Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  “So, we have four men inextricably woven together in a large scale enterprise involving stolen goods, international smuggling, murder, and now fundraising for terrorist groups. Did they really think they’d get away with it?”

  “They have done for at least the last five years, give or take. Trevelyan would almost certainly still have contacts with people who teach terrorists to make good old-fashioned bombs. Had you not uncovered what you did, we might well have been still fumbling around trying to piece the various parts together, whilst being suffocated with that shyte we call The Establishment.”

  Dillon was listening intently to every word and then the spell was broken as a torch beam was being shone from Morgan’s driveway. It was his wife – she’d come out to see where he was. As she appeared at the gateway, Morgan let down the electric side window immediately and called out to her, “It’s alright darling. I’m just talking. Won’t be long.”

  “Why don’t you come inside and talk? It’s warmer.”

  “No, it’s okay. We won’t be much longer, really, I’m all right. Don’t fret. I’ll be in soon.”

  “You’re a lucky man. It’s a rare thing these days to have a wife who cares about you,” Dillon said as Mrs. Morgan went reluctantly back up the driveway into the house. “I do hope that she doesn’t call anyone?”

  “She won’t. She’s been married to me for far too long. Where was I? Yes. As I was saying, Trevelyan is not simply an aging hoodlum. He’s extremely well-connected and, as a consequence, is obsessive about who he is seen to be associating with. How many of these safe houses do you think there are?”

  “Fifteen to twenty. I’m sure that there are more that are not listed, most likely only ever used in an emergency should anything go wrong.”

  “The fact is, Jake, if it ever becomes public knowledge that two of the wealthiest men in England and a notorious gangland criminal have been generating vast sums of money to fund terrorist boot camps around the globe... Well, at the very least, the security service and the Home Secretary would be condemned by every other government and security service in the Western World for allowing them to get away with it. And that is, most definitely, not an option. We need a result, and we need it pretty damn quick.”

  “As I see it, Trevelyan is responsible for looking after the safe houses. Hart, he is well-placed to organise the movement of the stolen works of art through The Lahiri Import & Export Company. As for Paul Hammer, I’m not sure what role he plays. Except that his hotel chain spans around the globe, including certain countries where no sane person would ever want to stay. I still believe that Latimer was useful to them in the beginning. Especially with his link to Brinks Mat, but became a liability in later years and so they had him killed. Self-preservation in its most lethal form.”

  Dillon wound down his side window a fraction, outside the night was getting colder and the fine drizzle turning to heavier rain. He gazed through the misted glass and said, “I can help you. But just what the hell do you think I can do that MI5 can’t? My investigation was leading in the right direction, but you have filled in the gaps and told me far more than I knew already. So what’s your point?”

  “I’ve just given you a brief outline of what we know. There is little doubt that you are right in your assumption of there being more safe houses and that their locations are kept top secret. I’m also convinced that the gold and the other materials never stay too long at any one address. You were very lucky to find what you did at the house in Lyme Regis. By moving it all around, they ensure that their liability is kept to an absolute minimum. It’s a well-oiled and very slick operation that has some extremely sinister elements to it. Mostly because it’s not just Trevelyan and the others, but their equivalent around the world and the bond we believe has been formed between them. You see, The Hell Fire Club appears to have cropped up all over Europe in recent years and now they’ve started to appear in India, South Africa and throughout South America. One has even been found in Miami!”

  “But this is definitely the domain of MI5 to deal with in the UK, and MI6 overseas. So where do I come in?”

  “If it’s a matter of national security, then it’s ours. You know as well as anyone it’s a fine line that we tread between the various other agencies and ourselves, and quite often it’s a problem to decide who deals with what. We’re involved because, so far as I’m aware, we know more than the rest and have a good working relationship with our American cousins in the CIA. I suppose it’s really quite bizarre to think that, with the vast resources available to both ourselves and the CIA, we can only achieve limited success. That’s where you come in. There are two reasons why we need your help: You are able to do things where we are restricted by the law. Like your little skirmish down in Dorset. But you also appear to have built up some form of dialogue with Charlie Hart and he intrigues us very much. I still cannot see where he fits in or why he is involved.”

  “Have you checked his history?”

  “Far more than we’ve checked yours since you resigned your commission. It seems to stand up.”

  “Which doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

  “Which doesn’t mean a thing,” Morgan conceded.

  “But we need to know a lot more about these safe houses and why some of the locations have been deleted and others put in their place.”

  “It’s too soon to return to Dorset. I was bloody lucky the first time, but I can’t expect to get away with it again.”

  “But you found the gold and the other gear, why should you want to go back?”

  “Because I’m not satisfied. There’s another angle on Hart that I’m following up, but it may come to nothing. There’s something not quite right with him being associated with Trevelyan and if it came to choosing who would come out on top between those two, I would put my money on Charlie Hart. There’s a lot of experience there. And that makes him a formidable man.”

  “What kind of experience?”

  “Well that’s the question, isn’t it? What about Issy?”

  “After this chat I think we have no option but to let her go. I don’t see how we can justify holding her now if you’re working with us. But we can arrange some protection. By the way, just how did you get involved with this in the first place?”

  “Sir Lucius was approached and I was asked to do a favour for the Americans. A simple thing, really. But I discovered something that I shouldn’t have, and from that point on I was treading on toes that I didn’t know were there. I knew that the assignment was going to be far from simple when Hart had my Porsche blown up and I received a letter bomb the next morning. When Issy became involved, I wanted to put the brakes on the assignment. LJ agreed and so did the partners of Ferran & Cardini. Hart and Trevelyan had other ideas and that wasn’t one of the options. I tried talking to Hart, but it was too late, I’d discovered too much and they had too much to hide, but at that time they didn’t know what I’d found out. In fact, at that stage I knew damn all. Latimer was the only one who knew that I’d found the gold and works of art. A secret I’m confident he wouldn’t have been able to divulge before they killed him.”

  “Can you be certain of that?”

  “Pretty certain. Before I left his penthouse this morning he was deeply unconscious from the blow to the back of the neck I’d given him. My guess is that Trevelyan’s boys went back in and finished him off before he’d regained consciousness.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Morgan blew his nose loudly and then sat contemplating what Dillon had just told him.

  “Did you kill Latimer?”

  “Do you think I’d tell you if I had? No. He was either killed by a stray bullet meant for me, or the order was given and the opportunity too good to miss to get rid of him once and for all. I genuinely think that he had served his usefulness to Trevelyan. Furthermore, whether his death was an accident or by design, Trevel
yan won’t be unhappy about it.”

  Morgan nodded in the darkness of the car’s interior.

  “Okay, you’ve proved your point. You can do things we dare not try.”

  “Bollocks. What you’re saying is it doesn’t matter if I get caught. Look, Brendon, it’s been nice talking but I’ve got to get back.”

  They both climbed out of the sports car. Morgan slammed the passenger door closed and Dillon walked him back across the road to the entrance of his driveway.

  Morgan turned to Dillon. “So we still don’t know how to contact you.”

  “Better that way, don’t you think? Take the phone tap off of Dunstan Havelock’s home number. He’s about to complain to the Home Secretary and as the original enquiry stemmed from that office, you’d better tread carefully. You wouldn’t want your funding to be suddenly cut.”

  “Tut-tut. You’re assuming that we have it tapped. Do keep us posted on any major developments, Jake. It’s been most enlightening to meet you at last.”

  The two men shook hands and Dillon was just about to walk back to his car when he said, “Do you see Charlie Hart as a security risk?”

  Morgan stood thinking about the question for a moment, before replying, “That’s the question, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll be able to find out.”

  Dillon reached the Porsche, pausing for a moment, and briefly glanced back towards Morgan’s house before climbing into the car and immediately checking his rear-view mirror. The road was quiet, there were no strange vans or cars parked, and he felt strangely pleased that Morgan had kept the conversation fairly light and pleasant. But he did have some doubts as to why he was driving away with far more knowledge than he had imparted. They had gone to great lengths to find him for so little in return, particularly when Havelock had told him that they could not tell him anything because it was so highly classified. What had changed to allow Morgan to declassify what he’d just told him?

  Dillon drove off slowly, glancing in his rear-view mirror every now and then. He turned a corner and then another before he stopped on double yellow lines. He sat there with the engine idling whilst he waited for a car or a van to cruise by. Nothing happened. He decided that he was becoming paranoid and that his basic distrust of the security service was such that he could only find negativity with them. He saw nothing wrong with that, but did accept that even with the resources of the firm he could not work alone on this assignment. He needed the intelligence information just given to him, and he might need their help in other ways as well.

  He drove back into the city with the sedate reverence of an old lady, at speeds he believed the Porsche engine management system would never allow. He entered the underground garage of The Old Colonial Club and parked the car, went up to his rooms and phoned Grace. Issy answered and his spirits immediately lifted with joy. He talked with her without once mentioning that he’d struck a deal to ensure that she was looked after. The minders would be positioned outside in the street by now, which made Dillon feel much more comfortable about telling her that she could return to something as near to a normal life as was practically possible. She enthused about the lavish suite of rooms that she had been staying in and that she’d been pampered like a film star. Even down to the luxury Mercedes that had brought her back home. They talked as old friends and lovers do, and when finally they hung up Dillon had to admit to himself that Morgan had not only kept his word, but had been exceptionally quick about it.

  Although late, he went in search of something to eat and found a small Italian restaurant around the corner with an amiable chef willing to knock him up a bowl of pasta. The meal was enjoyable and the glass of red wine went down nicely. When he returned he discovered that there was a message to ring a Mr. Sharp at a London number. He called back immediately.

  “Rosie Poulte, this could simply be a coincidence and that there are two Rosie Poulters. But according to a document I’ve just found on a very old database at central archives, a woman by this name was recorded by the coroner’s office as having died in 1978. Death by drowning due to misadventure. Is that helpful?”

  “No. Not in the least bit. Why wasn’t that picked up on the first search?”

  “Too far back and the original database had been placed into an archived programme that doesn’t reveal itself unless specifically asked for.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where did she die?” Dillon felt as if a piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place.

  “According to the record, Brighton.”

  “So there is the possibility that the woman in Bournemouth is an impostor, using a dead woman’s identity?”

  “What is her connection to Hart, though?”

  “That’s what I need to find out.”

  “You coming into the office tomorrow?”

  “No. Tell LJ that I’ll email him a report of all recent events. Oh, and Vince, good work, mate.”

  Dillon hung up, glanced down at his Omega Seamaster watch, and decided to fly to New Delhi on the first available flight into Indira Gandhi International Airport the next day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dillon phoned Brendon Morgan on his mobile number early the next morning.

  “I know it’s early, but I didn’t want to get bogged down with the call waiting system at Thames House,” he quickly explained.

  “By the way, thanks for keeping your word and releasing Issy last night.”

  “I said I would and I always keep my word. To be honest, it was costing the British tax payer an absolute fortune keeping her in that five-star hotel. Is that what you called for?”

  “No. What I need now is a contact in Delhi. Whoever you can come up with at short notice. But they’ll need to have their ear to the underworld and know what’s going on. I’ll also need a gun when I get to the other end, preferably a Glock with spare clips.”

  Morgan laughed. “I’m in the middle of my breakfast – that’s always a bad time to land me with that sort of problem. I can give you a contact, but the weapon is something else.”

  “Don’t even go there, Brendon. Obtaining a weapon from the British Embassy should be a walk in the park for you. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to be unarmed in such a dangerous city. After all, do you really want me to find out what’s going on or not?”

  “Ring me back in fifteen minutes and I’ll give you a contact. I need to check first, though.”

  * * *

  Having someone like Morgan on his side had its uses, like getting on a fully booked British Airways flight and automatically being upgraded to business class. It was the first time in days that Dillon felt like he would have a chance to relax, and it was not until they were rolling up the runway and taking off that he realised just how tired and bruised he felt. He slept for most of the way, often flying over countries that he had operated covertly in as a serving Army Intelligence Officer. By the time the aircraft was starting its descent into Indira Gandhi International Airport, he felt completely refreshed, where most of the passengers in economy class were feeling weary.

  He was using his own passport and it seemed that Morgan had smoothed the way for him, because he was through immigration and customs whilst the others were still queuing. There were luxury air-conditioned limousines waiting to take tourists to their five-star hotels in fashionable downtown New Delhi. Dillon’s transport was a battered old embassy car running on diplomatic plates, double parked outside the terminal building. The young Indian driver sent to collect him stood by the passenger door, holding up a clipboard under his arm. When he spotted Dillon walk through the doors, he waved the clipboard above his head to attract his attention.

  “Mr. Dillon?”

  He was annoyed at having his name shouted across the concourse for all to hear and headed directly for the car.

  “I’m, D
illon. Are you my contact?”

  “No, Mr. Dillon. I have been sent to take you to your hotel. Your contact will make himself known to you there. You have been booked into the five-star Shangri-la Hotel – I hope that it will be to your liking. It is one of the best.”

  “Is it? Well, I’m sure the Shangri-la will be just fine.”

  They climbed into the car, the upholstery was in surprisingly good condition for such a battered-looking vehicle, and the V8 engine was definitely not standard issue. Dillon sat in the back seat, the driver was no more than twenty-five years of age, but handled the car like a seasoned professional as he negotiated the late evening Delhi traffic on route to the Shangri-La.

  Dillon checked into the luxury hotel and a bellboy escorted him up to his room. He couldn’t be bothered to unpack. Instead he threw his luggage on the bed and went back downstairs to the main bar.

  As he walked across the opulent marble-floored reception area, a tall thin man in his late fifties approached, khaki linen jacket open to show a white shirt, the top button undone and a silk tie loosened off. The face was narrow, lined and weathered, but in it were two twinkling blue eyes which looked out with amused cynicism at all they gazed upon.

  “Jake Dillon?”

  Dillon stood at a long sweeping bar.

  “Yes, that’s me. Are you Adam Khan?”

  “I am. And I must say how jolly nice it is to meet you, Mr. Dillon,” Khan said smiling. “I’ll be your liaison officer for the next day or two.”

  “It’s Jake. Would you like a drink?”

  “I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s on ice, please.”