Darke Mission (64 page)

Phew
, thought JJ,
I'm off the hook for a few minutes at least
.

Carolyn and Mark looked at each other.

“Yes, we are,” Carolyn replied.

Additional banter followed, Cyrus was teasing Gil about her secret spy background, JJ was teasing Carolyn about her Navy SEAL and trying to extract information as to why they were in Scotland together. Carolyn was teasing her dad saying that old men should not be involved in shootouts and Mark O'Neill was doing his utmost to offend no one.

The group's thoughts then turned to Robert Darke. There was less mirth but they all hoped sincerely that he would recover. This slightly sombre thought led to a marked reduction in the chatting noise level. Becky and McCoy came to the rescue with two large trays emitting a fantastic aroma. A pack of wolves could not have descended on the food any faster. As they were all having something to eat, a mobile phone rang from one of Carolyn's outside jacket pockets.

“Is that yours?” Cyrus asked his sister.

“No,” replied Carolyn, searching around in her pocket. “I found it in the driveway near that fat Russian's Merc, forgot to give it to the police,” she added, picking up the smartphone.

“Can I have it, Cally?” asked JJ, hand and arm already extended.

“Sure,” said Carolyn, handing the phone to her dad.

“Hello?” was all JJ said.

“Babikov, is that you? This is Igor Kruglov. Have you discovered anything yet about my missing hardware you prick?” yelled the Deputy Director of the SVR.

“It's not Babikov,” said JJ. “I'm afraid Mr Babikov is currently enjoying a forced vacation in one of her majesty's most secure resorts.”

“Who are you?” bellowed Kruglov. “What are you doing with Babikov's phone?”

“As I told your Russian friend, I'm William fuckin' Wallace. Now piss off you commie cunt!” vented JJ and hung up. The phone did not ring again.

JJ looked at his daughter and the two SEALs. The interrogation shoe was about to be on the other foot.

“Know anything about missing Russian hardware?” he asked.

* * *

Back in Surrey, Neil Robson had successfully entered the garage of his house in St. George's Hill. The front of the house was clearly under surveillance. The authorities, either police or MI5, however, must have concluded that there was very little chance of his returning as there were no officers inside. He managed to scale a small brick wall that separated his garden from one of the neighbours, and entered his house via the kitchen and utility room. His stash in the safe in the garage was intact, undisturbed and a very welcome sight. Now he had cash, three unused credit cards, two SIG Sauer P229 handguns each with two full magazines and a pair of small but powerful binoculars. Robson decided to spend the night in the back seat of his Bentley Continental, still there in all its glory. Those police numpties would not check, he concluded, and he had nowhere else to go. In the morning he would make his way to Weybridge, leave his stolen 4x4 there then catch a train to Waterloo Station. From there he would head for Chelsea and Markham Square. He would scope out the area, its shops, its cafés, its little hidey holes. Then he would wait and watch, and watch and wait. The Darkes would return eventually and then they would die. As Neil Robson curled up in his car, the thought of dead Darkes kept him warm and content on this cool evening in Bowser's Castle.

The first punch hurt and the second one hurt even more. Between them these blows led to a spray of blood, a broken tooth and a fat lip.

“How do you like that you fuckin' teenage wastrel,” yelled Neil Robson at the top of his voice and into the left ear of the kid. The boy's ears and head were covered by a mud-brown Hessian bag, not a designer item from the German state, but a rough material item purchased from the local garden centre.

“If it hadn't been for your fuckin' father I'd be living it up in the Caribbean. Aargh! I so hate that bastard and I'm going to enjoy ending his miserable fuckin' Jock life! You, you little prick may live, if I allow it but that depends on Daddy. I want my money, I want all of it and I want it now. Get phoning and get on it or you'll have a face like a crown rot pumpkin,” Robson hollered, giving Cyrus a solid slap round the head.

Cyrus felt sick. He was not used to getting punched in the mouth. He could feel the blood dripping down onto his chin and his tooth and jaw hurt like hell. Every now and then he really did feel like he wanted to barf. He could not concentrate properly but he knew he had to. One minute he was walking along a Chelsea side street with Gil, the next minute, she had been clubbed to the ground and he had been tossed into the back of some old manky van by two heavies wearing balaclavas. They shoved this bag on his head. At least it didn't stink was one of the random and irrelevant thoughts that ran through his now aching head. From his dad's revelations in Scotland, Cyrus had worked out that his captor was either some comrade of the Russians they had seen off or something to do with the Neil Robson geezer. The accent of the asshole yelling at him and beating him was English, not Russian, so as a first guess it was probably the former Financial Secretary to HM Treasury.

Cyrus was scared. He did not know where he was or what was going to happen to him. He was trying his best to be brave, focusing his thoughts on his dad, Gil, Lucy and most of the time, his mum. At this juncture, at least he was better off than she was. Dad and Gil would already have started the search for him, provided Gil had not been too badly injured in the kidnap. The best thing that he could do was what his captor told him and try to figure out a way to give his dad or Gil some clues, if he could discover any.

Robson pulled the bag off Cyrus's head. The fugitive was not wearing a balaclava, nor any kind of face covering. This was bad realised Cyrus; he doesn't care if I see his face.

Robson handed Cyrus a pay-as-you-go phone. “Dial Daddy ass wipe!” he demanded.

Cyrus was seated in a basic wooden chair, one that folds. It was not comfortable. His comfort was not aided by the fact that his legs were tied by sturdy rope to those of the chair. For the moment his hands were free. He dialled.

“Hello?” said JJ.

“Dad, it's me, I've been stolen. Help me,” cried Cyrus into the phone. On hearing his dad's voice, Cyrus could not keep his composure. He totally forgot what Robson told him to say. Robson was exasperated, whacked the boy on the back of the head and took the phone off him.

“Cyrus! Cyrus!” was what Robson heard as he put the phone to his ear.

“Well, well, Darke, you sound like a concerned father.”

JJ immediately recognised Robson's voice.

“You fuckin' bastard, Robson. I will kill you for this. I want my son back now! If you've harmed him…” JJ ranted and bellowed down the phone.

Robson remained calm, waiting for the tirade to ease off. If there was a Guinness Book of Records entry for a single breath rant then JJ would be a contender.

“Right, jockstrap, now that you've blown off some steam, here's how this is going to play out. You listening?”

JJ had exhausted his rant of expletives and threats. His somewhat calmer and more analytical brain started to kick in. Robson had Cyrus. For JJ that meant Robson had all the cards. He was going to need to do what he was told.

“I'm listening,” replied JJ.

“Good. You've caused me a lot of trouble, Darke, my career, my life, a bucket load of money. Some of that I can't get back. The money, though, I know you've got it and you're going to give it to me. I want a minimum of £100 million equivalent in cash, spread across pounds, euros and US dollars. You've got two days max to get it and deliver it. I'll be in touch on time and place. In the meantime, I'll keep your boy company. I'm sure we can find something to do.”

“Robson,” JJ was ready to rant, but the kidnapper had hung up.

“JJ what's going on?” asked Gil with deep anxiety. She had a lump the size of a tennis ball on the back of her head. The baseball bat whack she received fortunately hadn't broken her skull. She had been bleeding profusely and was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived to take her to Chelsea and Westminster's A&E department on the Fulham Road. The staff there were brilliant, cleaned her up, gave her some pain-killing medication and checked her thoroughly. They wanted to keep her in overnight but Gil discharged herself. The fifteen minute walk back to Markham Square seemed like fifteen hours. She was not steady on her feet and occasionally felt dizzy but she knew she had to tell JJ face to face.

“Robson's got Cyrus and wants £100 million, is what's going on Gil,” replied JJ.

The Scot didn't answer in the friendly way that he would normally address Gil. In his heart and mind JJ knew that Gil would do anything for Cyrus. He knew that she cared for him deeply and that if she could have defended him better when ambushed she would have. The truth of the matter was that he was feeling guilty. Cyrus was in trouble because of him, his smart-ass Greek bond plan and his wild attempt to get out of any insider trading fallout. JJ could not handle all this guilt on his own so, subconsciously or not, he was transferring some of it to Gil.

“What are we going to do?” Gil asked.

“Well, I'm going to get the money and await instructions. I can't tell the local police. At the first sign of a copper Robson will injure Cyrus, or worse. He's an ex-MI5 black ops operative. He wouldn't think twice about killing Cyrus if he thought he had nothing left to lose.”

“What can I do?” asked Gil, struggling up from her supine resting position on JJ's sofa. JJ looked at Gil, he couldn't maintain his anger with her. She had done everything for Cyrus and, indeed, she also had most skilfully eliminated a Russian thug who was seconds from killing the boy's grandmother.

“To begin with, you can rest here until your tennis ball lump becomes a ping pong ball lump. Then we'll see.” JJ said it softly. Gil was so relieved.

Cyrus was glad he heard his dad's voice. The boy had regained some of his composure and his aches and pains were not intolerable. Robson had now tied both of his hands behind him with white plastic speedcuffs.

His captor appeared to be making tea or something, he could hear a kettle boil. For the first time since his kidnap Cyrus had regained some spatial awareness. The room he was in was a living room, wooden floorboards, a couple of comfortable looking large chairs that he wished he was on, a two-seater sofa and a wooden coffee table. There was a makeshift wooden desk in the corner, it kind of matched the coffee table. There was some paper on it. He could see out of the large but small-paned windows. He couldn't see that much though. He was looking over the tops of what appeared to be reasonably mature trees. This meant he was high up, maybe in a vacant loft conversion. Although he was peering with 20/20 vision Cyrus could not recognise clearly any buildings or landmarks. Wait a minute, though, those tubular shapes in the distance, that might be Battersea Power Station, he guessed. That would make some sense, Cyrus concluded. He hadn't been in the manky van for that long, certainly no more than twenty minutes. The entire journey had been in traffic he recalled and the van never really got up any speed. Robson returned to the room, carrying a steaming hot mug of builder's tea and munching on a slice of buttered toast. He looked at Cyrus.

“Thirsty?” asked Robson.

“I'm OK,” replied Cyrus, trying to be neither friendly nor unfriendly.

“I'll get you a bottle of water anyway,” said Robson, returning to the kitchen area and bringing back some water in a 500ml plastic bottle. “I'm going to release your hands, don't try anything stupid or I'll punch you harder than I did earlier and stick the bag back on your head.” Cyrus nodded and Robson cut the speedcuffs.

The rest of the evening went without incident. Robson escorted Cyrus to the loo so that he could relieve himself before sleeping. Cyrus noted that he went down a half-flight of a spiral staircase to the bathroom. That short journey did not yield any further visual or aural information. On returning, Robson took Cyrus to a bedroom and tied his hands to one of the bedposts. He also bound the boy's legs together and covered his mouth with duct tape. Once secure Robson locked the door and went across the narrow hallway to the bedroom opposite for some shut-eye.

Before Cyrus and his kidnapper were sleeping fitfully, JJ had already asked for Toby's help in getting the cash out of some accounts they controlled and in the denominations demanded by Neil Robson. Fathead would deliver the money to JJ in the morning. JJ also contacted Ethel. She had not gone back to SCO19 yet, still recuperating and enjoying some extended down time. JJ told Ethel about Cyrus and explained why he could not risk involving the local police. Ginger understood and said she would help in any way possible.

The night passed without incident. Robson awakened Cyrus, let him go to the bathroom, gave him some toast and water, then tied him back up to the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“Can I have one hand free to do some drawing or something?” asked Cyrus. “It's kind of boring and uncomfortable here, please?”

“This isn't a holiday camp kid. You're fed and watered. That's enough. Anyway I don't have drawing materials so just close your eyes and contemplate the fuckin' universe,” replied Robson.

“There's some paper on that desk over there,” said Cyrus, head turning to the small wooden table in the corner near the windows. “Maybe there's a pen or pencil there too.”

“OK, OK, I'll take a look if it'll shut you up,” said Robson as he meandered over to the desk. There was indeed a half-opened packet of A4 paper on the desk and two pencils in one of the desk's drawers. Whoever owned this short-let didn't seem to have heard of computers, thought Robson, regarding pencil and paper as a bit Neanderthal.

“Here,” said Robson, putting a few sheets of paper on Cyrus's lap and giving him one of the pencils which he took in his now free right hand. “What are you going to draw?” Robson asked. He didn't really have any interest in the kid's answer. As he was whiling away the time getting ready to phone JJ Darke, though, he did want to ensure the boy wasn't going to sketch him in his now hirsute guise.

“Don't know yet, maybe draw those trees out there, or do some magic squares. I like those in maths,” replied Cyrus.

“Whatever,” said Robson. “Just don't make any noise and I'll be checking anything you do. Got it?” Cyrus nodded.

An hour or so passed. Neil Robson could not contain himself any longer. He rang the boy's father.

“You got my money yet asshole?”

“I've got it. Now let me see Cyrus. Then I'll take your delivery instructions,” replied JJ.

“You're forever issuing demands Darke, and ones you're not in a position to be issuing. I'll ring you back in ten minutes. Be ready.”

Robson hung up and checked that his smartphone was on its video setting. He then re-tied Cyrus's right hand to the wooden chair, taking his pencil from him. He left the boy's drawing on his lap. Robson got a wet cloth from the kitchen and wiped Cyrus's face, cleaning up any remaining dried blood. “Don't want your daddy to get all emotional, do I?” said Robson as he was washing Cyrus's face roughly. Once done, he then put duct tape over the boy's mouth.

Robson rang JJ. “Here he is,” said Robson taking a clear picture of Cyrus and ensuring that he kept his video shot looking straight at the boy. No exterior footage to give the Scot any hints thought the fugitive. JJ's phone received the video and he could see that Cyrus had some facial bruises and his eyes looked sad. JJ was both angry and wanted to cry. The only desire in his heart and mind was to get his boy back alive. JJ's brain was working overtime. The longer that Robson could be delayed the better chance of finding him but also the worse for Cyrus. Once again, JJ would need to do as Robson demanded.

“OK, that's enough. He's alright, for now,” said Robson shutting down the video. The kidnapper then outlined the time and place for delivery of the £100 million. “Is that clear Darke?”

“Yes,” replied JJ.

“Good. If you're late or the money's not as it should be, or if I even smell a copper or one of your MI5 cronies then your boy is fuckin' toast. Got it?” spat Robson, building up a head of vitriol again.

“Got it,” replied JJ.

Robson hung up. He went over to Cyrus, whacked him on the head and roughly pulled off the duct tape over the kid's mouth.

“What was that for?” moaned Cyrus. Robson returned and grabbed Cyrus by the throat.

“That was just because you're the spawn of that Scottish bastard. So shut the fuck up and don't give me any excuse to beat the livin' shit out of you,” snarled Robson, highly aggravated but finally letting go of the boy's throat. Cyrus coughed and spluttered a bit but he was okay. Robson took away Cyrus's drawings and pencil. He looked at the page on top and it was an incomplete magic square.

“Thought you were supposed to be a smart kid,” sneered Robson. “This square's never going to add up. All those fat fees your dad paid to your posh Chelsea school. Clearly they weren't worth a toss,” he added, chucking the boy's papers on the floor.

Let's hope my dad's smarter than you, eejit, thought Cyrus, sensibly keeping that thought to himself.