taller, slim and wiry with thinning, short cropped white hair. Robert's eyes were green and those of Frances blue. They were childhood sweethearts having met at their Glasgow high school.

The group seemed relaxed, small talk was babbling away. Robert Darke looked at his son, he knew something was up.

“JJ, you've got something on yer mind laddie. Better get it out I say,” said Darke senior in his broad Highland brogue and with the forthrightness you'd expect from a former headmaster and now part time local magistrate. JJ looked at his dad. They weren't close and they both knew that JJ was more of a mummy's boy. He respected his dad but some Scottish fathers never reveal their sensitive side. JJ, like Cyrus, was an only child. If Robert Darke was ever too harsh then the boy John Jarvis only had his mum to turn to.

“You're right Dad, I do. It's a long, complex and dangerous story,” said JJ.

“Better get on with it then,” replied Robert, giving his son about as warm a smile as he could muster.

Gil already knew the whole story so asked JJ if she should take Cyrus somewhere. This was a question, the answer to which JJ could have wrestled with for about ten years. Logic and good fatherly sense went out the window and gut instinct kicked in. Cyrus was to stay and hear it all. For the next two hours, JJ revealed everything: Greek bonds, insider trading, Neil Robson, Korea, dodgy Russians, Joel Gordon, gold. It was all there. If interrupted, he answered questions as best he could. Gil, of course, wasn't flummoxed. Cyrus thought it was ‘wicked' as he had not known that he was being shadowed at any point. The boy was a bit ambiguous, however, about his feelings on discovering that his dad had killed a couple of North Korean soldiers with a crossbow. In the end, he concluded that was awesome too, the brain-washed soldiers would probably have murdered some innocent peasant without as much as a by your leave.

JJ apologised to his mum and dad for the upcoming likelihood that there could be a firefight, here on the island, here in their home. They both knew, of course, that their son had been an MI5 intelligence officer, that he had been to Bosnia, undercover, and that he had probably needed to terminate some bad people in the nation's defence and security. They thought that JJ had left all that behind for the calmer, safer, better paid surroundings of Mayfair. Clearly not they had just discovered.

“Good job I renewed the house insurance Frankie,” said Robert Darke, looking caringly at his wife.

“Aye Bobby, it is,” replied JJ's mum. “I hope you did the life insurance too, by the sounds of it.” Everybody laughed.

JJ felt relieved that no one had panicked or burst into tears. He had never felt prouder of his parents.

“I'll show Becky to her room,” said Frances Darke, “and then I'll go about ensuring the security of the top floor. Bobby, you check all entry points on the ground floor and the basement. Gil, you and Cyrus scope out the outbuildings, the grounds and the garage. JJ, I assume you've brought weapons with you?” JJ nodded. “Then you get that organised and when we're done let's all meet back here and have a plan. If stinkin' Russians are coming here to do my family and friends harm then they can expect some special Scottish hospitality, the type afforded to that vagabond Viking, Hakan of Norway, just across the water at Largs, in 1263.”

“Right on Black Nana!” exclaimed Cyrus, excited at hearing his grandmother in full swing. Frances Darke was something of an expert in Scottish history. Many years she spent travelling after university before settling back in Scotland and teaching early Scottish history in the local school. King Hakan of Norway ruled in both Scandinavia and the Western Isles of Scotland in the mid-thirteenth Century. The Viking king assembled his largest fleet ever and headed for the Clyde estuary intent on plunder. Bad weather (now there's a shock) forced his fleet aground. The opportunistic Scots looted his stricken ships. Hakan sent a force of more than 700 warriors to claim back his property. No deal. The Scots saw off Hakan's men and this victory, known as the Battle of Largs, was the catalyst for the demise of the Vikings in the West of Scotland. It wasn't Bannockburn, but Frances Darke liked it, not least of which because she could see Largs across the Clyde, every day from her front window and imagine the great Scottish victory.

Just before Gil and Cyrus went outside to do their job, Gil took JJ aside.

“JJ, why does Cyrus sometimes call your mother Black Nana?” JJ had the look of a man who didn't want to be asked that.

“It's quite a story, Gil, and this is not the time or place for all the ins and outs, but it boils down to this,” he replied. “Between university and teaching history, my mother joined a travelling circus, I think it was the Circo Casartelli or something like that. Big in Italy and all over the world in the 1970s. As a girl she had always enjoyed throwing knives. I know it sounds crazy, but apparently she was the unofficial high school ‘chicken' champion. That pastime is where you stand a few yards away, facing your opponent with your legs apart. Each person takes a turn at throwing their knife into the ground in the space between your feet. As each turn goes by you move your feet a little closer together. Eventually one of the participants usually chickens out because they doubt that the thrower can get the knife accurately between their feet, in the ground and without it sticking into a foot or leg. Weirdly, it's a game theoretic problem, not that many Scottish kids would have been thinking about that in the midst of the game. Mum took it to the extreme and was Circo Casartelli's main attraction for a couple of summers. When Cyrus was about four, Mum showed him a photograph of her, knives in hand or dotted about the still living associate attached to a large solid-board wheel. She was dressed in an all black cat suit with a black wig to match. Cyrus recognised his grandmother in the photo and, hey presto, Black Nana had arrived.”

“Does your mum still have her knives?” asked Gil, patently thinking ahead.

“Now that's a good question Gil,” replied JJ. “Let's go fetch Black Nana and find out if she still has the tools of her trade.”

* * *

Vladimir Babikov had not played chicken at school. He didn't have the cahoonas for that. The criminal Russian may have twisted the neck of an occasional unsuspecting fowl or poked a love rival from behind with a knife, but a game where he was not guaranteed to be the winner didn't ever appeal to him.

Babikov had not enjoyed the telephone call from Neil Robson. The running politician man had gone underground and had left the Russian to do his own debt collecting. He was severely pissed off with this Scottish interloper he had never set eyes on and only recently heard from. Indeed, so pissed off was he that he was presently in the third car of a three car convoy on the M6, headed for Glasgow and beyond. Ahead of him were two S-class Mercedes, all black and tinted, each car carrying four or five ex-FSB thugs, heavily armed and ready for action. Babikov himself was in an augmented four wheel drive Mercedes AMG M-class, also black. He was accompanied by Boris Akulov who had now nearly fully recovered from JJ's assault and was acutely keen on payback.