“Enough, you are making up fairy tales Mr Dillon, you are in fact, just guessing,” Hawkworth said calmly.
I thought of the small diary that Jasper Lockhart had obtained from his friend the housebreaker and how he had made it so available to me. Making my subsequent guessing much easier, “You’re right I’m just guessing,” I agreed.
“Very well,” Hawkworth said in a resigned but businesslike voice, “how much?”
“I’ve not come to blackmail you - Hawkworth. What I want from you, is an assurance that I can continue with my janitorial duties in Dorset without interference from the management. I’m not pursuing you. I’m not even remotely interested in doing anything beyond my brief. But I want you to remember this: I’m the person who’s responsible for this assignment, not Levenson-Jones, not even the Partners of Ferran & Cardini. I’ll be responsible for what happens to you, whether it’s good or bad. Now be a good chap and ring your bell for Constable Baker. I’m leaving, before I throw up all over your beautiful Persian carpet.”
Chapter 25
When I got to the office on Friday morning, Zara was talking with one of the other personal assistants from upstairs. Seeing me she broke off her conversation and crooked a slender finger in my direction, beckoning me to follow her into her office. It was as I expected, immaculate, not a piece of paper or file out of place. She sat down behind the curved beech desk, retrieving a file from a stack in front of her.
“You’ll be pleased, I’ve no doubt, to hear that Poseidon is to remain active. Unofficially that is, a memo came down to LJ late yesterday from the Partners.”
“Oh really, that’s good,” I said. “Don’t give me that ‘Oh really, that’s good’ stuff. I know exactly what you’ve been up to, Jake Dillon.”
“Zara, as if I…”
“That’s all Jake.” It seemed a little odd that Zara should ask me to step into her office just to tell me that. As I turned to leave she said, “Please try to look just a little bit surprised when LJ tells you. The poor man is tragically deluded and certainly doesn’t know you as I do.”
“Why thank you for those kind words, Zara,” I said.
“Thank me for what, aiding and abetting his pathetic delusions?”
“Yes of course,” I said, “but thanks anyway.” I said as I closed the office door behind me.
Back in the department, I found Tats who had put her hair into a single French plait looking positively stunning. “You will find on your desk, twenty-two letters to sign along with copies of various memos relating to ‘Poseidon’ that I thought you might like sight of.” Tats said.
I signed the letters and stuffed the memos into my briefcase. I stuck my head into LJ’s office. He was straightening up a large oak framed picture of Winston Churchill austerely standing by a desk, hand clutching the lapel of his pin striped suit, British bulldog at his feet. The small brass plate at the bottom had the words engraved; Blood, Tears, Toil and Sweat 1874 – 1964.
Looking round LJ said, “Ah, Jake, what do you think of this?”
“Very well painted,” I replied.
“Present from my son. He’s very much into Winston Churchill. Each year on the great man’s birthday we have a little family get together, and all guests have to have a Winston anecdote or quotation ready.”
“How fascinating,” I said. “I do exactly the same when I get given an assignment.”
LJ slid me a narrowed glance.
He took out a cigar and lit it to ease the tension.
“You intend to pursue Poseidon?”
“I want to know why Hawkworth recently sent Harry Caplin a cheque for ten thousand pounds and why he’s renting a luxury house for him by the sea?”
“You think that will explain everything?” asked LJ, still admiring the painting.
“I really don’t know. Perhaps, but I’ll be able to tell you that with more certainty after I’ve talked to a man I know in the highlands of Scotland who has been looking into Caplin’s private affairs for me. As well as his bank account, all unofficially and very discreetly, of course. But I now feel that Caplin is in some way involved and possibly working for or with Hawkworth, not Flackyard as I previously thought. If that proves to be the case, then my gut feeling is that it was Caplin not Rumple whom had the explosives put in your car. But the bit I’m at a complete loss about is why, and in such a public way?”
LJ nodded. “Well, have a good trip to Scotland, I’ve arranged for Phil Allerton to fly you up in the helicopter.” He moved the painting just a little more to the right.
Outside the sun shone between white cottonwool clouds hanging across the sky like balloons. Traffic wardens were issuing tickets and wheel clampers were busy immobilising illegally parked motorists.
* * * Through my headset, Phil updated me on our position, pointing out landmarks along the way. In between my thoughts were on Oliver Hawkworth. I had blocked him for the time being, but I had done it at the expense of making a very powerful enemy. It wasn’t something one could do too frequently without uncomfortable consequences. Perhaps it was something one couldn’t do once without uncomfortable consequences.
I really was near the end of a thin plank over a dark and very deep sea.
I wondered who of those involved with ‘Poseidon’ might be connected to Hawkworth and Flackyard. Who had the pictures of the Gin Fizz and who would benefit the most from obtaining them? What was George Ferdinand’s real role in all of this?
After the warmth of the cockpit, the pure Highland air was exhilaratingly refreshing. Phil had put us down in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by trees. Cows in a field nearby became curious after the rotors had stopped and the noise from the engine had faded away. They hovered together in the dells where odd trees of twisted dead wood were spattered with black blots of huddled birds.
From high up on the hill a Land Rover broke the tranquillity by sounding its horn as it careered down the narrow muddy track towards us. The driver could be seen bouncing up and down in his seat. Barely missing the gateposts on either side, the old battered green vehicle shot through the opening of the field and slewed precariously to a halt within ten feet of us.
The engine stalled and the driver’s door burst open. Two large leather boots swung out onto the grass followed by their owner Angus Macgrath, who was roaring with laughter.
“Och, Jake Dillon you old rogue, it’s good to see you again – alive that is,” said Angus, raising his eyebrows and laughing loudly. I introduced Phil, but forgot to mention to him that this enormous bald headed Scotsman had a handshake like a grizzly bear.
“Now then, we’d better get going, we’ve got that hill to negotiate before we get to my croft.”
Phil said that he’d stay with the helicopter, and that we should be back in the air within a couple of hours.
* * * Past the trees and on up the hill, the going was treacherous as the Land Rover’s powerful diesel engine turned all four wheels through the sticky mud of the track. The higher we got the more barren the landscape; the moor land was bleak and wind-scoured. Through the mist Angus pointed a finger at a crooked castle, the ruins of which had stunted trees growing inside, hunchbacked against the wind.
It suited Angus to live alone like a hermit, but for his computers, numerous gadgets and satellite dish all powered by a large diesel generator. His small crofter’s house had been greatly improved and was clean and tidy. As we opened the heavy oak door of the stone building the draught made the fire flare. There was an oil lamp on a small round table, and its soft green light glowing up onto the ceiling flickered with the sudden rush of cold air. A soot-caked kettle hissed with boiling water. Angus went over and carefully lifted the dented metal container off its hook over the fire, filling a large china teapot to the brim before replacing it.
Seated in front of the fire, we quietly let the heat thaw us for a minute while we sipped the sweet dark liquid. Angus rapidly sank his scalding tea and threw another log on to the flames. Finally, he lit a filthy old pipe and
said, “You got my report by email okay then?”
“Picked it up this morning, it was fine,” I said, “but I decided it was far safer to come up to this Godforsaken place you call home and see you personally - if you know what I mean. My problem, Angus is that I know very little about the intricacies of manufacturing and distributing of class A drugs.”
“Ah,” he said, “well, you’ve come to the right place laddie, and as luck would have it, I’ve just finished a wee job for the CIA. They had me, unofficially, delve into the personal files and many bank accounts of a former KGB enforcer, who is now residing in London of all places, is no where sacred anymore? Anyway, I found the trail that leads to his fortune, which I’ve no doubt was made from the illicit profits of trafficking heroin all over the world.”
“And – did you?” I prompted him.
“Och, I have to live, Jake, you know me too well - and there was so much money, just sitting there, it seemed rude not to redistribute some of it in my direction.”
“Was, and redistribute in your direction?” I repeated.
“Well - he won’t miss it and he certainly won’t be able to trace where it went,” said Angus, laughing loudly. “Och, but don’t you go worrying, now, the Swiss are still very discreet, even by today’s standards.”
Chapter 26
“So, Jake, you want to know about class A drugs, do you,” said Angus. “Well now, as you already know there are many different types of hard drugs out there. But if I’m not mistaken, the kind that you’re interested in grows naturally and can then be changed in a laboratory. Opium or cocaine, both originate from plants – which is it to be then.”
“Tell me about opium,” I said. The kettle had been singing for two minutes and he turned the wick of the oil lamp up a little to give him more light to make the tea. I wielded the long brass toasting fork and put the butter nearer to the fire to soften it. Outside the wind howled and moaned around the small windows, and I thought of Phil sitting in the cold cockpit of the helicopter. “Opium,” said Angus as he warmed the teapot.
“Difficult to grow, therefore sought after. The basis of narcotic smuggling grows anywhere up to a latitude of fifty-six degrees. The Oriental poppy or the common poppy is of no interest to the drug cartels, because only the P.S.L. (the Papaver Somniferum Linnaeus) gives opium. They are sown in May for the August crop, and in August for the April crop.”
“It’s like painting the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said. “Oh yes, it’s definitely year round employment,” said Angus, spearing another crumpet onto his fork and holding it over the flames of the roaring fire. “To get it… You want to know?”
“Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”
“Little incisions are cut into the green capsules or pods of the poppy before the seeds ripen. White latex appears and you wait ten to fifteen hours for the latex to harden and turn brown. The evening they do this you can smell the aroma for miles around.”
“So then what happens to the latex?”
“Well, then it’s either packed in its raw state or shipped off to a lab for processing into heroin or “smack” or whatever other name it’s being given these days. This ends up as a brownish powder, which is then sold on to dealers who usually dilute or “cut” it with other substances, like sugar or quinine, to make it as white as snow.”
“Angus, I’m a little confused about the various strains of poppy?”
“Well, yes it is confusing, when you’ve got poppies ranging from white to purple-black, but I really couldn’t tell you at this point in time which strain is currently the best.” Angus poured the tea and I buttered another crumpet.
“Where is it grown? You haven’t said where.”
“Afghanistan is one of the world trading centres. This year alone they’ve harvested more than 4000 tons of opium, making them the world’s No 1 producer. I’ll put that into perspective for you, laddie. That’s around a US$1.4 billion gross income. The Taliban are not fussy about who they sell it to, either, and both the Russian and Sicilian Mafia take regular shipments, with most of it ending up in the US. I believe that around 60% of all heroin in America is imported and distributed by the Sicilian Mafia and exported direct from Afghanistan. Other areas heavily involved in opium production are the Yunnan and Kwangsi areas in Taiwan, still definitely hot, as are Thailand, Laos, and North Korea, to name but a few. The Americans have a huge problem on their hands because as their intelligence shows there are certain governments in and around those regions who support the trafficking to simply undermine the U.S. The cartels like to move it that way, because that’s where it commands the highest price. Mind you, this is a worldwide industry and I’ve only been talking about illegal cultivation. Many countries produce and process their own legal quantities as well, you know.”
“For the medical industry, I presume.”
“Aye, that’s right. Pass me another crumpet will you. See, the latex from the P.S.L. poppy isn’t much good as it is. It has to be made into morphine base, and then that has to be made into diacetyl-morphine. Which is more commonly known as heroin or ‘H’ depending in which circles you move in.”
“So, how big do these laboratories need to be?”
“The lab doesn’t need to be that big, but the drainage is usually the problem. There is a tremendous amount of acetic acid to get rid of. If you use the public drainage system it’s likely to attract some rather unwanted attention. However, if you could pump it straight out into the sea – well that’s probably as good as it gets. You do know what acetic acid is like?”
“It’s great on fish & chips?”
“Aye, that’s right. Vinegar - salt - fish and chips - och, you’re torturing me, you wee Sassenach, the nearest chip shop is about seventy miles away from here.”
We talked a while longer, eating more crumpets and drinking strong black tea.
By the time we stepped outside the sky was awash with orange, scarlet and crimson hues as the old red eye stepped over the edge of the horizon.
The damp highland mist was starting to drop its cloak around us as we careered back down the hill to an impatient Phil Allerton and his helicopter.
On the flight back down to London, I thought about my talk with Angus and about the information he’d managed to get for me on Harry Caplin and Oliver Hawkworth, now safely tucked away inside my briefcase.
So, the waxy packages that we found on board of the Gin Fizz were on their way to a laboratory for processing. When I’d handed over the logbook, I had also given LJ one of the packages to be analysed; he’d put it straight into a specially adapted secure compartment in his car. Now I was beginning to understand why so many explosives had been placed throughout the Range Rover.
Someone was determined to destroy the evidence that was inside the glove box. I should have remembered that he’d told me he was going to the lab personally on his return from New York. Whoever was responsible for detonating that bomb not only wanted to destroy the evidence but also wanted the driver dead.
Everything seemed to point back to Dorset and ‘Poseidon’.
* * * Tatiana met me at the heliport. She was driving a Mercedes SLK convertible from the firm’s car pool.
“What is it you do to the car fleet director, that he loans you a car reserved for Partners’ use only?”
“You have a disgusting mind.” She gave me a girlish smile.
“No kidding, how do you get him to trust you with one of these? I’ve never managed to get into one of these cars when it’s parked, let alone moving.”
“When he sees me enter the car park he sends one of the security guards to make sure I don’t get too near to any of his precious toys.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I compliment him about the efficiency of his department and how all of the cars look amazingly clean, always. It’s something you’ve never heard about, but among cultured people compliments are all the rage, you should try them sometime.”
“Ouch, your talons are sharp today, but point taken,” I said.
Chapter 27
Under the porch of the elegant Georgian building hung an old lantern, its brass work burnished to an illegible sheen. Inside the entrance a vast fireplace, the coals long gone out, now had a magnificent display of white and yellow lilies set in a tall vase of blue glass. Behind a circular reception desk sat a uniformed security guard, who checked our names off against his list and issued us both with visitor identity passes. There were two senior officers from Special Branch, a face from MI6, and one from Interpol there when we arrived; we all shook hands after a Constable on the door was persuaded to allow us in.
The large square room overlooking the walled garden at the rear, had been set up for conference use. There was a large wall mounted plasma screen and an array of equipment required for giving a presentation using computer technology. Vince Sharp was along for the ride, busy plugging cables into the back of his silver multi-media notebook.
The first minute was satire at its best. The young Italian police officer wearing plain clothes had put the camera down on a large rock and inadvertently left it recording while he took a leak behind a large tree, and then to his dismay grappled with the zipper of his fly, which had got stuck.
But the serious stuff was very well done. The sleek black Mercedes threaded its way over the cobblestone road, stopped and an older man in his late fifties climbed out. The tall upright figure walked up a flight of steps and disappeared into the darkness of the mausoleum.
Another shot, same man, medium close-up moving across camera. He turned towards the camera. Our photographer had probably complained that he was blocking the view, for Robert Flackyard walked a little more quickly out of frame. There were fifteen minutes of film centred on Flackyard. He was the same imperious figure of a man who had given me an envelope full of counterfeit currency on a night that seemed so long ago. Without warning the screen went blank.
The two policemen got to their feet, but Tatiana asked them to stay a moment longer to see something else. A still picture flashed on the screen. It was a black and white snapshot. A group of men all dressed in city suits were sat and standing face on to the camera, heads erect, arms folded.
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 15