Darke Mission (18 page)

“Are you going to share, Ethel?”

Ethel looked straight at his welcoming grey-green eyes and continued. “It boiled down to this. The guy rushing at me was not heavily armed, clearly not a professional. He was waving his weapons around for god's sake. There were plenty of civilians in the vicinity. I didn't feel life threatened but I did feel in danger, so I tasered him and he went down. If he'd got up and moved closer I'd have popped a 9mm in his lower body. My Glock was on the ground beside me, ready. I'd have had no hesitation in taking him out, but I didn't need to in order to contain the threat,” Ethel finished, emitting a very low decibel sigh.

“Has anyone beaten your target shooting score at firearms training yet?” asked JJ attempting to lighten the atmosphere a little.

“No,” replied Ethel, swiftly, softly and with the hint of a smile.

JJ had found out what he wanted to. Ginger was as balanced as he had always remembered, the best shot in CO19 and this, perhaps, coupled with the best judgement in a tight spot. JJ's team for the North Korean operation needed to be small, definitely no more than six. At least half to two-thirds of them needed to be able to shoot but also know when not to shoot. JJ was confident enough that he had these skills and confident enough that Ginger had them too. JJ also wanted to keep his team as close knit as possible. People he knew, had known, or that his friends knew. He could have tapped a couple of old pals in MI5 but Neil Robson had blocked that in case any of them knew or remembered the now Financial Secretary to the Treasury.

“So Ginger, are you in?” JJ asked.

Ethel Rogers hesitated before replying, there was a lot she still needed to know. If truth be told, however, the action of the ‘Woolwich Feds' as popular local culture had since named them, was the last action she had been involved in. While she was no warmonger and did not believe in violence for the sake of violence, it was quite an adrenalin rush. At forty-two years old she was unlikely to continue in 19 for that much longer. Indeed, she may even want to leave the police force altogether and start a family with her architect husband. It wasn't too late in the modern world, though babies were expensive she was led to believe by her civilian friends. The police pension plan was OK, but with one government official after the other on
Sky News
every day telling folk to belt-tighten, there was no guarantee that her pension would not come under threat. JJ's promised bonus, on mission completion, amounted to nearly eight years salary for a police officer of her rank and service. A baby could be well cosy on that.

“I'm in JJ,” she said thoughtfully. “I've one more question for today, though,” she continued.

“Sure,” said JJ. “What is it?”

“Can I select my weapons please?”

“Yes, Ginger, you sure can.”

JJ and Ginger parted company like old friends, with a hug and appropriate cheek kiss. The limitations set by Neil Robson on team selection were an obstacle for JJ but so far his two picks were his first choices. Admittedly, Fathead would not set foot on North Korean soil but his eventual role was critical as the ability to sell such a hefty amount of gold efficiently, at a good price, and without generating market speculation would be no mean feat. JJ and Toby agreed to leave Yves-Jacques out of the loop. The third amigo was a fine, intelligent analyst but he was young and inexperienced. If he got wind of an insider trading case against him he'd probably have brain freeze at best, or at worst, leap off the top of the
Coq d'Argent
restaurant near Bank tube station. That may be particularly appealing to Yves-Jacques given the French connection; it certainly appeared to be an attractive prospect for the four or five business types who had made the suicidal leap in recent years. No, thought JJ, the young Frenchman could stay in the dark till all was clear or even darker.

JJ had been thinking hard and fast about the task ahead. He had not solved the transport issue of how to get the gold from Pyongyang in the North, through the demarcation line to the South, nor how to get it back to the UK. The latter in theory, was easier as a big enough plane could carry the load. He also knew that he would need at least two Koreans in the team, two who would know the layout of the land, speak the lingo and understand the local customs. Blending in and around Pyongyang would not be simple.

Neil Robson had explicitly banned JJ from using any MI5 sources or assets. This was a bind, but in the particular case of the hunt for two helpful Koreans it did not matter. Neither MI5 nor MI6 had embedded offices in South Korea. The CIA did. It was fortunate for JJ that he had kept in touch with Jim Bradbury, his best friend and contact in the US security services and now the agency's Korean Liaison Officer (KLO) aka head of the CIA's operation in Seoul. Neil Robson had to pull a few strings, which he mumbled, grumbled and swore a lot about, but at least he opened up the right channels and got the approval for the Seoul CIA office to help JJ. The cover story was that JJ was on an exfil mission to spring a key asset out of a compromised position in the North. Jim Bradbury was happy to assist and he had the two helpful Koreans in his team, ready to go.

At most he needed two more to complete the team. One would need to be an explosives expert, specifically a quiet explosives expert capable of opening any unopened doors or vaults in the DPRK's central bank. That was going to be a tough slot to fill. JJ knew a few guys who could blow things up, but noisily. He'd delegated that discovery task to Ginger on the basis that her inside knowledge of illegal activities may help. The other operational omission at this point was HGV drivers. All the team so far could drive but none had any experience of or licence for heavy goods vehicles. If they had to proceed at pace from Pyongyang with trucks of gold they'd need to have drivers skilled in handling such large vehicles without spilling the swag all over the roads of Hwangae Province. As JJ was mulling this over, his phone rang, it was Toby.

“JJ, we're in schtook,” began Fathead.

“How come?”

“Yves-Jacques knows,” blurted Toby.

“Knows what Fathead?” asked JJ becoming more anxious.

“Knows that there's an insider trading case hanging over us and that we're concocting some plan to get us out of it,” replied Toby, shakily, fearing the worst.

“Well, how the holy hell did he find that out, Toby?” bellowed JJ.

“It was my fault, JJ, I was trying to be nice to him, taking him under my wing, that sort of thing…” explained Toby already sounding remorseful. “So I took him to Nobu, we got drunk, well I got drunk, and blabbed.”

“For fuck's sake Toby, this isn't a game; we're far enough up shit creek that a paddle or two won't help,” replied JJ clearly annoyed. “How is he, what did he say? Can you see him – he's not gone to
Coq d'Argent
has he?” JJ asked, clearly becoming more rattled.

“He's fine, I think…” responded Toby wondering what the Coq whatever had to do with anything. “He says he wants to help,” added Toby.

JJ was glad Yves-Jacques hadn't either topped himself or ran about MAM's building screaming about a roast beef conspiracy. That was at least something. “How can he help Toby? This isn't a mathematical problem or a game theoretic one. It's not about portfolio optimisation or stock selection. It's about staying out of jail, having a career. Goddammit staying alive!” shouted JJ into his smartphone.

“I don't know, I was a bit worse for wear as the evening wore on. He said something about skunkworks in a Paris suburb that were doing innovative research on materials and minerals,” said Toby, beginning to hope that he was contributing something positive to a difficult phone call.

“Fine,” said JJ. “I'll be in the office in half an hour. Get a meeting room. Book it for two hours. Me, you and Yves-Jacques.” With that JJ hung up. He jumped in a cab and was heading straight for Mayfair.

In the cab, JJ's mind was on two parallel trains of thought. The first was easy enough. Fathead was a drunken dope and he was about to be banned from alcohol for the duration. The second was more intriguing, why would a young French mathematician know anything about skunkworks, let alone where one was. This should be interesting he thought as his cab raced along The Mall.

* * *

The following morning, JJ and Yves-Jacques were on the first Eurostar train from St Pancras International to Gare du Nord in Paris. From there they would take a taxi to Montparnasse in the 14
^th
arondissement, drive to the Foundation Henri Cartier-Bresson and be met by one of Yves-Jacques old university chums. As JJ settled back for the two hour or so train journey he was thinking about the hidden depths of the young Frenchman. He knew well enough about Yves-Jacques' mathematical capabilities but he hadn't really focussed on that part of his CV which had detailed his additional qualification in physics. He was second in his year at the École Polytechnique Paris Tech (EPPT), one of the top fifty universities in the world. He worked in a team under eminent scientists like Luca Perfetti, completed a two year course and was outscored only by his friend Vincent Barakat, who they were soon to meet.

While this was all good and interesting stuff that JJ had found out at yesterday's meeting at MAM with Toby and Yves-Jacques it didn't really seem that relevant to on-going events of a Korean nature. Yves-Jacques had handled the full story from JJ well, well it wasn't full but it was a story and it was Yves-Jacques' turn to explain why he could help. Once young Durand had babbled on enough about his smarts, the interesting content emerged.

Apparently, one of the science professors at the EPPT, Henri De Brugne, didn't like teaching much. He did it for the money. What he did like was exciting and innovative research. He had convinced the Board of the EPPT to allocate him some funds to do offsite research with a few select students in their own time. His hope was to stay at the cutting edge of discoveries, mainly in physics and chemistry, to tap the best of new, young brains around and, if really lucky, to discover a process which was sellable to the corporate or industrial world. Yves-Jacques was one of the students selected, as was Vincent Barakat, whose specialty lay in the study of materials and chemical engineering. So, under the auspices of this leading French scholar they set up a skunkworks and called it PLP, after Pepé Le Pew, arguably the most famous fictional skunk in the world and star of many a Looney Tunes cartoon. Very appropriate thought JJ.

In modern terminology a skunkworks project was one where a small group of like-minded people set about to do research and development in a particular field with the aim of radical innovation or discovery. The origin of the term was much older, dating back to Lockheed's Skunk Works project in World War II. Apparently, Lockheed set up an incubator for the design of the P80-Shooting Star jet fighter in a circus tent near a plastics factory in Burbank, California. The pungent smells wafting into the tent from the factory made the Lockheed design team think of the Skonk Works factory in Al Capp's
L'il Abner
comic strip, the job no one wanted. Voila skunkworks!

The skunkworks projects at PLP in the 14
^th
arondissement, this fine spring day, were of a different nature. The one that captivated the attention of JJ Darke was the chemical engineering experiments of Vincent Barakat. Specifically his experiments on the melting and liquefying of precious metals. As they climbed the stairs of the Foundation Henri Cartier-Bresson building, Yves-Jacques spotted his friend straight away.

“Vincent!” he called out, waving his right arm vigorously. Vincent waved back and as they collided softly, they gave each other two of those Gallic kisses that only French guys can get away with. After the pleasantries, Yves-Jacques introduced Vincent to JJ. The Scot extended his hand swiftly, none of that man-kissing malarkey was ever on offer in Glasgow and he sure wasn't becoming an instant Euro fag just because he was in Paris and desperate.

Yves-Jacques had given Vincent the heads up on the visit, the untrue version that is. Mr Darke was head of portfolio strategy at Yves-Jacques' firm. They had acquired legally in the course of business a sizeable amount of physical gold which was stored in vaults of various European banks. Mr Darke wanted all this gold in London and was concerned that the usual modes of transportation, truck, van or plane were too open to a hijacking, especially as their purchase of the gold bars was well known in some financial circles both legit and shady. Yves-Jacques had mentioned Vincent's experiments to his boss and he felt it interesting enough to make a day trip to Paris. Yves-Jacques had indicated that his boss would gift €10,000 to PLP just for one day of Vincent's time and substantially more if any of his work was capable of being used in the transport of the gold. Vincent knew that was a great deal. €10,000 would fund better some existing projects for PLP and if it were indeed to develop into substantially more maybe they could start on some new ones.

Vincent Barakat was about the same height and build as JJ, 6ft. He had a shock of dark, curly hair, swarthy skin, deep blue eyes. He had an engaging smile and appeared to be around the same age as his countryman, in his early to mid-twenties. He took JJ's extended arm, shook his hand firmly and, thankfully, made no attempt to plop a soppy one on the Scot's cheek.

“Good morning, Mr Darke,” said Vincent, warmly enough and in very crisp English.

“Good morning, Vincent,” said JJ in return, ensuring to pronounce Vincent as Vansaan. “Your English is very good. Thank you for seeing us at such short notice.”

“My nanny was English when I was young so I picked it up fairly quickly,” he informed JJ.

“Here's a banker's draft for the €10,000 as promised,” said JJ, handing it to Vincent, enclosed in a plain white envelope. “Just to get it out of the way so that there is no awkwardness later in the day,” he added.