Darke Mission (58 page)

“Vladimir, it's Neil Robson. That Scottish cunt Darke has stolen our money, yours and mine. Deal with him.”

“Change of orders, Sir,” announced Joe Franks as he handed Commander Mark O'Neill the cable. Given that Franks had broken his leg at Haeju and all the bloody action that there had been on the Borei submarine since, the pace of his hobble up to the conn was fairly impressive.

O'Neill read the short instructions and asked Franks to let Evan Harris see them. The XO was still recuperating in the goat locker from his gunshot wounds caused by the departed Dannielle Eagles. In fact the SVR double agent was twice departed, having no life and no longer on the submarine.

“Tommy, change course to 55° 58ˈ 59ˈˈ North, 04° 55ˈ 00ˈˈ West. Keep your speed constant.”

“Yes Sir,” replied Tommy Fairclough, the sub's lead driver. “That doesn't seem much different from our original destination, Sir?” said Fairclough, half in statement and half in question.

“No, it doesn't Tommy. Lieutenant Harris is checking it out now,” replied O'Neill.

Following the missile attack on the submarine and SVR agent Eagles' failed attempt to hijack the Borei, the sub's passage had since been peaceful. Traversing the Suez Canal was slow and laborious. It required immense concentration especially from Fairclough and David McCoy. The rest of the trip through European waters was uneventful. Now they were in the North Atlantic Ocean just above the deep oceanic floor known as the Biscay Plain. They would be in Scotland tomorrow, Saturday, 4th April.

NGA officer Carolyn Reynolds approached O'Neill. “Evan says the new co-ordinates are for the Holy Loch in Scotland, not that far from Faslane.”

“John Adams at Langley said in his cable that he would brief me fully before we arrived so I guess we'll find out soon enough why we're headed for a Scottish Lock,” said O'Neill.

“It's a Loch, Mark, not a Lock. It's Scottish for Lake but you pronounce the ‘ch' as in Bach the German composer, not as in the speed of sound Mach whatever nor in machete nor, indeed, as in more or less any other word containing ‘ch' in the so-called English language,” Carolyn pointed out.

“Feeling the call of your roots, Officer Reynolds?” jested O'Neill, chuckling a little.

“In part, Commander, but also because I like to be accurate and because I've got your best interests at heart.”

“How so?” asked O'Neill.

“Well you've committed to taking me to dinner on the banks of Loch Lomond right?” asked Carolyn.

“Yes, ma'am,” replied O'Neill enthusiastically.

“Well, what a plonker you'd look like if you say to the waitress ‘it's lovely here on the Lock'. Whereas if you bother to pronounce it correctly, as I would Arkinsaw not phonetically Arkansas, then probably she won't spit in your soup, Yank. Got it?”

“I'm glad you've my best interests at heart, Carolyn,” said O'Neill, smiling.

David McCoy was hovering. As back up driver he was aware of the new destination. “I think I know why we're going to the Holy Loch,” said McCoy, pronouncing it correctly as befitted a man with an historic Scottish surname from the lands of Kintyre. O'Neill was already impressed but wanted to find out if his buddy had more to offer than a throaty ‘ch'.

“OK. I'll bite,” said O'Neill.

“My maternal grandfather was a Gold Crew torpedo man aboard the
USS Casimir Pulaski
. It was one of the early Polaris ballistic missile submarines, named after some Polish general who served in the American Revolutionary War. Granddad would tell me tales of his adventures, patrolling in the North Atlantic, life on board, all that stuff. I can't remember all of it but I'm sure he said he was based in the Holy Loch for a while,” offered McCoy.

“What? You think there's a submarine base there?” asked O'Neill.

“Well we know there's an active British Naval base at Faslane. You and the XO checked that out once we knew where we were going. The Holy Loch seems to be close. The base there was used for refits my granddad said. I thought it had been shut down after the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said O'Neill. “If anyone's looking for this submarine they'll be using satellites, listening for chatter, checking out all the likely submarine bases of their enemies to see what turns up. A narrow, sheltered Scottish Loch is probably not going to be top of their search list, and that's likely why we're headed for it.”

Carolyn was quite excited about all this Scottish stuff. She was not going to show it, though, especially now that she was the only girl on board and the crew weren't dumb, they knew she was the SEALs Commander's love interest. Carolyn had not set foot in Scotland since she was a baby. Indeed, she may never have, technically, set foot in Scotland at all because when she was last there she would have been carried about or wheeled in a pram. She did not have any clear memory of being there. When she was a little older and in America her mom had shown her some photographs of the three of them at a big house with a huge garden. She saw photos of two older folk as well whom she presumed were her dad's parents, her grandparents. Carolyn recalled that the big house was close to a vast expanse of water but she did not know where. The first thing she was going to do when she got off this sub was ring her dad. He would get the surprise of his life.

* * *

JJ didn't like surprises, even when they were good. The two he had received this evening were not good. First, the criminal Neil Robson was on the run and MI5 had not yet tracked him down. They discovered that he had boarded a BA flight for Amsterdam, but no signs of the murderer since. Robson was not going to be easy to find. He was a former MI5 field operative. Stealth, disguise, misdirection, he would remember how to do it all.

JJ's second surprise was that his house in Markham Square had been ransacked. Following the incident with black Merc man, Gil had her security firm contact install loads of add-on safety items. One of these was to arrange for any break-in signal that was sent directly to the local Chelsea police station to be simultaneously transmitted to JJ's smartphone. JJ did not return to his house in Markham Square until he saw the police arrive. By that time the ransackers had scarpered. When JJ went into the house with the police the place was a right mess. Spray painted on one wall, was:
Remember the death of William Wallace
. JJ told the constables that he did not know what that meant; but he did. The Scottish braveheart had been beheaded, hung, drawn and quartered in 1305. It was a message from Vladimir Babikov.

JJ collected a few things from the house and put them in his kit bag. The police said they would lock up and secure the building once the arriving detectives had investigated, searched for clues and took forensic evidence, if any. JJ thanked them, went straight to Sixt rent-a-car near Victoria Station and took possession of an Audi A6 Black Edition saloon car. JJ had intended to fly to Scotland, but you can't get the array of weapons he had just put in his kit bag onto a regular London-Glasgow flight. He knew the road route well. M4, M25, north on the M6 then M8 to Greenock, onto Wemyss Bay and, finally, ferry to the Isle of Bute. Tonight, though, he might need to make a swift detour.

“Becky, it's JJ,” said the Scot.

“Hi JJ,” replied the young woman.

“Are you OK? How's your mum?” he asked.

“We're fine. Mum's had a good several days. I'm just going back to my aunt's—”

“Look, Becky,” JJ interrupted, “Neil Robson evaded the police. He's on the run and nobody knows exactly where he is. You're probably not in any danger but he may try to contact you for help.”

“No, no, no. That's bad,” groaned an immediately apprehensive Becky. “He'll figure out I had something to do with linking him to Joel Gordon's death. This is bad,” she said beginning to cry. JJ thought that this might be the reaction. He was prepared.

“Becky, it's OK, stay calm. I'm in my car on my way to you now. I'm on the M3. I can probably be with you in forty-five minutes. I'm going to Scotland. If you want you can come with me. Go to your aunt's and pack your stuff. My parents are in Scotland, my son, his nanny. You won't be alone.”

“Yes please. I would like to come. Please hurry,” replied Becky. She hung up and drove as fast as she could from her mum's care home to her aunt's house. She'd be there in ten minutes.
Scotland, that'll be cold
, she thought.
Better pack some warm stuff, even if I have to borrow some of my aunt's.

JJ was concentrating on the heavy Friday evening traffic out of London and thinking at the same time. He wasn't sure that taking Becky to Scotland was a great idea. His parents' house was big enough OK, but he may be taking her to greater danger. The dodgy Russian brigade were unlikely to be satisfied with a quick ransack of his Chelsea home and just say ‘too bad'. They'd be looking for JJ and they would eventually suss out his Scottish connection. JJ would give Becky the chance of staying or going when they met up. If she came on the road trip then at least she would not be fretting on her own and she would have some protection in the form of himself and Gil. It wasn't enough but it was what they had.

Becky had no doubt. She was sticking close to JJ Darke. If any trouble came her way in Pimlico or Hampshire then she had no back up whatsoever. Her elder brother had emigrated to New Zealand, that made Scotland seem like round the corner. In any case, Lawrence wasn't a fighter, had no weapons training, no combat skills. He was a fine man but a civil engineer. Becky was ready when JJ arrived. She lobbed her bags into the back seat of the Audi and smartly got into the front passenger side.

“Ready?” asked JJ.

“As I'll ever be,” she responded, feeling a little better at seeing JJ. “How long will it take us to drive to Scotland?”

“About six hours. We'll be in Glasgow around two in the morning. We're going to an island but the ferries don't start until after 6am. I phoned ahead and booked us two connecting rooms at the Millennium in Glasgow. We'll grab a few hours' sleep, have a decent breakfast and cross the water early in the morning.” JJ glanced at Becky as they drove off, she looked drained, had on a pair of black casual pants, hefty hiking boots and a dark green cashmere turtle neck jumper, For a young woman of her normal candescence and style, this was clearly comfort clothing.

“Becky, I know this is all something of a shock to you. Joel's death, Robson's complicity, being in danger. I promise I'll do the best I can for you. We may be headed for trouble, I need to tell you that. Robson is in cahoots with the Russian Mafia in London. I don't know why but he is. One of their goons was tailing my son, Cyrus, and that's why he's in Scotland. I wouldn't have sent him there if I thought he'd be safer in London. What I'm trying to say is that if you need to be protected then we're going to the place best to do it.”

“I don't know what to say, JJ, it's all just been too much in a very short space of time,” she replied, feeling dog tired but listening tangentially to Passenger on the Audi's Bose sound system. “I've never been to Scotland, so I guess it's best to go first time with a local,” she added, gave JJ a weak smile and closed her eyes.

JJ let Becky nap. He had his mobile phone earpiece in and was talking to Gil, in a low voice so as not to disturb his emotionally fragile passenger. JJ updated Gil on the whole sorry story. She was weapons prepared but had done nothing to augment the defence capabilities of JJ's parents' house.

“I'll probably be there around 10 to 10.30am, Gil. I'll fill everybody in then and we can fortify the place as best we can. How's Cyrus?” JJ asked.

“He's fine. We've been doing a bit of circuit training on the island. The fresh air is knocking him out by 9pm. He's amazed that he can get the internet, Wi-Fi, and all that stuff up here. He's playing some computer games with your dad. Needless to say there's only one winner,” replied Gil, laughing.

“That's cool,” said JJ. “Try to get a good rest tonight Gil and make sure Cyrus sleeps well. The world might be a different place tomorrow.”

“Sure will. Drive safely. See you in the morning.”

JJ settled into his long distance driving position. Arms bent at the elbows, both hands on the leather steering wheel at ten to two. He had also flipped down both sun visors even though it was the dead of night. That was a throwback to his GT racing days. Events in the sky are of no interest to a racing driver. The lowered visors meant that vision out of the front window was narrower, more focused. Peripheral vision was not affected. It was an odd habit but it helped him to be in the driving zone. JJ was powering up the M6, keeping to the speed limit of 70mph or within 10mph of it, on the topside. He was tempted to go faster but if pulled over by any enthusiastic motorway cops he risked them inspecting the boot and his diverse arsenal of weapons therein.

Once the M6 ran out at Gretna, it would be A74 then M74 to Glasgow. The border between Scotland and England stretched for nearly one hundred miles from the Solway Firth on the west to the River Tweed on the east. It had been legally established in 1237 by the Treaty of York. Now, exactly 777 years later it was one of the oldest surviving border crossings in the world. Each and every time JJ crossed into Scotland he felt taller, braver, fiercer, smarter. There was no logical explanation, it was pure emotion. At 6ft 1in in height, he was in fact still taller than most Scottish men. A 2011 study by researchers at the University of Southampton claimed that the average height of a Scottish man was 5ft 8in, the smallest of any region in the UK. William Wallace, however, was reputedly nearly 6ft 5in before he was slaughtered and butchered by his captors. No wonder he scared the holy crap out of the English invaders. He was a giant in a land of pygmies.

The English had never understood the Scots and in all likelihood never would. Neil Robson may be right that in their hearts the Scots had lost their bottle and would not vote ‘yes' to independence. In their mind and soul, though, they are already independent, different, a class apart. The Scots don't hate the English in the way Sunnis and Shiites hate each other, or Palestinians and Israelis. The Scots are not out for bloodshed, no carnage of the flesh as payback for hundreds of years of rape, pillage and theft. It's a mental thing and it's not symmetrical. English football fans may be content if Scotland ever progressed to a World Cup or European Championship final. The Scots don't feel the same about England. ‘ABE' T-shirts will sell well north of the border this summer as the World Cup gets underway in Brazil. ‘Anyone But England' is a Scottish mantra covering all sport. Andy Murray, Scotland's tennis champion, Olympic champion and 2013 Wimbledon champion can't quite bring himself to support the ‘auld enemy' even with all the media and sponsorship pressure that can be brought to bear on him. He's a true Scot.