Darke Mission (70 page)

At the far end of this particular line of industrial units, north, north-east and a few hundred yards from the scattering pigeons there was a shadow looking on. Partly hidden by the substantial hood on his dark green parka and partly by the vertical edge of one of the temporary structures the shadow was surveying the surveyors, through his night vision monocular. Standards must have dropped, thought Neil Robson, since his time in MI5. This was Hull and an industrial estate, not Knightsbridge or a heaving square in Covent Garden. Two guys in suits in a 4x4 whose make is often deployed by the intelligence services. Give me a break. If I had a weapon on me, thought Robson, I'd shoot that black bastard's johnson clean off. Fortunately for Winston Gregory, Robson did not have any means of mutilation on him so the now relieved MI5 officer could carry on moaning.

It was, nevertheless, well up shit creek thought Robson on spotting the 4x4 and besuited occupants. He was feeling shattered after his flight and overnight ferry ride, not having fully recovered his pre-Rat Catcher's Yellows energy. Now it looks like those MI5 morons have twigged his lock-up garage. No chance of getting the rest of his millions now he concluded. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he muttered angrily to himself. Nothing for it but he'd need to head to London and collect at least one of the parcels he had placed in the good care of Royal Mail Keepsafe. He'd catch a train to King's Cross, rent a car and then proceed to Clapham Post Office where €2 million in readies awaited him. If that went smoothly he might pick up the second parcel deposited for him by the sham UPS twosome, now dead, at the main Post Office in Chelsea. He'd mull it over on the train.

Neil Robson had a lot to think about on the train and around two and a half hours to do it. He was still on antibiotics for his Leptospirosis and he did not feel properly recovered. He looked OK, having acquired a light tan in San Jose. He had donned his thick-rimmed black plastic glasses again so, with the tan, the new haircut and the goatee he was not recognisable as the fugitive former Financial Secretary to the Treasury. As the train whooshed along, down the tracks to the nation's capital, Neil Robson felt an aura of injustice descend upon his inner thoughts. He wasn't badly off, he had a few million in Grupo Mutual, he liked the ambience of Costa Rica, especially that inside a tight senorita or drug house. What was he going to do, however, when that ran out? Eight or ten million dollars was a tidy sum alright but it was not enough to fund the lifestyle that he wanted, nay craved, for the next thirty to forty years. At each and every turn he had been thwarted by that Jock bastard JJ Darke. He could have had him locked up on his insider trading gaffe, but no he gives the fuckin' heathen a great idea to relieve that despot Kim Jong-un of his gold. Save the country and make me four or five hundred million, that was the fuckin' plan, a plan that had been unceremoniously flushed down the toilet.

He had let Darke Jnr live, quite nice of him he thought but, no, the daddy jockstrap couldn't leave it there. Now the van with £90m in it had been found. Neil Robson felt that he'd soon be on his uppers and it was the fault of one JJ Darke. That prick needed a lesson, a message, a final reminder to stay out of his business. In the midst of all this scheming and plotting, Neil Robson fell asleep on the Hull to King's Cross train with a grimace of evil intent stretched across his lightly tanned face.

Neil Robson had just caught the last London bound train from Hull. It didn't get into King's Cross until 9pm so he took a taxi to the Wyndham Grand Hotel in Chelsea Harbour and booked in under the name Robert Nilsson. It was a modern hotel, nice view over a small harbour and much favoured by away teams scheduled to play Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on the weekend. He had stayed there before, in his previous life, and had sat close to the crooner Lionel Richie at breakfast. Seemed like a nice bloke, but rubbish slushy songs
.
The one where he didn't know who he was looking for was especially gooey. I mean, don't you fuckin' know who you're looking for you ignorant foreigner. Wake up you tosser, thought the fugitive, clearly never having seen the accompanying music video.

Robson had a late night snack in his room on the fourth floor and was contemplating phoning for the services of a nearby hooker. After some thought he decided that a bit of DIY would be more efficient and cheaper. He was tired anyway and needed to have a clear mind in the morning.

He was impressed by the Royal Mail Keepsafe service. At a Post Office of your choice they would hold on to a parcel for you for sixty-six days. Robson guessed that he may be away from London for longer than that so paid extra for an extension. The Clapham Post Office had one parcel of around £2m equivalent in euros. He would get up in the morning, have breakfast, hopefully nowhere near any visiting singer, ask the concierge to acquire a rental car for him and then drive to get his parcel. Once cashed and geared-up he'd decide on his next move and escape route back to Costa Rica.

* * *

While the fugitive Neil Robson was settling down for the night, Toby Naismith was leading Yves-Jacques astray, well as astray as the young French analyst would allow. They were downstairs in the bar at Nobu, still Fathead's favourite night time haunt, along with Toby's broker friends, Jay and Kai.

“Tobester!” exclaimed Kai, spraying the atmosphere with only a few morsels of canapé. “What's your new boss like? Is he better than JJ?”

“Nobody's better than JJ,” replied Toby. “The new guy's OK. He came from Goldman Sachs so he's all full of vim and vigour. Wants to stamp his own ways and personality on things, that kind of stuff. He's from the east coast of America and has an unhealthy work ethic. He gets in before I do, has lunch at his desk and leaves after me. He clearly has no life though he claims to have a wife and daughter.”

“How about you Yvester? You think the same?” continued Kai with his interrogation-lite.

“He seems fine,” replied Yves-Jacques, not at all impressed by Kai's habit of adding –ster to everything and everybody. “JJ was a one off, I feel. Working for him was very exciting, different, frankly off the wall on occasion and always out of the box. The new guy's more mainstream. He seems solid and knows what he's talking about. He'd be unlikely to ask me about the Noman Tebbit test though,” reminisced Yves-Jacques.

“What's the Norman Tebbit test, Yvester?” asked Kai.

“Too complex to explain Kai-ster,” responded Yves-Jacques with a grin, “and it's too noisy in here for me to go through it,” he added, before sitting back in his chair and hoping that the night would end soon so that he could go home for a decent sleep.

The four friends and acquaintances departed Nobu before midnight and headed home. Unsurprisingly, Toby was perhaps the worst for wear and he just about managed to hail a cab on Berkeley Street to take him back to his Islington pad. He had enjoyed the evening but as so often happens after a few too many and being reminded of a sad event, Fathead was feeling increasingly maudlin. He really missed JJ. The new guy was OK, Toby acknowledged that, but he was straight from that Yale/Harvard Business School production line so embraced by US investment banks. No Greek bond fun was likely under his regime, no clandestine gold fun and definitely no Christmas FX quiz and limerick challenge
.
Jeesuz, he even told me to tuck my shirt in my pants! There was no option, Toby decided, he would text JJ. They needed to meet up, have a Macallans, banter with Cyrus and maybe a little non-salacious ogle at Gil. As Toby flopped semi-conscious onto his sofa the cloud of ordinary that had descended upon him began to lift, his moderately chubby fingers pressing away on his smartphone. The spelling may not be that great he thought but JJ would get the message.

JJ got the message but not until the following morning when he was back in Project LFD's offices and had turned on his smartphone. The text was incomprehensible even allowing for text-speak abbreviations and mis-hit keys. JJ knew it was from Toby and two of the few correctly spelled words were ‘Macallans' and ‘meet'. The rest could be deduced. JJ missed Toby too. His joie de vivre was infectious. The Scot would never forget Fathead's drunken sailor jig in his lock-up at the sight of a van full of stolen gold bullion bars, nor would he forget the irregular limerick that amused him on his flight back from Seoul. Toby was a one-off. A man with no recognisable style bar the one that he made his own. An old school trader but one that was at the pinnacle of his game. JJ was so glad that Toby had not taken any flak from the insider trading issue and was heartfelt pleased that a few of the Korean millions had found their way to the Fathead fun fund. With a broad grin on his face, JJ replied to Toby's text, inviting him round to dinner that night, promising rare Macallans and the occasional portion of food.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully for Toby and JJ. Toby was delighted to get JJ's text and said he'd be round at 7.30pm. Often, when friendly work colleagues separate, the contact cycle develops with decreasing amplitude and increasing wave length. A few drinks, dinners and lunches would be packed in to the first few weeks, the scheduled dinners would morph into lunches and then lunches into a swift after work drink. Text communication would then fill the human contact void, the SMSs would become further apart and degenerate into the occasional email. Then nothing and both parties would embark fully on their separate ways. Not so with Toby and JJ. Apart from Greek bond and gold haul events, when they needed to be in touch almost continuously, the regularity and method of their contact was stable. Even after JJ had left MAM for Project LFD, the true friends stayed in touch at least once a week and often more frequently. Toby probably missed JJ more because the one-third of his daily life that he now spent in the office, was JJ-light and he couldn't just meander into the Scot's office whenever he felt like it. Tonight, though, it was JJ, Cyrus, Gil, Macallans and some food. Nothing better thought Toby.

* * *

It was 7.30pm on the dot, a bright July evening, warm, with a pleasant wafting breeze. Toby rang the bell of JJ's home.

“Toby!” exclaimed JJ on opening the door for his friend. “Right on time, good man,” said the punctuality-loving Scot.

“You know, JJ, Oscar Wilde said punctuality was the thief of time, but that just shows you what an Irish plonker he was, clearly he didn't allow for extra Macallans consumption time!”

“Maybe Macallans was not around when he was?” suggested JJ in a half-hearted attempt at defending the Celtic wit.

“The Macallans distillery was founded in 1824, JJ, and that Wilde bloke lived for 56 years until 1900. He had plenty of drinking time. He just made bad decisions.”

JJ was somewhat impressed by Toby's historical knowledge, though not absolutely convinced about its accuracy. What he was convinced about was that he'd better offer Toby a rare Macallans forthwith.

JJ and Toby went up the stairs chatting away. Once in the living room Toby planted himself on one of the comfortable armchairs either side of the sofa. JJ got the Macallans, one for himself, no ice with a splash of Canada Dry and one for Toby, ice and no other additions.

“Cheers,” said JJ, pleased to be relaxing with his friend.

“Slange i va,” replied Toby, correctly pronouncing
slainte mhath
, meaning ‘good health' in Gaelic.

Gil entered the room, wearing a short LBD, four inch heels and make-up. Toby, who wisely kept his thoughts to himself, reckoned he'd never seen her look so hot. She was carrying a platter of pre-dinner snacks. Toby reached for a few, finding it difficult to take his eyes off the oriental firecracker.

“You'd better stop looking at me like that, Toby Naismith,” said Gil, with only a moderately threatening tone.

“Sorry,” said Toby quickly. “It's just, well, it's just you look very nice tonight Gil,” he managed to stutter out.

“Don't I look nice every time you see me?” asked Gil, clearly enjoying Toby's discomfort.

“Ah! Yes you do. It's just tonight, I mean, you look especially nice tonight Gil,” he replied.

“Thank you, Toby,” said Gil in a fake tone of pleasure at the compliment. “Now that I'm a project manager, front office, meeting people I need to adopt the expected uniform of that position.”

“I'm people,” said Toby.

“Yes Toby, you are. However, I'm referring to people who may want to donate large sums of money to project LFD.”

“I can donate.”

“How much?” asked Gil, expertly reeling in her unsuspecting prey. Toby glanced at JJ; his old boss unleashed a look which said you're on your own buddy!

“£50k?” Toby replied, meekly and hoping he had said the right thing.

“Thank you Toby. That'll do nicely. In return for your generosity I will remain dressed like this throughout dinner.” Toby's face lit up. “However, if I catch you ogling me or dribbling down your chin then one of these overly expensive Laboutins will enter your pin head, heel first and with force. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Toby, realising he had been royally ensnared, though definitely worth it in his opinion. Toby extended his right arm with empty tumbler at the end of it, pointing at JJ. His old boss laughed, took the glass and filled it up. Gil left the living room very pleased with her version of a honey trap. She liked Toby but admitted that she got immense pleasure from seeing him wriggle. Toby sipped on Macallans number two of the evening. This was going to be a fun night he thought.

Cyrus joined the group for dinner. Becky was visiting her mum that evening in Hampshire, and had let JJ know that she would stay overnight with her aunt. Cyrus also thought Gil looked stunning, having rarely seen her not wearing casual clothing or training gear. Still, she was no Lucy thought the boy, rationalising that the hot look was probably for Toby's benefit or torture.

“Gil looks nice tonight, doesn't she Toby?” asked Cyrus, with mischievous intent.