Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  The young woman stood looking at Dillon for a few seconds, weighing him up and trying to decide whether he was being genuine or not.

  Dillon added, “Look, I’m really not trying to waste your time. I simply want to talk to your mother about something that has possibly to do with her past. The problem I have, is not wishing to blunder in and inadvertently drag something up that may upset her. That’s why I’d like to talk to you first. If you’ve got a little time, that is.”

  “There’s a pub around the corner. You’ve got five minutes and the meter’s already running.”

  “Sounds good, thank you,” Dillon said.

  In the pub, Dillon ordered drinks and they sat down at the bar.

  “Look, I’ll come straight to the point. When I saw you coming out of that building, it was very strange. Because you have a remarkable resemblance to the man whom I am writing a book about. His name is Charlie Hart.”

  She almost spat her drink across the bar and was clearly shocked by what he had just said. Dillon noticed a little colour blush her cheeks and a look of disbelief cross her face.

  “Why have you come here? Is this some sort of bad joke?” It came out as a suspicious accusation.

  “I really have come here to find out from your mother about Charlie Hart. Hopefully to find out about his relationship with her, and why he visits the café opposite your building on a regular basis, sits at a window seat and waits for your mother to appear, yet never approaches her or even attempts to talk to her.”

  “What are you? A private detective or something?”

  “Or something, I’m afraid. I’m actually a freelance writer.”

  “Oh, a writer. Must be exciting.” She looked confused, but held herself together all right.

  Dillon could see that she was disturbed and to say the least, a little distressed, by the mention of Hart’s name. But he pressed on regardless.

  “Do you know who Charlie Hart is?”

  She turned her head, eyes misted and retorted. “He was my mother’s long-lost younger half-brother, that’s who.”

  “Why do you say that he was your mother’s younger brother?”

  Sarah Poulter wiped the tears from her cheeks with a pristine white handkerchief.

  “Because, when mum was just a baby she was given up for adoption by her mother who was seventeen and unmarried. She left mum in care and a few weeks later ran off to India with this bloke named Hart. You see, when you don’t know anything about your past you can’t look forward to the future. That’s why she’s spent most of her adult life trying to come to terms and discover her past. Finding out about Charlie was a lucky break. She had been searching the births, deaths and marriage records when she came across him. That was a monumental turning point for her. Can you imagine finding out that you had a younger half-brother? After that it was a case of tracing the Harts through the British Embassy in Delhi. It was from the embassy records that she discovered that the parents had been killed many years before.”

  “Sarah, I can tell you that Charlie Hart is alive and kicking. He did leave India shortly after his parents were murdered by kidnappers when a ransom wasn’t paid. This was a long time ago, and he went to live in Hong Kong with his son for a while. They both travelled back to the UK and have been living here ever since.”

  “Are you sure about this? Where?”

  “Close by in Poole, I’ve stood about as close to him as we are now and talked with him. I’m sure, all right.”

  “My uncle, living here, near Bournemouth? But why hasn’t he contacted mum? Why skulk about watching her?”

  “At first I thought that there was some other connection they had. But you’ve squashed that theory. I really can’t tell you why he hasn’t made direct contact and I’ll not speculate about a family matter. I’ll leave that to your uncle when he eventually thinks the time is right to meet her himself. Now, I’ve taken up enough of your time and I really do appreciate you talking to me. You’ve been more than helpful.”

  Sarah was now fully recovered. She had listened carefully to what Dillon had said and agreed that this revelation would be an enormous shock to her mother after so many years, and that it was best left to Charlie Hart to break the news.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Mr. Dillon. I thought you had much more to tell me. Why am I left with the feeling that you have learnt more from me than I have from you?”

  “If you get the opportunity to meet Charlie Hart, you’ll appreciate what a great risk I’ve taken just talking to you about him. He’s a very powerful and wealthy man. I’ll leave it there. Once again, you’ve been very kind and generous with your time and I appreciate that.”

  Sarah frowned. “I still don’t wholly trust you.”

  “Please believe me, Sarah, when I say that I have no intention of hurting you or your mother in any shape or form.”

  Dillon slipped down from the bar stool and gave a wry grin.

  “Have I been holding you against your will?”

  He walked out of the pub with her and as they stood on the pavement, she turned to him and said, “No, but I’m still wondering what your real game is.”

  “I’m sure your mother is very proud of you,” he said spontaneously.

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “I don’t. But I’m sure she is and always has been.”

  “I reckon you know far more than you’re telling. So, do I get to hear the full story one day? The truth?”

  He stared at her and noticed how clear and steady her eyes were. “I’m sure you will. It’s been nice meeting you Sarah.”

  Dillon shook her hand and was walking back to his car before she could say another word.

  As he drove across town to the rented apartment in Lilliput, he couldn’t work out whether meeting Sarah Poulter had been good or bad luck. He had obviously held certain things back and perhaps he might have learnt more from her mother. At the same time he was glad he had met her. He had gone as far as he could – it was time to meet Hart again. But first he must contact Paddy McNamara and hope that he had been able to do the research he wanted.

  Dillon parked the Porsche and went up to the apartment. He made himself a coffee and then made the call to McNamara, using his mobile phone. The two men knew each other sufficiently well enough to skip the usual niceties.

  “Did you manage to get to the file?” Dillon asked eagerly.

  “It’s a very sensitive subject matter, Jake. You’ve hit the mark in one respect. The file and all of its extensive sub-files are classified, and both the American and British Governments have given it the highest classification. It looks like a can of worms, mate. And from what I can see, it’s also still very active on both sides of the pond. One of the files that might interest you: satellite images clearly showing the locations of terrorist training camps in India and Pakistan. But more than that. In a sub-file there are bank statements showing transfers of money from a number of obscure and untraceable companies. Some of these are in the UK and the sums of money involved range from one to eight million at a time. That’s it, mate. Apart from one last thing. Watch your step. Because by the looks of it, there are a lot of different agencies from all over the planet working on this. And they won’t want you clambering all over their hard work.”

  “Advice taken and duly filed in the caution tray. Be good, Paddy. And thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Jake. Goodbye.”

  Dillon hung up and had found out what he’d wanted. That MI5 were telling the truth and that the investigation was on a global scale. He pushed the speed dial button on his mobile and a moment later, Charlie Hart answered the call, but wasn’t sounding his usual self.

  “I think it’s time to meet again, Charlie. The sooner the better.”

  “I agree. The sooner the better, but it won�
�t be easy with MI5 all over me like a rash.”

  “How long have they been chaperoning you?”

  “Almost two months now. But I suppose you already know that as you’ve been working alongside them of late. Have you any suggestions?”

  Dillon thought that Hart sounded battle-weary, even resigned, which disturbed him.

  “I’m assuming that your very sophisticated security system has a personal panic button located somewhere?”

  “Six, actually, one in every bedroom and one in the living room.”

  “Good. Because I want you to hit one of them at exactly 9.30 p.m. Bring the local plod running to that very expensive locale of yours.”

  “Are you mad? It won’t just be ordinary policemen, you know? It’ll be armed response and most likely dogs as well. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “No. But just do it, Charlie. Trust me, because I’m all you’ve got at this present time.”

  “I’ve known that for some time. Anything else?”

  “You’re sounding tired, Charlie.”

  “It’s the strain. It’s been with me for a very long time.”

  “Well, take it easy and just do as I say. 9.30 p.m. exactly, and do not let anyone into the house except me.” Dillon disconnected abruptly.

  He went out onto the balcony and stood at the railing. Across the water sailing yachts were coming back home into the harbour, passing Brownsea Island on their way to their marina berths and moorings. From his mobile phone, he called Frank Gardner to ask a favour. It was simple enough: anchor off Brownsea Island, and, from 9:30 p.m. onwards, keep his eyes peeled on Charlie Hart’s property. That organised, he went back inside and stripped down the Glock – not because it needed it, but to fill in time whilst he waited. He made sure the magazines were full, one in the weapon and three spares, all were loaded with hollow-point ammunition. He poured himself fresh orange juice from the fridge. If there was a time to stay sober, this was it. Dillon had realised for some time that the security service would rather kill Hart than let him get to speak with him again, and he had rather belatedly come to the decision that Hart was fast becoming an endangered species.

  When it was time to leave, he drove off with plenty of time to spare. It wasn’t the distance he had to travel, but rather he knew that the parking on the roads around Hart’s home would be extremely difficult, even at that time of evening.

  He reached the peninsula at 9.10 p.m., driving up and down some of the side roads in search of a parking space. When he couldn’t find one, he headed straight for the Haven Hotel, drove the Porsche into a vacant space and walked into the main reception lobby of the hotel. On spotting the concierge, he went straight over to him and had a quiet word before discreetly handing him a fifty pound note.

  He walked slowly back along Panorama Road towards Hart’s house, passing by his driveway, all the time looking casually around for any signs of a surveillance team lurking somewhere close by. It all appeared to be normal – street lights, house lights, a spattering of people, cars pulling up or driving through. He reasoned that security personnel would be sitting in a van staring at monitor screens linked wirelessly to covert surveillance cameras positioned around the immediate area. And there it was parked in a side road – the only giveaway the blacked out windows.

  Dillon was wearing a disguise he had found, and which actually fitted him, in the owner’s private dressing room. Because it wasn’t a bad fit it allowed him to wear the Glock holstered under his right arm, concealed by the blue and yellow sailing jacket he was wearing. He walked past the high entrance gates of Charlie Hart’s home, the collar of the jacket tipped up and the woollen beanie hat pulled down over his ears doing a good job of obscuring his face from anyone observing. Casually, he glanced down at his Omega Seamaster and then crossed the road and retreated up the side road where the surveillance van was parked; pushing his luck should anyone be watching him walk by.

  He checked the time again. There was still ten minutes to go. It would seem like an eternity. He was satisfied that everything was as it should be, and that the presence of the security service would more than likely consist of two people, three at the most. He walked to the other end of the road which cut through the short distance from the harbour side of the peninsula to the other that met the English Channel, and which took him back to the Haven Hotel. He went past the hotel’s entrance and headed down towards the chain ferry and the water’s edge. He checked the time again. There was still five minutes to go. It was strange that waiting so often went with silence and that every small sound became an increasing intrusion.

  He was tempted to go back up to Panorama Road to peer round the corner, but managed to refrain from such an amateurish action.

  At 9.29 p.m. he pulled out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone that he had purchased from a man in a pub for twenty pounds, dialled 999, asked for the police, and spoke precisely. “I want to report a robbery that is taking place at Panorama Road.”

  Dillon quickly reeled off Hart’s address. “I’ve also heard someone shouting and there are screams and what sounded like gun shots coming from inside the grounds, so you’d better be quick.”

  He disconnected before the operator was able to ask him for his name and after switching it off, dropped the untraceable phone into the deep water.

  Dillon knew that Hart’s sophisticated alarm system was connected to the nearest police station, and the moment it sounded they would dispatch officers to investigate – the anonymous phone call would merely spur them on. The shrill sound of the alarm started to sound thirty seconds later.

  It was as if a small disaster had just occurred. The sound of police sirens in the quiet street shut out everything else. An ambulance turned up a moment later, which even made the security service men jump out of their van to see what was going on, but in doing so, gave away their location.

  The police arrived within three minutes and suddenly the place was awash with uniforms and blue flashing lights. First on the scene were two marked police cars that blockaded the road fifty metres either side of Hart’s entrance gates. Moments later the armed response vehicle pulled up behind one of the marked patrol cars, and six black-clad figures jumped out of the side door and rushed to take up position. Each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 assault rifle and Glock 9mm automatic pistols in their side holsters. At the same time, a silver Lexus IS250d saloon squealed to a holt and two plain-clothed detectives got out and went straight over to the armed officers. One of them spoke to the senior officer in charge, and the next moment one of the detectives moved in a low crouch towards the closed gates and the intercom panel. Before he could push the button, one of the security men ran up to join him, flashed an identity card and said, “I think you’ll find this is a false alarm. We’ve had this property under constant surveillance. Nobody has gone in and no one has come out. Now, do you think you could call your uniforms off and tell the armed response unit to stand down?”

  The plain-clothed officer resented the interference and replied curtly, “No, I bloody well can’t. It’s not just the alarm that’s gone off at the local nick – we’ve also had a phone call informing us that there have been screams and gun shots coming from this property as well.”

  At that precise moment, Dillon was making his entrance two doors away from Charlie Hart’s property. He had gained access to the neighbour’s home by flashing a fake police identity warrant card, he had acquired whilst hired out by the partners of Ferran & Cardini to work undercover with the internal affairs squad on a police corruption assignment. For obvious reasons, he very rarely used it.

  He smoothly explained to the owner of the multi-million pound residence that he was an undercover police officer and urgently needed the use of their small dinghy to get around to Hart’s private berth. Two minutes later he was in the water, rowing towards Charlie Hart’s sixty-five foot power cruiser that was moored up
at the bottom of his garden. The police and security men were still arguing amongst themselves at the front gate. Hart had kept his head down and was sitting in his living room drinking a large gin and tonic from a cut glass tumbler – just as Dillon had instructed him to do.

  Dillon let himself into the luxury residence by the back door that had been left deliberately unlocked. He went up the stairs two at a time, and headed straight to the living room. Hart was sitting on one of the leather sofas, watching the plasma screen on the wall in front of him. The high-definition camera positioned over the front gate was being fed back through Hart’s elaborate system and onto the plasma.

  Outside the detective and the security man were still arguing the toss as to whether the alarm was a hoax or genuine. Hart used the intercom to settle the argument. A moment later, he met the detective and the spook at the front door, and immediately demanded to know who they were and what was going on. It was the young plain-clothed detective who spoke first.

  “Would you mind explaining what is going on here, sir? We’ve been led to believe that there is a problem. Is there a problem or not?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s all been a bit of a mistake, officer. My housekeeper set the alarm off accidentally – she still hasn’t got the hang of the security system and must have touched the panic alarm by mistake. I’m ever so sorry for having dragged you all out on a fool’s errand.”

  “I see, sir. Well, can you explain the telephone call we received just before the alarm started to sound at the station? The caller clearly stated that he had heard gunshots and screaming.”

  Hart looked surprised. “Not from here. For a start, there are no firearms on the property and I’m sure that my neighbours will verify that there have been no gunshots or screams, as you say. There are of course those dubious-looking men who have been sitting in that van out in the road for the last few days.”