Darke Mission (71 page)

“Don't start Cyrus,” moaned Toby. “She does but I've already been stitched up on that one.” No sooner had the words departed from his mouth than he caught the dagger look from you know who.

“Are you saying I tricked you Toby Naismith?” asked Gil sternly.

“No, sorry, I just meant… I don't know what I meant. I'm happy with everything. I give up,” he spluttered.

Everybody laughed. Gil rose from her chair, went round to Toby sitting opposite and planted a very sweet kiss on his forehead. That was a whole lot better than a four inch heel he thought, oblivious to the appearance of a second set of lips on his head, the new ones all bright and ripe tomato red.

Dinner was most enjoyable, the conversation flew by; it was loud, irreverent and full of banter. Toby eventually went to the loo and saw Gil's lipstick impression on his forehead. He returned to the dinner table with it still in situ.

“I'm never washing my face again!” he declared, much to the merriment of all concerned, especially Gil. It was past midnight and though it seemed like only minutes before that he had downed Macallans number one, it was indeed several hours, several Macallans and several large glasses of Tignanello later.

“Toby, you can stay the night if you want,” offered JJ.

“No, it's OK, JJ. I've had a brilliant night but all my work gear is in the flat and I've got an early breakfast meeting with the new guy. He counts a seeded bagel and cream cheese as breakfast, so I'll need to pop into Pret for a few baguettes to take with me.” He was deadly serious but JJ just laughed.

“OK, Toby, I'll book you a cab.”

“You don't need to chief,” said Toby apparently not yet fully out of the habit of regarding JJ as his boss as well as his friend. “I'll just walk down to the King's Road, get some air. There'll be plenty of cabs around even at this time of night.”

“OK. If you're sure,” replied JJ.

“I'm sure,” said Toby.

“Are you sure you're sure?” retorted JJ chuckling.

“I'm definitely sure JJ! I'm too tired for even more banter. I'm so sure, I've never been surer,” explained Toby, collecting his jacket on the way out.

“As long as you're sure,” said JJ. “Take care and see you soon,” he added, watching his friend take his first few weaving steps down the west side of Markham Square.

JJ would later wish sincerely that he had watched Toby for just a little longer. His friend was about half way to the King's Road when a man exited a parked Volvo S-class and was making his way towards him. As they drew level, the man whipped out a syringe from his parka pocket and thrust it into Toby's neck. He immediately went down, feeling weak and drowsy almost instantaneously though the pain was not great, perhaps masked by the quantity of alcohol previously consumed. The man dragged Toby's half-limp body to a space between parked cars and attached him to the Square's garden railings with speedcuffs around his neck.

“Remember me, fatboy, isn't it, or fat something?” mocked Neil Robson, not really expecting an answer from the semi-comatose Toby.

“So here's how this is going to play out you useless lump. I've injected you with some stuff called Oil of Mirbane which will more or less paralyse you but it won't kill you right away. That's the good news. The bad news is that in my right hand here… see it!” said Robson slapping Toby on the head. “I'm holding one of those open ended little razor blades that depressed teenagers seem to like when they pop in a bath and cut their wrists. I'm going to give you a couple of little horizontal nicks here and here,” informed Robson as he cut both Toby's wrists in the manner described.

“This way will take you longer to die you fat cunt. If I'd done it long ways you'd be dead in about five minutes, but that would be too good for any bosom buddy of JJ Darke.”

Toby could just about feel a weird sensation in his arms but he did not register agonising pain. The paralysing agent mixed with the alcohol was keeping that at bay.

“Now, there's always a chance that some passing do-gooder will see you lying here and come to your aid. I can't really be having that. So the next bit of bad news is this.” The murdering fugitive then showed a fast-declining Toby one of his SIG Sauers, suppressor attached. He placed the barrel on Toby's stomach and fired. Toby writhed and passed out but Robson kept on talking.

“Right. You're bleedin' chubby and I may have missed your artery. I reckon you've got a minimum of fifteen minutes to live and a maximum of an hour. After all, I only made tiny nicks on your wrists. If you feel pain, it'll be bad but it won't be for long. All that toxic stuff in your fat gut will mix with the escaping blood. You'll die either from extreme toxaemia or maybe bleed out. It's nice and quiet around here, but you never know, I'm still concerned about a random do-gooder or curtain twitcher. So, here's a blanket, tartan of course, to cover up your gut and your wrists. To top it all, I now place a beanie on your small head. Is that lipstick on your forehead you fuckin' perve? Notice, sorry you can't notice so I'll tell you. It's a navy blue beanie with a saltire patch at the front. Nice touch don't you think? I was saving it for the Darke kid but he seems too well protected now. So there it is, fat arse. You're the second best solution. That Scottish bastard friend of yours would understand that.”

Neil Robson stood up and admired his work. To a passer-by in this dead of night, Toby would look like a homeless person or a vagrant who'd had a rare night on the tiles. Robson took a piece of paper from his pocket, scribbled something on it and tucked it into the fold of Toby's beanie. If his luck was really in, thought Robson, that Darke fuck would be the first to spot his dead friend, if not, the finder could phone the number in the beanie.

Robson was calm. He looked around. No pedestrians in the Square, a few stragglers crossing the junction with the King's Road, all minding their own business. A swift scan of the residents' buildings did not pick-up any late night, early morning actually, peepers. Darke would get the message alright thought Robson and I'm off scot-free he laughed to himself as he entered his rented Volvo. Funny peculiar expression mused Robson, scot-free, especially as it had nothing to do with the Scots as a nation or that American slave Dred Scott of Supreme Court 1857 fame. It stems from an Old Norse word ‘skot' which could be translated as ‘tax' and is believed to have first referred to a town's municipal levies and the avoidance of paying them. No matter the etymology concluded Robson as he headed for the M25 and escape, I'm going back to sun, sex, snort and Centenario.

* * *

Days passed. JJ had hardly got out of his bed other than to go to the bathroom. Either Gil or Cyrus or Becky forced him to eat, but he had no appetite. Guilt was consuming his entire body and mind. It was his fault that Toby was dead. He had got him in on the act to sell the stolen gold, to trade the Greek bonds on privileged information. It was his fault that Toby had registered on the evil motherfucker Robson's radar. It was unbearable. Toby, so happy-go-lucky, so dishevelled, so taken with Gil. He wasn't going to be around anymore.

Robson made it crystal clear that it was a message to JJ. The manner of his death, the beanie, the blanket. Murdered by a lethal injection of nitrobenzene which would have killed him anyway, according to the coroner's report, but intensified by organ damage from a gunshot wound and blood loss from two slit wrists. It was too much, grieved JJ. He could barely stand the loss of his friend but when you added that to Joel Gordon's murder and Cyrus's kidnap and beating it was beyond assimilation. Robson was also the catalyst for Vladimir Babikov's attack on his parent's house in Scotland. That fucking scumbag deserved to die a miserable death swore JJ but at this moment all the Scot could think about was the murder of his friend. As he lay in his bed, wallowing, crying, grieving, he heard a knock on the door. It was Cyrus.

“Hey Dad, can I come in?” he asked softly. JJ did not want to see anyone. However, even stronger than the emotions of grief that were consuming his waking hours, was the deep love that he had for his son.

“Sure, Cyrus,” replied JJ weakly, barely audible. “I look a bit like Robinson Crusoe at the moment, sorry.”

“You don't look that good Dad!” replied Cyrus trying his teenage best to lighten the atmosphere and make his dad feel better. “More like Forrest Gump at the end of his long walk.”

“Gee thanks, Cyrus,” said JJ, with the first hint of a smile to cross his face for days. JJ sat up in his bed and Cyrus sat on the edge, looking concerned for his father's emotional and physical state. A kind of role reversal, thought Cyrus, as JJ had spent many a night watching over him if he was unwell or had a nightmare.

“Look Dad, I know you miss Toby. I do too, he was funny and made me laugh. Gil misses him as well. They'd never have been an item she told me, but he made her smile. He was a great bloke.”

“He was indeed, Cyrus,” agreed JJ.

“I also know you blame yourself, Dad, but you shouldn't. Sure, Toby would never have been noticed by Neil Robson if he hadn't worked with you, if you hadn't been friends. But Toby's life, viciously shortened as it was, was better because of you. He loved his job, especially when you were his boss. He could afford to do what he wanted because of you. He loved being your friend, downing Macallans, verbal fencing with me. He loved being around Gil, even though she scared him a little and she could manipulate him however she wanted, in the nicest possible way. None of that would have been in his life if it hadn't been for you Dad,” implored the boy.

“I guess not Cyrus. Maybe his life would have been more miserable if he didn't know us, but it would probably have been longer.”

“You don't know that, for sure, Dad. He could have had cancer and didn't know it, he could have walked down the King's Road, had a heart attack or got run over by the proverbial bus. There's no guarantees in life from one minute to the next.” JJ felt some empathy with the mention of cancer. He also thought that Cyrus was surprisingly philosophical for a fourteen year old.

“Maybe you're right, Cyrus.”

“I am,” the boy replied quickly, “and do you know what else?”

“What else?”

“If it had been the other way round, if it was you who had been murdered and left to die in pain, in the gutter you know what Toby would have done, don't you?” asked Cyrus, mainly rhetorically as he had no intention of pausing to let his dad speak. “Toby would have moved heaven and earth, would have contacted any and every source he knew, bribed officials, broke the law, done whatever it took to bring Neil Robson to justice,” said Cyrus firmly. “That is what you must do, Dad. For Toby, for me, for all the people Robson has murdered, maimed, messed-up, scammed, for the future victims of that low-life miserable excuse of a man. For Mum, who is looking down on you now from heaven above and willing you to do the right thing, the necessary thing, what you have always tried to do. That's what else, Dad.”

JJ raised himself from the pillows behind his back, took hold of Cyrus and gave his son a very, very long hug. Cyrus did not want to be released, he felt safe in his dad's arms and he thought he could feel the Darke energy flowing again through his father's trembling body.

“You're right Cyrus,” JJ said eventually. “Give me a few minutes. I need to get up, have a shower and shave before I scare folk. Let Gil know I'll be down in a bit. We need a plan.”

“OK,” said Cyrus, preparing to leave his dad's bedroom.

“Cyrus,” JJ called out just before his son disappeared. The boy turned to look at his dad.

“Thank you,” said JJ with deep feeling. “I'm so proud of you and so is your mum.”

With a tear in his eye, Cyrus went downstairs, knowing that he had rescued his dad and wishing above all that he could hug his mum this very minute.

* * *

JJ got his act together over the next few days. He contacted Carolyn, Sandra Hillington and Jim Bradbury. His daughter had requested and received a transfer to an NGA support and liaison office in San Diego, California. She and Mark O'Neill were still together and neither wanted to strain their already risky occupations with the additional burden of a long-distance relationship. Henry Michieta was reluctant to lose Carolyn, her performance in relation to the Borei had got them both promoted. Henry now reported directly to Letitia Lang, the NGA's first ever woman Director. Carolyn was elevated to Section Chief in the California office with her main responsibilities still being imagery analysis and interpretation.

JJ explained to Carolyn that he was on a personal mission. It was not MI5 related, not for the good of the country or the world, at least as far as the NGA was concerned. He needed to find a dangerous fugitive who was responsible for multiple murders, the attack on her grandparents' house in Scotland and the kidnap of her new found little brother. Carolyn did not hesitate to volunteer her services. As soon as her dad had any idea where Neil Robson was sheltering she'd be on it with satellite coverage. Jim Bradbury was similarly enthusiastic about helping if he could. JJ told him nobody had any idea where Robson was. On the off-chance that he had made his way to Asia, JJ asked that Jim, the Iceman and Lily scoured any chatter they picked up in their area which may yield some clues. Jim thought it was a bit of a long shot but he was on it.

JJ's most difficult conversation was likely to be with Sandra Hillington. Neil Robson was a fugitive from British justice. The Metropolitan police, MI5 and even Interpol had legitimate claims to his capture. If any of these law enforcement agencies detained him then they might feel obliged to go through the whole rigmarole of justice being seen to be done, which meant a trial, news coverage, sound-bites from the accused or his legal defence team. For a variety of reasons, JJ did not want that path to justice.