Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series)

by Andrew Towning

  Once it was securely in place, I armed the device by setting the switch to remote, and the next second a red light started to glow brightly through the gloom of the murky waters inside the dark access pit.

  Satisfied that everything was as we’d found it. I ran a forefinger across my throat and pointed upwards. Fiona nodded and swam off back to the bulkhead. We retraced our route, going out through the conning tower hatch and over the 37mm gun platforms: the ocean seemed vast after the U-boat interior. Staying together we floated easily through the dark water, using only our feet to propel us. As we neared the surface the hull of the cruiser became visible. Our heads broke through the ocean top; wind ripped into my face like a blunt blade.

  The splash of the waves broke the silence and the cold biting into my head and shoulders made me suddenly aware of how frozen my body was in spite of the thickness of the wetsuit. Fiona kept a safe distance away from the boat, which swung and lurched on its anchor chain, the engines just barely holding their own against the swell.

  After one failed attempt at reaching the dive ladder, I managed to grab hold of it, just as a wave struck lifting the boat into the air. Once I was safely aboard, Fiona followed shortly afterwards.

  * * *

  5.00pm The warmth inside the cabin and a large brandy were welcome after the numbing coldness outside. I felt a lot happier now that the opium was safely hidden away one mile out and one hundred and five feet down on the seabed of the English Channel. It would take us an hour to get back to the boathouse, with time to spare before either of the Rumples returned to the house, if in fact they did return?

  “How long have you known that the U-boat was down there, Jake,” Fiona stood next to me, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, at the helm.

  “So that’s what you’ve been pondering about. Well it was one of the first wrecks I ever dived on, but it seems like a long time ago. You see, that particular U-boat is not favoured by sport divers as it’s still got about seven live torpedoes on board and after sixty years or so they’re probably a little bit unstable.” I adjusted our course passing a fully laden container ship on our port side. Fiona was looking at me in disbelief, evidently horrified by the thought of having dived into a Second World War German submarine still having live explosives aboard.

  “Why the hell have they never been taken off or destroyed?” she asked, nervousness and tension in her voice. “Well, for a start the wreck doesn’t officially exist

  – remember? It was a pure fluke that I discovered her all those years ago. But that area is not favoured by anyone, and that includes the Ministry of Defence as the current is very strong this far out in the channel. Also the sub’s in quite deep water and a good mile out from the coast, and therefore it was deemed as non-dangerous by the authorities at the time.”

  “Anyway, one of the biggest problems was that at the end of the war the Germans were experimenting with many different types of firing mechanisms or ‘triggers’. There were acoustics, magnetic and electric eye. It was not uncommon for a boat as highly developed as that to have a mixed bag of weapons on board. But we were never really in any danger, I’ve swum through that sub many times, and as long as you don’t disturb the racks holding the torpedoes there’s no chance of a detonation. Of course, that isn’t the case anymore.”

  I held up the remote detonator in my left hand. “This is the remote control for that explosive charge down there, I’m going to re-route the command to our mobile phones. That way either of one of us can destroy the opium by simply pressing nine and then send. Understood?”

  Fiona nodded and then said. “No wonder you hid the opium there, it’s got to be the last place on earth that anyone would go – even if they did know about it. So what happens now Jake.”

  “Now – we go to a party, and see what happens next!”

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday 8.15pm Sloping shoulders and a neck like a tree trunk. The young muscle-bound security guard eyed me up and down suspiciously as I handed him the invitation, eventually pushing open the heavy oak door for us.

  Robert Flackyard’s spacious and elegant entrance hall was as I remembered it from my previous visit. Simply decorated in Mediterranean style and furnished with impeccable taste, yet strangely cold and clinical, like a doctor’s waiting room. We were immediately offered a glass of Champagne and shown through to the rear terrace, where a number of enormous marquees had been erected; the illuminated swimming pool was now the centrepiece.

  Throughout the grounds torches had been lit and the gravel paths freshly groomed. The sound system on the stage area belts out nostalgic melodies from Flackyard’s collection of early LPs. I wondered for just a brief moment whether it might be a love of swing music that Harry Caplin and Flackyard had in common. But, deep down, my guts were telling me it wasn’t. Girls almost wearing flimsy nothings, flitted around the guests refilling glasses as they became empty.

  I left Fiona talking to a tall blond haired banker called Jack from New York in white dinner jacket. The Dom is flowing, servants scurry and smile - the Flackyard hospitality is working its magic.

  To one side of the half round stage stood the main attraction of the charity auction. An Aston Martin DB5, brilliant silver paintwork gleaming. Sam ‘the car wash’ was busy giving it a final dusting off and polishing the chrome. I approached the stage casually, glass in hand, as if to merely admire and examine the car prior to bidding later in the evening. Having spotted me walking towards him, the young watcher knelt down by one of the wire wheels and started rubbing the chrome spokes vigorously with his cloth. He concealed his face, so that only the back of his head was visible. He spoke quickly and to the point.

  “Flackyard hasn’t left the house all day. Apart from the caterers, cleaning contractors, florists and marquee people, only two other people have been allowed in. One of them was that pizza-faced weasel George Ferdinand, he got here about 2.30pm this afternoon. Stayed about twenty minutes and then left.”

  “Was he alone?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he was alone, but he didn’t look happy when he left, mind, slammed that big oak door at the front so hard I thought the whole building was going to fall down with the shock. Then he got in his car and spun gravel everywhere as he pulled off.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Another bloke arrived around 4.15pm, never seen him before. Definitely not local, though, he was older, mid fifties, big and really fit looking. Might have been ex military. He only stayed about fifteen minutes and then left.” Sam got up and walked to the rear wheel, crouching down he resumed his polishing with vigour.

  “Well – elaborate,” I said.

  “I couldn’t get a really good look at him; they’ve kept me away from the main house and I’ve been watched all day by the security guards. But I did manage to see something that may be of interest. Look, I want a bonus for staying here all day, you know, I’ve really stretched this car cleaning lark beyond belief.”

  “Why is that not a surprise? Go on.”

  “One of Flackyard’s own security people obviously knew who this big guy was. Because as he came through the front gates he shook hands with him like an old friend. I think he was telling him that the boss was expecting him.”

  He pointed over to the gate in the wall which leads out on to this terrace.

  “They were only talking for a minute or so and then this big bloke walks off.”

  “But as he did, the security guy calls after him using a nickname I think, and when the big fella replied though he had a really low gruff voice. I thought I’d heard it before somewhere, but because of the distance between me and them and all the noise going on like, I really couldn’t hear what the name was or what was being said. Sorry.”

  One of the hired helps, with slicked down hair and a fake suntan, came striding towards us; SECURITY was written on a badge pinned to his lapel.

  The conversation immediately switched to the car. Sam was informed that Mr Flackyard had given instructions for all cleaning s
taff to leave the premises, as the evening was about to commence. He was given an envelope and escorted to the main gates. Over the many speakers an announcement was made that the auction was about to start. I looked around for Flackyard who was conspicuous by his absence. I sat down at the nearest available table.

  My thoughts though were elsewhere. Was George Ferdinand possibly skulking in the flowerbed or was he attending to a little business elsewhere?

  Had Rumple really gone off the track? Who killed Charlie McIntyre? What of Harry Caplin, was he in league with Flackyard or working with Ferdinand? All of these questions kept rattling around in my mind, over and over again, never resting.

  After about five painful minutes of sitting at a table with eight complete strangers who had all drunk far too much Champagne I quietly got up and walked out. On the way I looked around for Fiona, but to no avail. In the main hall Robert Flackyard was coming through a doorway from an adjacent room with two of his security people.

  “Mr Jake Dillon, what a pleasure it is to have you in my home once again. I sincerely hope that you are not leaving us so early, the festivities have barely begun.”

  “Tell me Flackyard, why exactly did you invite me here tonight? It’s surely not because I’m on your A-List of influential people to have at parties, is it?”

  “Perhaps you just wanted to know where I would be this evening?” I said easily, all the time looking straight at him. The angry fire flared in his eyes, but only for a second, receding almost immediately.

  A snap of his fingers and my way was barred. I was ushered through the doorway and into the room Flackyard had just that minute come out of by the same sullen faced security doorman who had seen Fiona and me in earlier in the evening. The walls were covered in books from floor to ceiling all placed carefully in fine oak bookcases.

  Flackyard walked to the far end of the library and placed himself behind a large, highly polished mahogany desk. He stood for just a moment looking down as if collecting his thoughts. Sitting down he swung around and leaned back in the leather-faced captain’s chair, all the time concentrating on the polished top of the desk. Not once did he look up at me. Clasping his hands as if to pray, he leaned forward putting his elbows on the mirrorlike wood, the tips of his fingers just resting on his chin. After what seemed like an eternity he eventually lifted his gaze and looked straight into my eyes with piercing coldness.

  “My dear, Mr Dillon, since you arrived here in Bournemouth you have been - how shall I put it - a thorn in my side. Your firm sent you here to discreetly retrieve certain sensitive items from a sunken wreck. Having achieved this, you disappoint me by still having in your possession something belonging to my associates and me…”

  His voice trailed off, as another dark suited security flunky roughly pushed the door open with a hand tightly gripping a struggling Fiona Price under the arm. He blurted to his employer that he had found her snooping around inside the house. Flackyard, furious at being interrupted in this manner sharply barked the order that she be released at once. Getting up, he went round and pulled up an old 1930’s leather easy chair in front of the desk, motioning her to sit.

  “Miss Price, how good of you to join us, I am enchanted to meet you, and of course, by your beauty, you look so elegant this evening.” He was instantly charming, with a golden voice, tainted by time but guaranteed to captivate, as long as you prefer tone to substance.

  Before turning his attention back to me, he ordered the man who had just manhandled Fiona in, to get out of his sight. That done, he continued, “Now, Mr Dillon, where were we – ah yes, your meddling in my business, and the missing packages. I will come straight to the point, especially as I’ve guests to attend to and lots of money to raise for our charities. I asked you here this evening for one reason and one reason only. As you quite rightly guessed, I wanted to ensure that I knew exactly where you were. Unfortunately I was informed just a moment ago that my people have not found what they were sent to look for. Your rented house and the boat I’m afraid will need a little straightening out when you return.”

  I lurched forward towards Flackyard. The two bodyguards who had been stood on either side of me, reacted instantly and with a professional expertise that sent me down onto my knees.

  “Ah, but how very remiss of me Mr Dillon, I forgot to give you the credit you so rightly deserve. I should have known that a man of your resourcefulness and experience would move the packages. But my friend, you would be well advised not to trifle with me, I am not a man to cross. Show him, Nazir.” He said to the big Egyptian stood to his right. But kept his gaze on me.

  Nazir, cracked his fingers, like a bare knuckle boxer does, just before a fight. And for a split second I thought I was in deep trouble. He stood in front of me, his face completely expressionless, pulled a two-way radio from his jacket pocket and spoke very quietly into it. The Egyptian then walked in a business like manner to the other side of the room to a large sash window.

  “Let him up.” Flackyard ordered. “Why don’t you take a look out of the window, Mr Dillon?” He said with a grin.

  I stood up, straightened my jacket and bow tie and then looked over at Fiona, who shot me a nervous glance. I did my best at a reassuring look back.

  “Well, the view over your courtyard is very nice, Flackyard. But what is it, that I’m supposed to be looking at?”

  Nazir, once again spoke into the two-way radio. A dodge pickup truck backed into the courtyard and stopped just below the window.

  “Take a good look. As Mercedes go, I’d say the one that you’re looking at, would fall into the compact class. Wouldn’t you, Mr Dillon.”

  I didn’t say a word, simply turned and then walked across the room to where Fiona was sitting and stood by her side.

  “I do so hope that you’re not in any way under the illusion about the lengths that the people who own that opium will go to. They want it back, Dillon. Think yourself lucky that you weren’t in your car at the time they crushed it. Needless to say the next time…”

  “There won’t be a next time, Flackyard, and those packages, that you so badly want back. Well, they’ll be kept safely on ice until you fulfil your part of the deal as agreed with my employers. Until then they stay safely hidden away. Of course you will be told when and where to retrieve them, as and when the Partners are completely satisfied that their business with you has been concluded. Once and for all. Is that clear enough for you – Mr Flackyard?”

  The air in the library hung heavy with tension and cigar smoke. Only the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock standing in a far corner broke the silence, as I waited for Flackyard to reply.

  “You are of course quite right, Mr Dillon,” he said calmly. “I shall arrange for delivery as quickly as possible.” Flackyard hadn’t flinched; his hands now lay flat, palm-down on the tabletop. The calmness that he showed was a façade inside, I knew that he was seething, wanting to smash his fist into my face repeatedly for daring to confront him, especially in front of his staff.

  “When you’re in a position to conclude the transaction, Mr Flackyard, please contact me on this number. Oh and you owe me a new car.” I placed my card in front of him, turned, smiled to myself and left with Fiona.

  Chapter 18

  London 2.30am - Wednesday I drove the car that I’d hired into London with an odd feeling of melancholy.

  Charlie had been murdered not more than twenty feet from where I’d been standing and Rumple had been shot in the shoulder right next to me. Not that I thought that either had been unsuccessful attempts to get at me, but diligence ensures a much longer life than bravery ever did. I decided to make a few discreet inquiries on my own private grapevine, even if it did mean ignoring LJ’s rules and procedures.

  The cool wind carved up the street faster than a stockbroker’s Porsche, and a leather–clad rider on a Japanese super-bike came roaring past in search of cooperation in the act of suicide. Instead of going to the apartment I checked into one of those cheap, small sidestreet hotels t
hat catered for travelling salesmen and persons looking for anonymity. It was all 80’s floral wallpaper and dusty fake plants. I wrote the name of James Fisher into the register. The overweight Slavic night porter manning the reception desk eyed me suspiciously and asked for some form of identification.

  “Can I see your work permit?” I asked bluntly.

  Embarrassed by my retort, he grudgingly gave me a key and told me my room was on the third floor at the front. The gaudy floral wallpaper was obviously a job lot with bed linen to match. The room was otherwise clean but bland and poorly furnished. I threw my overnight bag on the floor, flopped down onto the bed and slept, waking with a start when my travel clock told me it was 10.40 am. I had already decided to let a few hours pass before contacting LJ. I used my mobile phone to dial an inner London number. The phone made all the correct noises associated with making a call. After a while it even rang at the other end.

  “Can I speak to Simon Davenport?” I said. He was my first ear to the ground.

  “This phone is very hot – be careful,” said the voice at the other end and hung up. He wasn’t usually a laconic man, but in his world of electronic wizardry, tapped land lines and mobiles being listened to by satellite were an everyday occurrence. I decided to ring someone else who definitely had his ear to the ground. This time I was a little more circumspect. I waited for Alex Chapman, an Australian, to speak first, then I said, “Hello, Alex.”

  “I recognise the voice of my old mate…” he replied.

  “You do,” I said before he could blab it across the phone.

  “Are you having a spot of bother?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Alex; am I?” I heard him laugh like a hyena at the other end.

  “Let’s not talk over this,” he said. His paranoia about talking on telephones was legendary.

  “How about that trendy café bar, what’s it called, bloody hell it’s got a name that plays on words. Ah, I remember, ‘Java Kye’ that’s it, say in an hour.”