Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  Dillon ordered two Jack Daniels’, and, whilst he waited for the drinks, took in his surroundings.

  The Embassy chose the Shangri-la because it is handily placed for reaching Shahjahanabad,” Adam Khan said in English Oxford tones.

  “Shahjahanabad?”

  “Old Delhi, Jake. London only gave my station head the briefest of details, but I imagine you’ll want to go there.”

  “I expect so. You’ll know your way around, I assume? And if you can supply me with what I want to know, I might need to stay only the one night.”

  “London did mention that you wouldn’t be staying longer than necessary. Most people would give their month’s salary to stay longer if they could.”

  “I’m sure they would. But I’m afraid that on this trip I don’t have the time. By the way, I’ve been to India on many occasions.”

  “In which case the sightseeing tour is out.” It was said with joviality.

  He then added, “Apparently, I must ensure that you find what you are looking for quickly. And before I forget, I’m to give you this package. Apparently you already know what it is.”

  Khan handed over a package wrapped in plain brown paper and then downed his drink in one long gulp.

  “Please don’t think me rude, but I’ve got to run a small errand. I will return in one hour. If you like, we can talk more then.”

  “That’ll be fine, see you then.”

  Dillon went back up to his room and before unpacking, opened the package and checked the pistol. He pushed a full clip into the base of the grip and made sure there was a round in the chamber before tucking the Glock into his trouser band at the small of his back.

  Adam Khan returned to the hotel an hour later, where he found Dillon already sitting back at the bar drinking his third Jack Daniel’s of the evening. He ordered another for Khan as he sat down on the stool next to him.

  “I don’t know how much London has told you, but I’m here to check up on a character called Charlie Hart. I believe his father worked for the British Imperial Import & Export Company here in Delhi, and that he was brought up here.”

  Khan leant back on the padded, circular seat. The bar was loosely packed with people, active in a leisurely sort of way. At the other end of the bar a group of business men were in full flow, drinking the hotel’s vintage Champagne and, with much laughter, telling dirty jokes.

  “I know of Hart. It must be over twenty years since he left India.”

  He mused for a while, listening in on the tail end of a joke that was being told by a rotund Irishman who was sweating profusely and slurring his words.

  “He had a son, if I remember rightly. It was rumoured that the mother was a singer of local origin, used to perform in one of the Old Delhi nightclubs that were frequented by white colonials. I don’t think they were ever seen in public together. She’s probably still living in the city, but it would be hellish difficult to locate her after all these years.”

  Dillon said, “I’ve got to know Charlie Hart a little. My impression of the man is that the mother may have deserted the child, or was told to disappear by Hart for hard realistic reasons. But I would guess that he would have made sure she was never destitute. He would have ensured that a generous financial provision was made for her.”

  Khan raised one eyebrow and gave one of his slight cynical smiles.

  “So we’d be looking for a singer who originally came from the slum district, who had come into money and did not know which section of the community she belonged. That really makes it a lot easier.”

  At first Dillon was angry at Khan’s response, but quickly saw that he was right. The Indian community was a very close-knit one, and even if someone knew her it was highly unlikely that they would tell. He dwelled a little on a woman who had had a child and had then simply dumped it on the father’s doorstep because she did not fit into Hart’s wealthy world, and he now felt a little less respect for Hart. But then, that was the whole problem – he knew nothing of the circumstances that had led to such a situation. The fact that Hart had gone with a singer in a bar at all, made no sense. And it was some twenty odd years ago. To try to find Daniel’s mother would be hopeless.

  He said, “How far back can you remember Charlie Hart?”

  Khan waited whilst the coffees were put down and stared thoughtfully at them. He was sitting on the stool with his legs crossed, his wiry body turned slightly away from Dillon, his gaze shrewdly roaming the reception area and bar.

  “That’s difficult to say, specifically. You see, as I recall, Hart was always something of a loner, didn’t mix a great deal. I seem to remember that he would attend those functions where it would look odd if he didn’t, but he never stayed long. A wealthy young man, but that’s nothing new in this place. Millionaires are common place nowadays. That’s why I never became one.”

  Dillon smiled. “So how did he make his fortune?”

  Khan swivelled round. “Jake, my new friend, you should know that is not the sort of question one asks in New Delhi.”

  “You don’t know, or you won’t tell?”

  “I’ll give you this. You’re persistent. I’m warming to you, but that doesn’t mean I know, or if I did, that I would wish to tell you.”

  “Then you’re wasting my time. I need this information, and I need it now.”

  “Look Jake, you’re asking about someone who left India over twenty years ago; whom nobody knew well, because he kept to himself, and who was never my personal friend. I do not know how he made his money, only that he was never short of it. What I do know is that he definitely didn’t get it from his parents.They were comfortable by the standard of those days, but had nothing like the money Hart had.”

  “Are you saying he used to flash it around?”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Jake. After all, he lived in a red-bricked mansion surrounded by twelve foot high walls in what was, and still is, one of the most affluent of areas in Delhi. This was probably why he bought it. It was nothing short of enchanting, but very few people ever got to go there, except to one of Hart’s rare parties. And before you ask, yes, I was there once. Even then he did not put in too much of an appearance. I remember that because everyone was so surprised he held a party at all. Some speculated that he would sit in his study and observe his guests on CCTV cameras that were strategically placed all over the building. But it was only speculation.”

  “Was this shortly before he left India?”

  Khan raised a brow, sensing a trap in the question.

  “I’m afraid that my memory is not that good on remembering such fine detail, Jake.”

  “You have the type of memory,” Dillon said picking up his coffee cup, “that the security services in London rate highly or they wouldn’t be picking up the bill for a five-star hotel and a business class return airline ticket. Nor would they have recommended that I come and talk with you. Was it?”

  “As I recall, it could have been, but I believe he left a few weeks later. Simply sold up everything and left. Sold out to a Russian tycoon who now lives in the mansion. His parties are much more frequent. What is it that’s playing on your mind?”

  Dillon looked around the busy bar, but there appeared to be no one near to them. “Hart has a UK passport, presumably because his parents were British citizens. But does anyone know anything about Hart’s parents?”

  “I believe they came here in 1947, or there about. Hart was born in 1951, went to a British school here in Delhi, and by the time he was sixteen, I believe the saying goes, wheeling and dealing his way to his first fortune. By the time his twentieth birthday came, he was already a millionaire.”

  “What was he trading in?”

  “Anything that he could get his hands on easily.”

  “Drugs?”

  “One couldn’t dismiss the idea. After all, op
ium is a readily available commodity in these parts.”

  “Were his parents really murdered by kidnappers?”

  “The official police and embassy reports at the time state that they were both killed when the British Imperial Company refused to pay a second ransom. Charlie Hart appeared to take their deaths very badly. So much so, that shortly after he sold up and left India for good.”

  “Appeared? Why appeared to take their deaths badly?”

  “Some say that Hart owed a large sum of money to, let’s call him, ‘a merchant’ and that his parents were snatched because of this, and that Hart did eventually hand over the money. However, the merchant decided to raise the stakes and also demand a ransom from the company and that the British Consul advised that no payment should be made to the kidnappers. As far as I can see the company was not short of money when the demand was made.”

  Dillon gave Khan a cynical look.

  “The term ‘merchant’ can cover a multitude of sins and tells me absolutely nothing.”

  He finished his coffee and put down the cup.

  “Although, it would not be unreasonable to assume that Hart would hold a grudge and believe that the British Consul was to blame for the death of both his parents. Is that everything you know about him?”

  “Just about. There is a man, a local, who was Hart’s right-hand man. He’s over in the old part of the city.”

  He handed Dillon a small, folded piece of paper with a name and address written on it.

  “I can take you to see him, although I doubt that he’ll help you. If Hart is half the businessman I think he is, he’ll most likely still be receiving a generous cheque payment each month.”

  “Okay. But we won’t know until we knock on his door, will we?”

  “You must understand, Jake, loyalty comes at a high price here.”

  “You mean there’s no such thing as bribery here?”

  Dillon was quietly laughing. “For a sceptic, and I would have said cynic, you’ve suddenly gone all naive, old son.”

  “Well, I suppose if the sum of money is large enough it will catch the attention of the most loyal person. It’s very late. We’ll drive across to see him in the morning. How does six-thirty sound?”

  “Early. But, I’ll see you out front six-thirty prompt.”

  The two men shook hands and Dillon stood for a moment, watching Khan walk across the foyer, stop briefly at reception to hand over an envelope and then out through the rotating doors of the hotel. There was a nagging doubt in the back of Dillon’s mind about Khan’s integrity, which made him a little uneasy.

  By the time Dillon had got back up to his room, he was beginning to feel a little jet-lagged. He took off his clothes and put them away in the wardrobe. Then went and showered off the sweat of travelling. He lay on the bed in the white complimentary bath robe and thought it had been a long way to come for what little he had learnt so far from Khan.

  He unfolded the piece of paper with the address Khan had given him: Devdas Shah Zafar, Chandni Chowk, Gurdwara, Sisganj. He returned it to his jacket pocket. Khan was probably right – he could expect very little from someone who had worked for Hart, unless he had a reason to dislike him.

  There was a small discreet knock on his door.

  Dillon called, “Who is it?”

  A male voice on the other side of the door informed him that it was room service. Dillon got up off the bed and unlocked the door; his left hand gripped the Glock inside his robe pocket. He opened the door and moved back to allow the porter to come in with a trolley on which was a bottle in an ice bucket, a splendid floral arrangement, and caviar and small flat biscuits.

  “Shall I put the flowers over there on the dressing table, sir?”

  The porter took them over to the dressing table and placed it in front of the mirror so that it appeared to be a double arrangement.

  “What’s all this? Compliments of the management?” Dillon was sure he did not merit the treatment.

  “The card is on the tray, sir.” The porter left without waiting to be tipped and Dillon went over to the trolley.

  The bottle was Bollinger, the ice firmly packed around it. Beside the bucket was a plain elegant Champagne flute. In a salver was an envelope which he opened with misgivings and pulled out a short note. He knew who it was from before he read the first word:

  I hope you enjoy the Champagne, Jake. Your eye for things of beauty should appreciate the flowers, which are locally grown. Do take in the sights of Delhi whilst you can. It has always been a very special place to me and I still have many good friends there. I mean really good friends, Jake. Look after yourself, CH.

  Dillon wasn’t shocked by this show. He should have realised that it wouldn’t take long for it to get back to Hart that he was on his old stamping ground. After all, this was Hart’s domain and his influence was still strong here. Dillon uncorked the vintage Champagne and poured a glassful, a feeling of sadness washed over him that he wasn’t able to share it with Issy who he’d not told he was leaving the UK. He raised the fizzing glass and said aloud, “Cheers, Charlie. Your warning tones have become much less aggressive.”

  But he pondered on the fact that they were less menacing. Perhaps, he thought, Hart felt more secure in the knowledge that Dillon was out of his hair in Britain. In a place where he could easily keep an eye on him. His web of contacts was already working by the fact that he knew that Dillon was in Delhi, and exactly which hotel he had been booked into. It was impressive and it brought home just how scary the man was.

  Dillon slept well enough that night, thinking that Hart would not be so crude as to take the risk of having someone break into his room. The next morning he was up and showered before five-thirty.He had room service bring him up a continental breakfast and coffee, and at exactly six-thirty he was downstairs in the foyer waiting for Khan to turn up and take him to see Devdas Shah Zafar. When he still had not turned up at seven-thirty, Dillon called the Embassy and spoke to an embassy official whom Brendon Morgan had told him to contact should he need anything.

  “Murdered?” Dillon said out loud, a few heads turned and then immediately looked away again.

  The official went on to tell him that Khan had reportedly been stabbed in a bungled mugging not far from his home. Dillon hung up after assuring the official that he would be okay on his own and would not require the service of a guide.

  He went outside and got into a taxi, the driver spoke good English and Dillon gave him the address of Devdas Shah Zafar. Even with the windows rolled down, the interior of the car was stiflingly hot and the air-conditioning was non-existent. Dillon sat in the backseat and gazed out the open window as the driver negotiated the early morning traffic into the old part of the city. Ten minutes later and he was pulling the yellow-roofed car over to the side of a bustling street, informing Dillon that it was as far as he could take him and that he would have to travel the remaining distance on foot. Dillon paid the driver and as he climbed out of the taxi, he thanked him in fluent Hindi. A moment later, he was standing in one of the busiest market places he’d ever seen.

  It was a surreal scene which one could only term as frenetic – where the traditional and the modern face each other on every noisy colourful street corner. Muslim and Hindu, upper-caste and gypsy swarm down the streets and into holy places. Opel Astras and bullock-carts pause together at traffic lights. Jean-clad young professionals climb up temple steps. A caparisoned elephant’s brought in to celebrate the launch of a new software company, whilst the call of the muezzin competes with Hindu bells. His senses were being bombarded with the wonderful aroma of spicy food being cooked on open fires and fresh breads being baked in stone ovens, to the ever-present accompaniment of stale body odour.

  The address was a bit vague as it turned out. Dillon asked for directions a couple of times, and was thankful to be pointed
in what he assumed to be the right direction. But he felt like he was lost in the myriad of bustling streets with their varying attractions, vibrancy and colourfulness. One of the many souvenir shops caught his eye and after some vigorous haggling, much to the delight of the shopkeeper, he bought a small memento to take back for Issy. The total flavour of India surrounded him and brought Hart even closer as if he was following his every move. And when Dillon looked around him at the milling crowds, he realised that could well be true. Hart knew exactly what Dillon was up to and would protect himself to the limit. Dillon took comfort in the knowledge that he was armed. He wandered around the streets for most of the morning in search of Devdas Shah Zafar’s home, but without success. By lunchtime he’d had enough and went back to the hotel to clean up and grab something to eat.

  Dillon spent some of the afternoon writing up a report for Edward Levenson-Jones and sending it to him in the form of an encrypted email attachment that would end up at the Ferran & Cardini server in London. He then phoned Dunstan Havelock to let him know that he’d flown to Delhi and would be back in a couple of days. That Hart may have sympathies of an unfriendly nature towards the UK, because of the circumstances surrounding the death of his parents. The last call he made was to Brendon Morgan, telling him about Khan being murdered. Bad news travels fast, and Morgan had already been fully briefed by the Embassy of this.

  The next morning after breakfast he took his life in his hands with a rickshaw ride back to Chandni Chowk in search of Devdas Shah Zafar. This morning, he arrived two hours later and the crowds were fewer. The young rickshaw driver was able to weave his way through the main street in a cacophony of horn blowing and shouting at people to move out of the way. It was difficult to understand that only a short distance away in New Delhi was the commercial and political bustle of a wealthy quarter of the city. Yet this backwater with straight, rather narrow, streets and high walls, protected expensive town mansions.