I was instructed to get into the driver’s seat of the Porsche. “If I don’t call in on the hour, there will be an army of police at Flackyard’s house within five minutes,” I said.
“Please don’t be so melodramatic Mr Dillon. Mr Flackyard would not be that stupid. Feel free to use your mobile phone whenever you wish,” he said with a sneer. “Now if you don’t mind, please drive. Our host does not like to be kept waiting.”
I parked the Porsche in a secluded side road lined with cherry blossom trees on either side.
George was still waving his gun about as he told me to get out of the car.
He slowly pushed open the wrought iron gate, the hinges protesting noisily at this interruption of their slumber. Holding it open for me, he said in a lowered voice, “This is where I leave you, Mr Dillon. Please walk towards the house.
“A member of the staff will come and meet you.” With that he silently left me alone at the home of Mr Robert Flackyard, entrepreneur and probably one of the biggest criminals on the South coast.
By 9.15pm the sun is well down. To the west the skyline was intensely mauve and the sun, hitting the higher storey of the white Spanish style house, made it as pink as the flowers on the rhododendrons along its walls. The last rays of the sun did a spray job on the side of Flackyard’s angular face, and behind him the gold lettering from some of his exquisite first edition book collection did a glittery dance over his shoulder. The house was richly furnished and I didn’t have to be asked to dinner to know that the cutlery would be only the highest quality sterling silver.
On Robert Flackyard’s contemporary cherry wood desk was a porcelain-and-gold pen set, a gold letteropener, the latest hi-tech computer flat screen and half a dozen A4 typed sheets. They weren’t held down with bottle tops, either.
“I understand you to be a keen diver, Mr Dillon, an expert on wrecks in particular, I am led to believe?”
It wasn’t an exact description, but it wasn’t a question open to retort, either.
I said nothing. Flackyard undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie; he then motioned me to sit. I wondered just how much outside of the law you had to be to have a set-up like this.
“In the course of time, this coast has attracted adventurers of all sorts. Not all of them have sought recently lost treasure, and some of them have been far from successful. To the point of losing there lives.”
We sat opposite each other in soft luxurious leather sofas, a low glass coffee table in the middle separating us. A man dressed in a formal black suite, white shirt and dark tie appeared in the doorway.
“Would you like tea or coffee Mr Dillon, or perhaps something a little stronger?” Flackyard asked.
“Coffee would be fine, thank you, black and strong please.”
Flackyard dismissed the middle aged man and then continued. “In the case of you and your friends, however, I am of the opinion that your motives are not entirely honourable.” He paused, and then said, “I’m hoping to provoke a reply, of course?”
“Of course. Your English, by the way is excellent.” I said.
“How astute you are Mr Dillon. My mother was a Moscow prostitute. My father a wealthy Russian aristocrat who defected to England when I was just ten. After changing the family name I was packed off to one of the top public schools in the country and then ended up at Oxford. But you avoid my question.”
I didn’t reply immediately. Instead I sat in thoughtful silence for a brief moment, “I’m not sure how your ideas of honour could be expected to key in with mine. You and I are complete opposites, it would seem.”
“That may be so, Mr Dillon, but the fact remains that you were sent here to retrieve items belonging to a friend of mine as well as to myself. Now, however…” His voice trailed away. The sun had disappeared over the hill now, leaving only a few fiery trees to mark its passage. Flackyard got up and went over to his desk. “The Partners have returned these items, and both my friend and I are very grateful to them for this service that they have performed with your help, of course.”
As he spoke he walked slowly across to the corner of the room, the rich Persian carpet switching off the soundtrack of his footfalls. One wall was filled with books from floor to ceiling. He reached up and slid his hand into the shelf of loosely packed books and removed about six between compressed palms. In the space behind the books was a brown paper parcel about half the size of a cigar box. He returned to where I was still sitting and put it on the coffee table in front of me. I didn’t touch it.
Coffee came in the only way it could travel in a house like that: in a silver pot attended by the finest china cups and saucers. On a side plate were a selection of small cakes and biscuits. Flackyard forced three of them on me in quick succession.
“I like to think that the people I conduct business with are honest and straightforward,” he said as he poured the coffee. He pushed the package towards me.
“Please, Mr Dillon open it, I would appreciate your opinion.”
I sipped at my coffee and he lit a Turkish cigarette. The package was quite light. Pulling apart the brown wrapping the contents soon became apparent.
“As counterfeit money goes, the standard of these Euro notes is exceptionally high, Mr Flackyard. Even the paper feels right.”
“That is because the paper, Mr Dillon, is very genuine.” he said triumphantly.
“Fascinating, but why are you showing me? Surely it’s Declan Ferran and Richard Cardini who should be seeing these. For all you know I could be working for some sort of secret Government agency.”
“That is highly unlikely, Mr Dillon,” he laughed. “I have had my people check you out. You once had a brilliant Army career operating in numerous countries for the Intelligence Corps, attaining the rank of Captain. That is before you were discharged under some dubious and certainly clandestine circumstances. You then surfaced within a Whitehall department. Your job description there was to say the least a bit vague, and finally you joined Ferran & Cardini International. But that is of course only part of it, isn’t it? An extension of your military career perhaps? All in all, Mr Dillon, you are shrouded by mystery and intrigue - are you not?”
So that was it, the man who had followed me that Sunday in the black Mondeo was not working for the minister as we thought, he was part of Flackyard’s security team, instructed to find out about me.
“As interesting as it maybe, however, I have not had you brought here to discuss your past career, or to thank you. The other items that you found on board that boat belong to an associate of mine and he wants them back – Mr Dillon – all fifty of those small packages. I sincerely hope that no harm has come to them, and that they are safe and sound or, I am afraid you will be the one to pay the price.”
“I’m sorry, but what exactly are we talking about here, Flackyard?”
He got up and went over to his desk again. “Please do not insult my intelligence. I know that you and your friends pulled up a large quantity of the finest raw opium from the Gin Fizz. Furthermore, you will ensure that they are available for collection by midday tomorrow at the latest. I sincerely hope that I’m making myself clear. You will be contacted in the morning to arrange the details of the hand over. I think that concludes our conversation, Mr Dillon.”
“My driver will take you back to your own car. Oh, and please remember this; you really do not want me as your enemy.” For just the briefest of moments I sensed the hatred that he felt towards me, but his self-control was impeccable, and soon there was only calm in his eyes.
Back at the house I poured myself a large vodka, and downed another before I felt anything like relaxed and before anyone had summoned the courage to ask me what I had learned to our advantage. “Flackyard knows that we have the opium, and that his associates, whoever they maybe, want it returned by midday tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow, Charlie, you and I both return to London. Fiona, I think it best if you also get back to whatever it is you normally do.”
That night I lay awake turning over and over in my mind, how Flackyard could have known about the opium or how the mysterious George Ferdinand could have found out about my pistol. The only way that either of them could have known was if someone had told them.
But who, and to what end?
Chapter 8
I woke early the next morning from a restless night’s sleep, angry with myself for allowing LJ to ever get me involved with this assignment. Also, I was still wondering; who had a motive for leaking information and whether it had been one of the team in Dorset who had tipped off Flackyard, but for what reason, and what gain? These questions kept going over in my head. I used my mobile phone to call Tats who was still in bed.
“What time is it?” she said in a hazy voice. “Just gone six o’clock. Thought I’d give you a wake up call. How are you?”
“I’d be a whole lot better if you’d have let me wake up organically, especially on a Saturday. You know I’ve never been good with alarm calls.”
I could hear her stretch and yawn; I imagined her naked body warm from sleep under the sheet.
“How’s the seaside. You must be nearly through down there, aren’t you?”
“Nearly, but not quite. We have a small problem to sort out first. That’s the other reason for my call, I want you to do a check on the Rumples, Charlie McIntyre, and Fiona Price. Dig as deep as you can and see if any of them have ever had any contact with Robert Flackyard, no matter how trivial, because I want to know about it. Call me back on this number as soon as you can. Oh and Tats – see you soon.” I hung up, got dressed and went down to breakfast.
Outside the day was starting dull, the grey wind was breaking the points off the waves and white spray was thrashing the big rocks of the headland.
Apart from me, the only other person at the table was Charlie. My phone rang. It was LJ. “Jake, I want you to go along with whatever Flackyard wants. I have taken instructions from upstairs, the Partners feel that for the good of the bigger picture and the assistance that he is offering, you are to hand over the packages as requested.”
Without acknowledging or answering I said, “Someone is leaking information to Flackyard.” At this revelation, Charlie’s head came up from his cornflakes.
“What do you mean, a leak? That’s impossible. Everyone involved with this assignment has been thoroughly vetted.”
“That may be, but last night an acquaintance of his escorted me at gun point to Flackyard’s house for a little chat. He knew far too much, and as far as I’m concerned it can only be someone involved that’s feeding him with information. I’ve not got a shred of evidence, of course.” I paused to let LJ absorb this fully. “Oh, and I’ve asked Tatiana to run further checks, this time concentrating on any possible connections with Flackyard.”
“Well, I’m dumbfounded, old son. I suppose that Flackyard could have applied pressure on someone. But if that’s the case, I can see that a few phone calls need to be made. We can’t have our clients getting one over on us, can we now?” His voice trailed off, lost inside his own scheming thoughts for a few moments.
“LJ, I’m not happy about handing over anything to this character until the firm has taken possession of the currency that he promised as part of the package. By the way, I’ve already seen a sample, and the quality is quite outstanding.”
“I agree with you for once. Sit tight down there for a little while longer, will you, just while I make a few arrangements at this end, and don’t let those packages out of your sight.” With that he hung up.
Except for Charlie, none of the others knew about my chat with LJ. We sat around doing nothing until Harry Caplin called to invite us to his place for coffee. We went.
“Jazz and Swing music,” Harry was saying, “some of the greatest tunes of all time come from performers like Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr.” An espresso coffee maker was bubbling away on the dark slate hearth and Fiona, in her bronze-coloured linen trousers, was sitting cross-legged like some special sort of Buddha. Around her were scattered the brightly coloured CD cases of all of those great entertainers and many more as well.
On the walls hung a series of contemporary paintings by local Dorset artist, Samantha Bush, along with photos of a young Harry standing with a rifle underarm, foot resting on a rock, surrounded by other men. What looked like carcasses lay before them, so obviously a good day’s hunting had taken place. The words at the bottom read, Toronto, Canada October 1963.
Charlie was listening to Harry doing a quick run down on New York (Charlie had lived there for three years). I was looking at Harry’s books, multi function exercise machine, and the pristine 7mm Mauser sporting rifle and its beautiful Carl Zeiss x8 telescopic sight. I looked at his collection of rocks and minerals in their fine wooden case and listened to the mellow music playing. Harry commented on each as he selected it. “This is a song about a man so infatuated with a girl that he feels compelled to tell her about his love and admiration for her. Of course, he does this because he’s off to war and may never see her again.” Harry said it in an impassioned and melancholy voice.
Fiona clapped her hands and on her face was the sort of smile when a woman is thinking about how the smile should look.
Harry took a bow and laughed loudly. He poured more coffee for everyone and I took mine back over to the shelves. In them he had almost every DH Lawrence novel in print, including a special edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. There were various art books, many of them about modern artists dating from 1945 up to the present day. Tucked away on the higher shelves there were many geographical reference books concentrating mainly on southern Europe.
We made small talk over coffee and then Charlie said, “What made you come to live in Europe, Harry?”
“Well,” said Harry, “I was eating tablets to sleep, pep pills to stay awake and vitamin supplements instead of proper meals. Here I drink the best Champagne all day, and what’s more, it’s cheaper!” Harry was lacing the coffee with French cognac. Charlie and I declined.
“Yes,” he said, and took a swig from the bottle before recorking it, “there I was you see, up to my neck in credit card and mortgage debt, and worrying about what sort of season the Yankees were likely to have. How to break out of it? I knew there were jobs for Americans abroad but I was already to old for the big corporations. So one day I’m standing in a bar near Grand Central. Watching all of those sad little commuters walk by outside and thinking about how I would like to step off this farcical treadmill that I called a life, and I say to myself; what are these sharp suited executive nuts looking for that I could supply them in exchange for money? Well, what do you imagine I conclude?”
He looked at all of us in turn, his captive audience, picked up the pot and poured more coffee, enjoying the pause before answering.
“Wine.” He continued. “Now that handed a laugh to every low life creep in my home town, because that kind of booze, ain’t something to put your arms into like a Hugo Boss suit.”
“But me and a guy named Marcus Cohen, who was an old buddy of mine from our college days, we struck it rich with a couple of deals supplying an outlet in Chicago with as much as we could lay our hands on, he then sold it on for a good profit. But after a short while we decided to cut out the guy in Chicago and sell direct to Mr Average Fella.”
I walked over to the open doors that overlooked the harbour. There were occasional smacks of warm raindrops on the balcony tile-work. On the water an elegant yacht, her crew busy preparing her rigging, glided by under the power of her inboard motor. The crew spotted us watching and gave a friendly wave, as sailors often do.
* * *
It was about 11.30am Harry was saying, “Balls to the big time wine guys, I said, I’m for the little guy every time. So we set up “wine direct inc.com.”
“Harry, you really are priceless,” said Fiona. “Whatever were you selling?”
“Well, we published a one page web site called ‘Wine in your cellar’, see?”
�
�We sent promotional flyers out to restaurants, office blocks, bars and joints as well as running a few small ads here and there. We do all right – our overheads are small and what we sell is paid for in advance by credit card.”
“But one day my buddy Marcus Cohen says to me, ‘balls to these average guys, Harry, they’re just a set of low spenders. What we need is a class angle’.” He comes up with one there and then; ‘Connoisseur Wine.com,’ he says.”
Harry Caplin walked across to the bookshelf and removed a leather folder.
“Did it work out?” Charlie asked, who was lounging back on the bright red sofa holding an empty coffee cup on his knee.
Harry flipped open a copy of Time Magazine to a full-page advertisement.
The caption read Connoisseur Wine.com is proud to present a selection of fine wines from some of Europe’s most exclusive vineyards. Buy one case and receive another free of charge as an introductory offer, all beautifully and individually presented in hand-made wooden crates and chosen by a panel of famous growers, accompanied by a detailed history of each wine by Mr Harry Caplin.
Fiona started to clap her hands; Charlie and I didn’t join in. Harry didn’t seem to take offence.
“But,” said Charlie, “how come as you live here in England?”
“Simple. I look through these books…” Harry grabbed two large reference books on wine from the shelf, “…and choose one for the ad in Time Magazine.”
When these books were removed they revealed a smaller one that had fallen down the back of the row of books.
“But…” said Charlie, “…it says...” Charlie’s face bloomed red in embarrassment.
I quickly plucked out the book.
“…it says there’s a panel of famous wine growers!” Harry agreed with a smirk.
The small book, on closer inspection turned out to be the type reporters keep for jotting quick notes down in. The entries made at the beginning were mostly to do with detailed timetables of passenger ferries around Southern Europe.
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 6