Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  Dillon stopped, turned and stood facing the sobbing man who had recovered enough to stand up, but was still holding on to his private parts.

  “Well what are you waiting for big man?” Dillon said matter of factly, and then immediately struck Black’s nose with a head butt that smashed the bone, and rendered the other man unconscious. Black went down onto the cobbled street almost in slow motion as his legs gave way, and he ended up in the gutter face down.

  Slater, threw Annabelle to one side, and took the Walther PPK pistol from his trouser waistband. Dillon moved in fast, knocking him off balance as he slammed into his side with a rugby style tackle.

  The butt of the Walther came down hard on Dillon’s back, and at the same time Slater brought his knee up in an attempt to make contact with his opponent’s face. Dillon instinctively moved with the blow which sent him reeling backwards, grabbing on to the other man’s leather jacket, and swinging him around.

  The Walther went off, the noise deafening, bullet and sound ricocheting up through the empty street until both were expended somewhere into the brickwork of one of the tall buildings. The former army intelligence officer half turned and grabbed hold of the other man, throwing him judo style onto the ground. Slater, landed heavily on his back with the wind knocked out of him, and Dillon immediately brought the heel of his Italian leather shoe down hard onto his chest to the sound of cracking ribs.

  Before he had time to recover Dillon squatted over him, and drove a clenched fist hard into his face. Slater writhed around on the pavement in agony, free flowing blood poured from his broken nose and onto his clothing.

  Dillon picked up the Walther, and held it in his hand. “Well, I suppose if it’s good enough for James Bond, then it’s good enough for me.” He knelt down beside Slater, and pressed the end of the barrel to his temple. “So tell me asshole, who’s your boss?”

  “Piss off,” Slater said between clenched teeth.

  Dillon grabbed hold of a handful of Slater’s hair, and roughly pulled him up into a sitting position. He jabbed the muzzle of the Walther under his chin which made the other man scream with the pain. His face was already looking like a contorted cocktail of congealed blood, and bluish purplish bruising from the beating he had just received.

  “I’ll ask you again low life, who are you working for? Tell me, before I get artistic, and create an abstract with your tiny brain all over that wall.”

  Slater’s eyes rolled back as he momentarily lost consciousness, and Dillon thought he’d lost him, but then they opened again. He flicked the safety catch to the off position.

  “I will kill you, be in no doubt of that.”

  Slater had recovered enough bravado to say, “Go on then, do it. But you haven’t got the bottle have you?”

  Dillon’s response was lightening fast, bringing the muzzle of the Walther up level with Slater’s ear. He gently squeezed the trigger, the bullet whizzed passed Slater’s earlobe with only a hair width to spare.

  Firing the weapon at such close quarter, deafened the man, and he screamed at Dillon. “Okay you bastard, I believe you.”

  Slater held up one hand in defeat. “It’s a Frenchman, his name is Malakoff, Hugo Malakoff.”

  “Malakoff?” Dillon said.

  “Yeah, he’s the one.”

  “How interesting, and where would I find him?” Dillon jabbed the Walther’s muzzle a little harder under Slater’s chin.

  “He has a château just outside of Paris.”

  “And the break-in at Belgrave Mews. Was that you who planted those nasty little bugs there?”

  “Yeah, that was me.” Slater said, his voice was subdued but still had that East End arrogance about it.

  Dillon stood up and placed the Walther into his jacket pocket. Slater stayed where he was, sitting at the side of the road on the pavement, his head tilted back in an attempt to stem the blood still trickling out of his nose. Black was slowly coming round from the whack to the head that Dillon had given him.

  Before turning to walk away, Dillon said, “Take this as a warning gentlemen. Should our paths cross again you may not be so lucky as to walk away with merely a broken nose and a few scratches.” He walked over to where Annabelle was stood, and put his hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

  “And tell, Monsieur Malakoff, that the same applies to him.” Annabelle stared at him blankly in a daze. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” Dillon said gently.

  As they walked up the narrow street Slater called, “You bastard, I’ll get you. I know who you are, Mr Jake Dillon.”

  “I really don’t think so,” Dillon said, he stopped and turned around to face the two small time crooks, “My advice is that you, Malakoff, and your creepy little friend over there slither back under the stone from where you all came.”

  * * *147 Entering through the private side entrance they waited for the lift that would take them down to the Special Projects Department.

  “How are you feeling, Annabelle? I hope that didn’t frighten you too much?”

  “I’m fine really, but did you have to do that to those men?”

  “Oh believe me, they were about to do something much worse to you.”

  The lift doors opened and they got in.

  Edward Levenson-Jones was sitting at his desk listening impassively while Dillon told him about the incident outside in the street. Afterwards he got up and started to pace around the office deep in thought. He was thoroughly shocked to hear how Slater and Black had threatened Annabelle with violence, if she didn’t tell them the whereabouts of the U-boat.

  “Hugo Malakoff.” he said out loud. “Why is he involved, and what is the connection between him and the U-boat, I wonder?” Turning around he spoke more quietly to Annabelle who seemed to still be in shock. “My dear, this puts a completely different light on the whole matter. I really do think that it would be for the best if you had a bodyguard while this U-boat thing is going on.” Annabelle started to protest, but LJ stopped her before she had a chance to voice her opinion.

  “Before you say no, my dear I must tell you that this is non-negotiable. After all, I’ve known you far too long, to allow any harm to come to you. And believe me when I say that these two unsavoury characters will almost certainly try and get to you again.”

  “But I don’t understand, why do they think that I know where the U-boat is?”

  “Because Annabelle, as Nathan’s daughter they’re assuming, and in my mind, quite rightly so, that he would have confided this information to you of all people. They of course, do not know your father like we do. Now then, I’ll assign one of our best people, she’ll stay with you at all times until this matter is cleared up.”

  “I also think that a change of accommodation is in order. I’ll have Roberts arrange for you to stay at one of the firm’s apartments overlooking the Thames, and quite close to the hospital. You’ll be quite safe there, my dear. Jake, I want your full written report on my desk before you leave this evening if you wouldn’t mind. Oh, and a copy for the Partners please.”

  Dillon did mind, in fact any kind of paperwork was inessential as far as he was concerned. His dislike of such mundane tasks was on a par with his distrust of politicians and civil servants. But on this occasion he decided to keep this thought to himself. He walked back to his own office, and sitting down started to type up the report.

  * * * It was just after nine o’clock that evening when Slater and Black entered the Harley Street consulting rooms of eminent plastic surgeon, Dr Claude Rousseau.

  They had parked the Ferrari at the rear of the imposing Georgian property, and let themselves in as arranged through the delivery entrance. Slater gripped the arms of the reclined examination chair with whitened knuckles as Dr Rousseau tended to his broken nose. He made no effort to be gentle or to conceal his annoyance at having been dragged away from an important dinner function, to administer his considerable savoir-faire on the two East End ruffians.

  Half an hour later and they each sported a neat plaste
r across the bridge of there reset noses; a purplish bruising had already started to appear under the eyes of both men.

  This was quite natural, the doctor told them, although it had been made much worse because of the considerable force with which Dillon had struck them. Slater would have preferred to go to a local NHS hospital, but that would have been far to dangerous, and meant some awkward questions being asked, or worse, someone may have recognised them both. Especially as their cropped hair was once again bleached blonde.

  Dr Rousseau, pealed off the surgical gloves, and went over to a small wash basin in the corner of the room to wash his hands.

  “So gentlemen, why is it that you cannot stay away from trouble? Does, Malakoff know that you are here, I wonder? Seeking my expertise, and then there’s the question of who’s going to pay my bill this time? Malakoff or you?”

  “Malakoff doesn’t know anything about this, and that’s the way we want it to stay, Rousseau. As for your bill, I’ll pay you in cash here and now.” Slater said.

  “I thought that might be the case, I was only speaking with him this afternoon. But your secret, Mr Slater is safe with me. Shall we say two thousand pounds as it’s cash?”

  “What, two grand, you must be joking mate?” “I never joke about money, Mr Slater. Two thousand pounds is a very small charge, believe me, for the service that I have just rendered to you and your friend over there.”

  “This is daylight robbery Rousseau, and you know it. Dick Turpin used to wear a mask when he did what you’re doing to us.” Slater protested, but took out a bundle of fifty-pound notes from his jacket pocket, and counted out forty onto the desk.

  The two men went out of the room, slamming the door behind them, and down the stairway to the rear entrance. Rousseau went through to one of the smaller clerical back offices, and watched them walk to the Ferrari and drive off.

  Going back to his consulting room he picked up the phone and dialled Hugo Malakoff aboard his luxury power cruiser. That was anchored just off the Jersey coast.

  * * * Dillon leaned against the balcony of the sixth floor apartment, gazing out across an illuminated City of London. Annabelle, who appeared to be in much happier spirits now, was sat on a wooden steamer chair drinking a large Jack Daniel’s with ice. The two of them casually chatted about everything and nothing for what seemed like hours, Dillon listened while she told him about her childhood, and how her mother had virtually brought her up alone due to Nathan’s long spells at sea.

  Dillon waited for an appropriate opportunity before asking. “I assume that you’ll stay on here until your father regains consciousness?”

  “Yes, and hopefully that won’t be for to much longer. The doctors say that he’s already made remarkable progress, and could come out of the coma at any time. I’m just so glad that he’s alright after that poor policeman was murdered in his room, I’m sure that if he hadn’t come in when he did. Well, it would have been Pops lying there with a bullet in his head.”

  A tear appeared in the corner of her eyes, which she wiped away with the back of her hand. “So, what about you. When are you flying down to Jersey?”

  “Phil Allerton will most likely fly Vince and I down in the company helicopter early tomorrow morning, or possibly the day after.”

  “Well if you need any information, and I mean anything about the coastline or tidal movements around the Island you should speak to Rob Chapman.”

  She said. “Tell him that you’re a friend of mine, and that I sent you, and don’t forget to introduce yourself to Kate Jackson she’s my best friend and absolutely adorable. As a matter of fact she’s running the café for me while I’m here in London.”

  “I’ll do that, and I gather that they both live quite close to Bonne Nuit Bay. As you know, that will be our base while we try to locate this U-boat.”

  “Rob lives in the most amazing old place right on a peninsular overlooking the bay. Apparently it was used by the Nazis during the last war as a gun emplacement.” She noticed Dillon’s puzzled look, and added, “It was originally built to be a sea defence castle.”

  “Oh, I see.” Kate lives a little further up the hill inland but you’ll be able to catch her at the café every day though. In fact, I’ll give her a call first thing in the morning and tell her to make sure that you’re both fed properly. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds great, but be careful what you say to her, we don’t want anyone getting inquisitive.”

  “Well you’d better have a watertight cover story, because in a place like Jersey, gossip spreads like the plague. Believe me.”

  “I really should be going, Annabelle.” Dillon said looking down at his mobile phone, and the text message that had just been sent to him, and then added, “I’m being summoned back to the office by LJ. But, I’ve enjoyed our little chat.”

  “Well, you’re a very interesting man do you know that, Jake Dillon?” She stood up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Scary, but very interesting, and I’m extremely pleased that I’ve met you. Thank you for listening.”

  “Goodnight Annabelle.”

  Outside in the car park, Dillon looked up towards the sixth floor of the modern apartment building where Annabelle was looking down, and waving at him. He waved back before getting into the convertible Mercedes. He smiled to himself at the thought of how he’d just found a new friend.

  * * * It was a little after ten thirty that evening when Dillon arrived at the Docklands building of Ferran & Cardini International. He stepped out of the lift, and into the artificial environment of air conditioning and fluorescent lighting. In the department it was the usual hive of activity with men and women working away at computer screens, and talking on telephones. In LJ’s office he was offered and poured a strong black filter coffee by his boss. “Jake, this French chap Malakoff?” LJ moved around uncomfortably in his seat.

  “What about him?” “Well, as you know I’ve had young Roberts digging up information on him all afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t underestimate him, that’s all. He’s connected

  at the highest level of both the French and British Governments, and because of this the Partners want us to tread with extreme care.”

  “Is that it. Is that the reason for dragging me half way across London?”

  “Not quite, Jake. You see after the Second World War there were rumours that Malakoff’s father collaborated with the Nazis in some way. Of course there appears to be no one alive today who could verify this, and the authorities have never been able to prove it. But, there is one thing though that I think could prove this theory to be potentially true, which is not just sour grapes on the part of the French and UK Governments, and it’s this...”

  “...Malakoff’s vast estate and grandiose château was most definitely used as a weekend retreat by some of the top Nazi party and military brass. The official documentation that actually survived, relates to it as a rest and relaxation facility. Anyway all through the war years, not only did the building remain completely intact but so did the wealth of treasures that abound the place inside, even to this day. You see, it was left absolutely spotless, and unharmed. When the Americans arrived they apparently couldn’t believe what they saw. The place hadn’t been bombed or looted. The French then handed it back to the Malakoff family after liberation.”

  “Okay, I accept that there could be a possible connection here which means that Malakoff must think it’s pretty damned important to find that U-boat before we do. Furthermore, he must also know by now that he is taking an enormous risk for a man in his position, and that he may even lose everything in the process. But really, if those two goons are the best that he can come up with then you should tell the Partners not to worry. Anyway, they should know by now that I’m the epitome of diplomacy, and always tread carefully.” Dillon let a smile cross his face as he took a sip of his coffee.

  “Um, unfortunately I do know how you work and making light of this situation is not helpful. What we do not
want is an international situation on our hands or the world’s tabloid press converging on the Channel Islands. Please remember, that the primary functions of this organisation are secret intelligence, counter espionage and the evaluation and synthesis of intelligence. So, please try not to start World War Three while you’re down there, that’s all I’m saying, Jake.” He stood up, and tucked a pile of files under his arm, “I’ve now got a supper meeting with Sir Julius at his home, and a breakfast meeting with the Partners at five thirty to bring them up to speed with the department’s various projects, including this one. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll say good night, Jake.”

  “Good night, LJ.”

  * * * At the lockup, Slater was on his third large vodka. The strong painkillers that Rousseau had given him earlier in the evening were already wearing off, and he was feeling a lot like a football that had been kicked around for a full ninety minutes. Black was in a similar state, and both men were now suffering from the rough treatment that Dr Rousseau had handed out when resetting their noses. Slater was pouring them another drink when the phone started to ring.

  Hugo Malakoff said, “Slater, what have you got for me?”

  “Nothing as yet, Mr Malakoff.” Slater’s mind had gone a total blank with the effects of the pills and the booze, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and then blurted out. “But I feel we’re making progress with the Cunningham girl, maybe tomorrow we’ll get lucky.”

  “I’ve been speaking to Dr Rousseau, he tells me that you have been to see him this evening, and that you have both had your noses broken and that Black may even have a fractured skull. I assume from what the good doctor tells me that it was Jake Dillon who did this to you?”