“You mean the business down in Dorset, don’t you? All that stuff with George and that chap Robert Flackyard?”
“What do you think?” I said. “You’ve been dabbling in some pretty heavy stuff. Can’t Hawkworth help you?”
“He says he can’t get involved. What’s going to happen now?”
I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You know I could get into some seriously deep shit for just talking to you.”
Jasper Lockhart said, “Yeah,” about four times.
After what I considered to be an appropriate length of silence I said, “It was because you tried to con me that started to make things drop into place you know,” I said casually. “When you became part of an official MI5 enquiry,” I dropped in for good measure.
Jasper Lockhart repeated the word five a few times, changing it from a statement to an interrogative. “What you mean is that they’ll come for me during the night?”
“Well,” I said, “that’s a little melodramatic, this is England after all. Things like that only happen in films and spy books, don’t they? No. These guys are good, I mean really good. Your death will almost certainly look like a traffic accident or something along those lines.”
“You are joking, I hope.” Jasper Lockhart’s voice came like an echo of long ago and he leaned heavily against the driver’s door. He had passed out. The girl with the French maid’s outfit left her friend and asked if she could help.
“My friend isn’t feeling well,” I told her. “It’s probably just too much to drink.”
“Perhaps a glass of water would help.” It took her a long time to push her way through to the kitchen. In the meantime Jasper Lockhart shook his head and breathed heavily. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you probably think I’m a complete prat.”
“Something like that, but don’t worry about it, we’ve known each other far too long for it to be a problem,” I said, “I know exactly how you feel.” I knew all to well.
“You’re all right, you know that, Jake,” he said. “But what should I do, go to the police, make a statement and try to bargain my way out of this mess? Hell, I’m just small fry. Those fuckers Hawkworth and Flackyard are the ones.” He closed his eyes at the thought.
I was about to say that a statement at the appropriate time would be sensible, when the French maid came back with a jug of water.
“There aren’t any glasses left in the kitchen,” she said, thankfully without the French accent.
She offered the water to Jasper Lockhart, who said, “She’s one of them,” in a shrill, excitable voice and lost consciousness again.
“Is the really big guy with the tux, Australian bush hat and the foul coloured dickey bow still serving at the bar?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Frenchy, adding. “He says that this is the driest do he’s ever been to.”
“Would you do me an immense favour and take him this note, oh and tell him that he can go home now.”
“OK,” she said and went back inside to the party.
A minute later Vince Sharp came through the doorway. His seventeen stone frame waddled over to the Jaguar. “Looks like our baby will be out for the count, do you want a hand getting him to bed?” Vince asked.
“No, you get off, I’ll get his friends to put him to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh and Vince, please take off the bow tie, it’s making me feel very sick.”
Chapter 35
If you ever get clear away from a dangerous or difficult situation by abandoning a large number of your personal possessions, you may feel a compelling need of certain things you have left behind, like your seventy-foot luxury power cruiser. Don’t send for them, because that’s how Robert Flackyard was traced.
I asked Zara for a box file and wrote “Fulcrum” on the front. Into that I put copies of Jasper Lockhart’s bank statements and his written statement that he had made the day after the party. A precaution in the event that he or possibly I met with an unfortunate accident.
I secured the file with the firm’s official seal and locked it into the top drawer of my desk. So far it had no file number and had not been entered onto the firm’s computerised system. It was my little secret, for now.
Vince Sharp had left a file on my desk, so I flicked open the front cover.
The report was thorough, with satellite images to support the maps laid out before me. Flackyard’s yacht was moving south and looked as though it had made good time, sailing through the Bay of Biscay and the Gulf of Cadiz. I wondered - was she heading for the Strait of Gibraltar and on into the Mediterranean or would she sail on down to the coast of Africa?
That evening, LJ called me into his office for a drink. He had been harassed to hell and back, organising the administrative protocol for the New Network, so much so that I’d hardly seen him all week. I knew that BinghamCarter was still making things difficult for us. BinghamCarter, mid 40s, divorced twice, propped up the corner of the bar at his club, twenty-four hours a day. What he was giving up in food he was gaining in influence. BinghamCarter was trying to get certain Foreign Office people to assert their considerable power on the Partners of Ferran & Cardini. His motive was quite clearly to get control of the New Network for M16, and more importantly for himself. LJ said that, at the meeting I had missed, he had taken the liberty of putting me up as convening chairman of the field-training group.
I told him that I might be away for a few days. LJ said he thought that might be the case. He blew his nose loudly and smiled dryly from behind his big handkerchief. “I’ll convene the meeting and you delegate your vote to me.”
“It will be all right.”
“Thank you, that would help me enormously,” I said, and drank to his success. LJ came from behind his desk and stood in front of the large portrait of Winston Churchill. Taking hold of a corner he gently raised it and then stepped back to satisfy himself that it was straight.
“Did you check with Interpol about Harry Caplin?” I asked him.
LJ gave a histrionic sigh. “Don’t you ever give up?” he said. “You are quite impossible, Caplin has never been, and is not our concern. Miss Price has been assigned, I am told, to the team searching for Caplin and Flackyard, somewhere in southern Europe.” We stared at each other for a minute or so.
“Oh, very well, I’ll see if I can find out where they are.” He closed his eyes, gulped down his claret and leaned back in his chair like a worn-out roll of carpet. He said, “That liaison officer from Scotland Yard - what’s he called, Jefferson - was on the phone today. He said they can’t keep Jasper Lockhart locked up and available for questioning unless they’re considering charges.”
“I’ll clear that in a couple of days,” I said. “He’ll make no complaint; he wants to be kept in custody – he feels safe there.”
LJ said, “Look, I realise it’s not yet quite over, but I’m feeling a certain amount of pressure from upstairs in respect of this Poseidon business in Dorset.”
“No! You look,” I said, “I didn’t ask you to hold the door open. But don’t start closing it now that I’m half-way through.”
LJ got up and paced the office, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked up and down the room. “Careful not to slam it on my fingers,” he told me, “there’s a good boy. Oh, I know that you have a thousand reasons for not slipping up, but remember what the man who fell off of the high building said to a resident on the seventeenth floor as he fell past him. So far so good.” LJ smiled blandly.
“Thank you for those kind words of encouragement,” I said.
LJ walked across to his map cupboard, and his secret stash of alcohol. He spoke over his shoulder. “There are certain things which if I know about I must act upon. As it is I’m happy enough to leave them. But if you get it wrong I’ll tear you to shreds and anyone you try to protect will be torn up with you.”
“What about another drink?” I said.
“Well, old son, it’s a jolly good thing you like sangria,” replied LJ self-conscio
usly.
LJ thought I was heading for the land of flamenco dancers and sherry.
Chapter 36
As a king watches over his kingdom, the stunning Boquer mountain range overlords the port of Pollensa at the northernmost tip of the island of Mallorca.
Along the streets, which lie between pastel coloured buildings, a shabby old mongrel, its muzzle grey with age, yawns scratching behind its ear while it lies in the shade of a doorway, taking pleasure from the cool sea breeze.
Tourists of all ages casually stroll along the waterside pine walk; the aroma of mouth-watering local fish dishes waft out from the many fine restaurants along the tree-lined natural harbour. People sit, laughing and drinking, letting the burden of modern life float away while they absorb the mellow atmosphere. Children play tirelessly on the beach and splash around in the crystal clear water of the bay.
Café Maritimo is a bright, vibrant, espresso temple. Cups clatter, machines hiss and the young waiters move with ease across the white marble floor. A young English couple with a baby, argue about why he stayed out all night partying. The large television screen inside is showing a football match, young men and women stand around drinking, suddenly jumping up excitedly and cheering when a goal is scored. From the supermercado along the street there is a continual flash of red neon and an advertisement for San Miguel beer floats in mid air above the door.
I sat near the front of the café, outside, where I could see the street and the harbour. I ordered some hot chocolate, and watched a tall African man in his late twenties, dressed in a shabby dinner suit, perform magic tricks for the passers-by. I sipped the sweet cinnamon chocolate for which the café is famous. The magician man’s box of props had stickers all over it from many different countries; presumably places he had performed in.
He delved amongst the silk scarves and playing cards and offered the crowd that had gathered one last trick, which was to conjure up half a dozen white doves from apparently nowhere. The children who were sat in a small half circle at the front of the crowd clapped with zealous amazement, and sheer joy as the birds appeared and fluttered above their heads. At the end of the show, their parents were press-ganged into digging deep into their pockets for some coins to throw into the magician’s top hat.
A young officer of the Spanish Navy wearing an immaculate white uniform, got up from his table to the side of me, and went over to the magician. After some haggling, payment was given in advance and then the tall slim African sauntered over to where the officer and his girlfriend were sitting. He started to perform card tricks, much to the amusement of the officer, and somewhat to the embarrassment of the young raven-haired woman. It was 7.30pm. I looked at the menu. I was worried in case something might have gone wrong. With the stakes this high, it would be a disaster if anything went astray.
After their private show, the magician bowed to the young couple and left them and moved amongst the other people in the Café, showing off his talent.
And then came to sit opposite me at my table. Smiling, he politely asked, in perfect English, if I’d like to see a trick or two.
“Why not?” I said. He sifted through his box again, pulling out three plain brown envelopes.
He placed them on the shiny metallic surface in front of me. “What you’ve got to do is simply pick the correct envelope. Inside one of them is a ten Euro note,” he said in a deep, cultured voice, gesturing with a sweep of his up turned palm over the envelopes.
“How do I know which is the correct one?” I asked.
“You don’t,” he replied. “But if you choose wisely you will be a richer man,” he added.
I could easily have said no to this childish challenge, but instead I said, “OK,” and after a moment tapped the middle envelope with my forefinger.
The magician put the other two envelopes back into his box.
I picked up the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a ten Euro note and with it a small piece of paper folded in two. I left the paper inside and pulled out the money.
“You have chosen wisely, my friend, use your new found wealth carefully,” he said, beaming a dazzling white smile at me. He closed his box of tricks, and was gone, as quickly as he had arrived. I went to the toilet and read the note. On the small folded piece of paper it simply read, “Calle de Jaime and Avenida del Pinar. Corner 8.20pm.” Both the arguing couple and the navy officer and his girlfriend were gone by the time I returned to my table.
The on shore wind coming off the bay whistled down the Avenida del Pinar and the night was suddenly cold, the way it sometimes goes in the Balearics.
A new Toyota land cruiser 4x4 rolled down on me like the day of judgement, all headlights and chrome bull bars. I got in and sank into the black leather upholstery; the seat wrapped around me as the large vehicle wound its way south through small streets towards the residential area overlooking the harbour and the Bay of Pollensa.
Cats sat around with nothing to do and stared insolently back into the headlight beams. The driver parked the 4x4 with meticulous care and killed the lights. He opened a wrought iron gate for me and took me up to a first floor room overlooking the front of the villa. Someone was already in the room, silhouetted in the narrow rectangle of window studying the harbour berths opposite with an enormous pair of binoculars fixed onto a tripod. The black clothed-figure moved to one side.
On the far side of the marina a party was in full flow on board a large yacht.
Men in swim shorts and girls in bikini bottoms were lounging around on the top and rear decks drinking and laughing, while others were diving and jumping into the water. A small group of men were singing lewd rugby songs, smoking, drinking and then singing loudly again. I applied my eyes to the soft rubber eyepieces of the binoculars. They were trained on the main cabin windows of a seventy five-foot luxury cruiser berthed next to the party boat.
The small Armourlite logo in the bottom left hand corner of each window, denoting that one-inch thick blast proof glass surrounded the main cabin area, was just discernible with the powerful lenses. The scene beyond was bright and clear. The 4x4 had been parked carefully with good reason. The Toyota had more spotlights, fog lights and lens work than a fly’s eye.
Now I realised that the three large spotlights on the chrome bull bar at the front were still switched on. Through the night sight infrared binoculars I saw three men opening a number of wooden crates and taking out what looked like aluminium boxes about the size of a suitcase. Polyfoam packing littered the floor. Into my ear a feminine and familiar voice said, “They must be nearly finished. They’ve been at it for nearly an hour.” It was Fiona Price. Working with the crime squad on the island.
“They’re not going to leave those in there,” I said. It wasn’t feasible on board the cruiser, or was it? I moved aside for Fiona to resume her observation.
“What brings you to Mallorca, stud, I thought you had been warned off big time?”
“I have, and between you and me, I’ll probably get the sack when the Partners find out. But what the hell, this son of a bitch Flackyard has got to be stopped. Otherwise he’s going to walk away, and start up all over again somewhere else,” I replied. “So tell me, who does this villa belong to?” I asked.
“A friend of my father owns it; he’s in Australia for six months.”
“When did you get here,” I asked her casually.
“About ten hours ago I was sent out here after Interpol emailed my boss with a positive identity match for Robert Flackyard. Would you believe it, he was caught on a CCTV when he arrogantly went into a bank to change some traveller’s cheques? We liased with the local police department in Palma who sent out an internal bulletin to local officers all over the Island with Flackyard and Caplin’s photographs on the front page. The next thing we get is another email, this time from the police here in Pollensa, giving us the address of Flackyard’s private villa. Like your Vince Sharp, we’ve been tracking Flackyard’s yacht all the way from England until it docked in the early hours of yes
terday morning right over there.”
“Who are the hired help?” I asked.
“Two along for the ride, Jason Stewart, he’s a DC with the Met and an absolute genius with the surveillance stuff. As well as Antonio Carreras he’s with the local plain clothes squad here on the island…” She nodded her head towards the boat, which held Flackyard and his aluminium suitcases.
“Perhaps your young DC would like to make us all some strong coffee,” I suggested.
“Sure,” said Fiona.
“I have a feeling that we’re in for a long wait,” I said.
After a lifetime of travelling around, one tries to be prepared for transient discomfort. A good quality jacket will always keep you warm on the coldest of nights, and a pair of soft nubuck shoes always go into the hand luggage, as they can be worn for either comfort or running, should the need arise. I had both of these things
- at my apartment in London.
Fiona and I took one hour each at the binoculars and Stewart took the Toyota to the other end of the marina to cover the side door. I don’t know what he was expected to do if they went out that way, but there he was.
At 3.30am in the morning, or what I call night, Fiona woke me.
“Jake, wake up. A big white van has just pulled up at the entrance gates to the marina berths,” she said. By the time I had got to the binoculars they were moving the aluminium boxes off of Flackyard’s boat, down the pontoon towards the van.
“Do you have a gun with you?” I asked Fiona.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I hadn’t considered the need for one, or the possibility that Flackyard would move the merchandise elsewhere.”
Half an hour later and with the van sagging on its rear springs, the two burly looking men locked the back doors and drove away. We stayed a safe distance behind them as we followed the two men through the Mallorcan countryside, daylight fast approaching over our shoulder. It wasn’t a long drive to the small airfield.
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 21