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

by Andrew Towning

“There would presumably, have been staff in a house of that size?” Dillon said.

  “Yes, there was a local Jersey couple by the name of Bishop, who looked after the place, and they had a son, Albert. From what I’ve been able to find out so far. They died about six years ago. But, the son is about seventy now, lives not far from St. Helier. Before leaving London, I took the liberty of phoning him earlier this afternoon.” He handed LJ a sheet of paper with Albert Bishop’s address and a detailed personal history on.

  “Excellent work, Roberts.” LJ said, excitedly.

  “Thank you, Sir.” Roberts said, handing LJ a folder containing all of the information, and photographs that related to the property.

  “Before you go. Was there any mention of the Nazis using the property?” Dillon asked.

  “During the time of the Nazi occupation, many of the larger houses were used by high ranking officers, according to the official archive. And yes, this property was commandeered for that use, why?”

  “Because, certain things are now falling into place.” Dillon said, looking at LJ.

  “Great Scott. I see what you mean, Jake.”

  “Would someone please explain to me, why this is all so important?” Chapman asked.

  “Well, it’s like this, old son. Just before the outbreak of the Second World War. The Late Lord Asquith, as we already know, was not only a prominent archaeologist of his time, but also the foremost authority on the Spear of Destiny. It was for this reason, that he was summoned to a meeting with Adolf Hitler.” LJ, stood up and started to pace around the room with his hands resting in the small of his back, as he always did when delivering rhetoric.

  “It was after he’d been given the okay from our Government that he could meet with Hitler, that he went to Germany to authenticate the spear that Hitler had in his possession. He was in no doubt about its authenticity, especially after conducting a number of tests. Hitler must have been elated that he had the original spear head, which was used by the Roman centurion at the crucifixion. I would guess that he would almost certainly have been introduced to Himmler at this time. You can see where I’m going with this, Rob?”

  “I think I’m getting the gist of it, Edward.”

  “Good, because now it starts to get very confusing. You see, we then have old Malakoff. Who owned a dormant mining company that was registered on this island. This has been niggling the hell out of me, as to why. And just a minute ago, it struck me why. Old Malakoff was a civil engineer. Lord Asquith was an archaeologist. And Jersey is made up of granite rock. I’d state my reputation on it, that they were both Nazi sympathisers. Put these factors together, and you have a pretty formidable team with enough expertise to co-ordinate the excavation of a tunnel big enough to accommodate a very large submarine.”

  “But how did the two meet, do you think?” Vince asked.

  “Who knows? They could’ve met at the meeting with Hitler. Or they may have known each other long before that. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. The most important fact is that we now know where Malakoff has been getting his information. And this revelation about Asquith owning a house on the island. Well, it leads me to believe that our Lord of the Realm, from one of the oldest families in England has something to hide.”

  “There were many people back in the thirties, and even before war broke out, who sympathised with Hitler and actually thought that he had the right ideas.” Dillon said.

  “It certainly all fits together, that’s for sure. But there’s one thing that I’m very concerned about, on reflection.” LJ said thoughtfully.

  “What’s that?” Dillon asked.

  “MI5. Why haven’t they picked up on this. Or have they, and are keeping it quiet? Roberts, when you get back to London. Speak to Tatiana about this development with Albert Bishop and Asquith.”

  “Certainly, I’ll make it a priority, LJ.” Guy Roberts said his good-byes and left. Leaving the others to return to their dinner.

  * * * Francois Cocteau, the restaurant manager appeared as Dillon, LJ, and the others were re-entering the dining room. “Monsieur, Levenson-Jones, Monsieur Malakoff has just arrived, and has asked me to inform you that he would very much like you all to join him for a drink in the bar.”

  The bar adjacent to the dining room was now busy to capacity with people drinking aperitifs, eating nuts and stuffed olives from small colourful bowls on each of the tables. The room was buzzing with conversation and laughter, and a large group of wealthy Americans dressed in black dinner suits, and crisp white shirts were just about to go into dinner as Dillon and the others entered.

  “This should prove interesting, if nothing else.” Dillon said.

  LJ laughed out loud, and Malakoff who was seated with his back to them, talking to Kurt, turned around to look at them. He stood up and extended his hand urbanely.

  “My dear, Levenson-Jones, what a pleasure to see you.”

  “Monsieur Malakoff,” LJ said formally, but with the warmth of a fridge. “I’ve been looking forward to this meeting.” He looked across at Kurt, and added disdainfully. “But, is it really necessary for your pet rottweiler to be here? I mean couldn’t he go and do some harm to himself or something?”

  The big German looked as if he were about to lurch forward, and rip out LJ’s throat where he stood, but Malakoff laughed it off, and said, “Kurt does have that effect on most people he meets, I fear.”

  “He’s a naughty boy.” Dillon shook his head at the German, in mock admonition. “To my way of thinking dogs who behave badly should be sent to their kennel, without dinner.”

  Malakoff turned, and said to Kurt in German, “There is plenty of time to have your say. Now go and sort out that little problem.”

  Kurt looked directly at Dillon, held his gaze for just a second, and then turned and left.

  “Well, I have to say, Malakoff. Such a gesture deserves a glass of Champagne.” LJ said.

  “How quaint you English are.” Malakoff snapped his fingers, and instantly caught the attention of the barman. A moment later, he arrived with a bottle of Champagne and five glasses. “Of course there’s no reason, why one cannot be civilised, is there?”

  “Well, I suppose there’s always hope.” Dillon took a sip of his Champagne. “Sixty four, Bollinger. An excellent choice.”

  “The hotel has a very fine, and well stocked cellar.” Malakoff raised his glass. “To you, Levenson-Jones, to the England cricket team, and the continued success of Ferran & Cardini International. A company filled with little surprises around every corner. Not least of those being, Mr Sharp here. Who, I’m led to believe is one of the best computer hackers in Europe.”

  “How very well informed you are, Malakoff.” LJ said.

  “And you, Mr Chapman, what a colourful character. Your archaeological exploits in Peru during those early years after graduation, were to say the least, adventurous. And a diver, of great skill and experience, as well. I’m surprised, that someone hasn’t written a bestseller about your exploits?”

  “Who knows, Malakoff? Perhaps one of these days, someone will, or I may even write my memoirs, and tell it myself.” Chapman told him.

  “Jake Dillon. What can I say, your background is, to say the least, somewhat lacking in detail. In fact you’re more like a chameleon, and obviously one of those people who seem to pop out of the woodwork, when one is least expecting it.”

  “Well, I must say, Malakoff. You have been doing your homework, haven’t you?” LJ said. “And, although very impressive. All that it proves is that you must want whatever is on that U-boat, and very badly too.”

  “Let me just say, gentlemen, that what you seek should be in the cargo area of U-683. The Spear of Destiny is on board, amongst other things.”

  There was a pause, and then it was LJ who said, “And what are you looking for, Malakoff?”

  Malakoff’s face remained impassive. “The spear and the myth that surrounds it, holds no interest for me, but there’s gold...”

  “And it’s the gol
d you’re after, right?” Dillon asked, bluntly.

  Malakoff, held Dillon’s gaze, and smiled debonairly at him. “Guilty as charged, Mr Dillon. I admit I’m nothing more than a treasure hunter.”

  “Really?” LJ commented. “I’d never have mistaken you for that, Malakoff.”

  “Well, that as may be, Levenson-Jones. But, the simple fact is, that we’re both looking for the same thing.”

  “I very much doubt that, Malakoff.” LJ commented.

  “The U-boat. My dear, Levenson-Jones. Albeit, you seek the Spear of Destiny, for the simplest of reasons. You and your superiors do not want it falling into the wrong hands. The worse case scenario, would surely be fanatics using the myth that surrounds the spear, to devastating effect, I’m sure you would agree with this? Equally as damaging would be the media who would have a field-day, and neither the British or the American Governments would be able to do anything to stop it getting into the public domain. As I say, we both want the same thing. I, like you, want this whole affair to remain a well kept secret.”

  “The problem is, Malakoff. If there is Nazi gold bullion on board that submarine, however tempting it may be, will - I’m afraid - have to be given up to the authorities.”

  “Come now,” Malakoff told him. “Is that really necessary, after all these years?”

  “I’d say it was. After all, that gold bullion represents Hitler’s ill-gotten gains. Amassed from the suffering and slaughter of many millions of innocent people throughout Europe.” LJ stated.

  “And your point is, Levenson-Jones?” Malakoff asked, raising his left eyebrow.

  “My point is, Malakoff. That it doesn’t belong to any of us.”

  “But, it’s not only the gold that you’re after, is it, Malakoff,” Dillon said with rancour. “Is there something else hidden on that U-boat or inside the cavern. Something, from your past, perhaps? Otherwise why would you be going to so much trouble to find that sub?”

  “My dear, Mr Dillon. What an overactive imagination you have. But, you’re entitled to your opinion.” Malakoff got up out of his seat. “I thought that we might be able to work together. But, I fear that is not going to be possible. No matter, I have my own divers, and an array of extremely sophisticated equipment on board the Solitaire.”

  “You’ll soon discover, Malakoff. That ‘finding’ isn’t enough. Because, once you’ve found the location of the tunnel entrance. That’s when the fun and games will really start.” Dillon said.

  “We’ll see, Mr Dillon.” He smiled. “But, this is of small consequence to me. And I would still be honoured, if at least we can eat together like civilised men.” Malakoff said as he gestured towards the dining room.

  * * * The Porsche Carerra, slowed to a halt, and parked across the gateway of a field. Kurt, sitting behind the wheel of the silver coloured car, had a clear view of the old granite stone cottage opposite. He remained inside the car, until he was absolutely sure that Albert Bishop was at home.

  Satisfied that Bishop was there. He casually walked across the lane to the front gate. Before pushing it open, he stood for a moment, taking in the splendid isolation of the place. He knocked loudly on the front door, and then waited on the step, for what seemed like minutes. An elderly man eventually appeared from around the rear of the building, carrying a wicker basket full of freshly picked apples. On seeing the big German, he started along the gravel path towards him.

  “No good knocking on the door like that. I’ve been out the back, at the bottom of the garden, you know?” Albert Bishop was an upright, dapper looking man, somewhere around seventy with thick cropped silver coloured hair, that stood up on end. He was slim for his age, dressed in tan coloured corduroy trousers, and a jacket, that had seen better days with leather patches on both elbows. The check shirt that he wore was buttoned at the collar, and his tie had a tight Windsor knot in it.

  “If you’re selling something then you can be on your way, I’m not interested.” Albert said his voice was both polite, and firm.

  “Are you Albert Bishop?”

  “Yes, I’m Albert Bishop. Who wants to know?” “My name is Mayer; I’m a writer researching a novel.

  Please accept my apologies for disturbing you like this. But, can you please tell me if your parents kept house, here on the island for a Lord Asquith?” Kurt asked.

  “My God, I haven’t heard that name spoken in over sixty years. And now, you’re the second person to ask me this very question today.”

  “There was someone else, asking about Lord Asquith?” Kurt’s voice was edgy.

  “No, he only wanted to know about the house that

  he owned, here on the island.” Albert stared momentarily,

  at the big blond haired German, who was standing before

  him. And then added, “He was a nice polite young man.” “So tell me. What did this nice young Englishman,

  want to know?” Kurt sneered. This was all it took for

  Albert to recognise that something was not quite right with

  the big German.

  Albert Bishop began to feel uncomfortable. “Well, let

  me see now,” beads of sweat began to break out on the old

  man’s forehead. “He simply wanted to know if the Nazis

  had used the house during the time they were here, and

  whether any high ranking officers had ever stayed there. But

  I’m going to tell you, like I told him. I really can’t remember

  I was only five years old at the time.”

  “What else did you tell him, old man?” Kurt asked

  abruptly. He took a step forward.

  “That was it, that’s all he asked, honest. Said, he had

  a helicopter waiting for him at the airport.” Bishop dabbed

  at the sweat on his forehead with a white handkerchief he’d

  taken from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Kurt looked menacing, standing larger than life in the

  fading light of the evening, and Albert Bishop backed away

  up the path. “I don’t know what your game is. But, you’d

  better leave now. You see, I’ve got my son and daughter

  in law coming for supper. They’ll be here in a minute. So

  you’d better be on your way.”

  He dropped the basket on to the path, apples spilled

  across the gravel. Albert Bishop turned and hurried around to the rear of the cottage. He went through the open French doors at almost a run, tripped on the threshold, and went sprawling across the polished wood floor on his hands and knees. Hearing the German’s footsteps outside on the gravel. Albert scrabbled back up onto his feet and quickly moved back to the French doors that he’d just come through, and locked them. As he turned the key to lock them, Kurt

  appeared outside.

  He was enjoying seeing the old man frightened. It

  was one of his passions, inflicting fear and ultimately pain

  on anyone, man or woman, who was unfortunate enough

  to be the focus of his attention. He was annoyed and angry

  with himself that Albert Bishop had seen through him. But

  that really didn’t matter now, because he wasn’t in any

  hurry, he thought. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a

  pair of fine hand made Italian gloves. The feel of the fine

  leather, lightly brushing over his skin never failed to excite

  him as he pulled them on.

  The wooden doors were old, and they gave in easily

  after the first good shove. And then the next moment, the

  German was standing in Albert Bishop’s back living room. He’d hurried through the cottage, and up to his

  bedroom. Had locked the door, and was dialling 999, when

  he heard the heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. The next

  moment the door burst off its hinges, and Kurt was stood

  in the open doorway. Albert Bishop froze with fear, tears
/>   started to well up in his eyes, and then he wet himself. The German calmly walked over to where Albert was

  sitting on the side of the bed, and took the phone out of the

  old man’s hand. He put it to his ear, and could hear a male

  operator asking which emergency service was required. His

  eyes never left Albert as he spoke into the phone. “Hello operator. Apologies, but there is no emergency.

  Sorry to waste your time.” Kurt said, calmly. And then put

  the telephone back on to its cradle.

  Turning, he looked down at Albert, and said. “You’re

  a very foolish old man, you know? Now, tell me. What else

  did you tell the Englishman?”

  “Nothing, I swear to you. Now please, will you leave

  me alone?”

  “Unfortunately for you, old man, I don’t believe

  you.” And he slapped Albert, hard across the face with the

  back of his gloved hand.

  “Look, whoever you are. Your bully boy tactics

  don’t frighten me.”

  “Is that so?” He grabbed hold of Albert’s jacket

  collar, and in one easy movement, hauled him up onto his

  feet. The German immediately noticed with disgust, the

  stain on the front of the old man’s trousers, as well as the

  damp patch on the bed cover where he’d been sitting. Albert was pushed out of his bedroom, and onto the

  landing.

  “Stand over there, you old fool.” Kurt said coldly,

  and pointed to the top of the staircase.

  Albert looked at him with uncertainty, and

  foreboding. But, after a brief moment, did as he was

  ordered, and stood where the German had pointed. Kurt stood watching with obvious satisfaction,

  at the torment he was inflicting. He slowly paced up and

  down the narrow landing, and eventually said, “This is

  your last chance, Mr Bishop. Tell me what else you told the

  Englishman, and I’ll be on my way.” Kurt moved closer to

  where Albert was standing.

  “I’ve already told you, nothing else was said. Now

  why don’t you believe me? What is this all about anyway? I