* * * As another Mallorcan dawn rose across the horizon, the tired night sky faded into the hazy pink watercolour of early morning. In the distance the twin engines of a Cessna aeroplane turned its nose south southwest, making its way unhindered towards the horizon.
“A Cessna.” I thought of Flackyard’s personal profile; it had to be a Cessna. The three of us watched from the grass runway because none of the four charter planes were available at this early hour. Jason Stewart beat on the door of the padlocked offices, using the ‘f’ word three or four times, but it got us no nearer to what was in side those cases that were now at three thousand feet and still climbing. It was 5.24am, June 2nd.
Chapter 37
“This is an outrage against civilised behaviour, have you any idea what time it is?” I was asked in true Castilian Spanish.
A rather rotund and stout balding man in a brown habit barred my way.
“Step aside, fatty,” I said; “I haven’t got time for niceties.”
Fiona and Stewart followed me into the cold empty, echoing hallway.
“Go and get your boss out of bed,” I said, “and tell him that his presence is required downstairs urgently, and that doesn’t mean in half an hour’s time.”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?” said the stuffy little man in the brown habit, aggressive, but doubting.
I wrote on the back of an envelope, ‘Jake Dillon. Minutes are vital.’ And waited while he took it upstairs.
My treatment of a brother of the monastery of San Sebastian was causing Fiona Price and Jason Stewart physical pain and the sight of the good father in pyjamas was almost too much for them both.
We were shown into a bright airy room, quite the opposite of the hallway.
Floor to ceiling bookcases made from seasoned oak surrounded us on three sides. Every shelf was filled with books, some rare, some first editions, but all were in alphabetical order. The room was warm from the sunlight streaming through the tall elegant French doors and windows that ran along an entire elevation. Stepping out onto the wooden balcony, the cold early morning air along with a stiff breeze took my breath away. At around 400 metres above sea level the view from this magical place really is magnificent, and the mountain air even in the summer is crisp and fresh.
“Jake Dillon, what are on earth are you doing here on Mallorca?”
“Now, Father, you know that if I told you that I’d have to kill you, and I most certainly have no wish to do that to one of my oldest friends.” Father Pedro Ramon Sancho came across the room and gave me a tight hug as two people who have not seen each other for some time do.
Introductions done, the tall bookcase on the far wall slid back to reveal a hidden panel with an array of colour monitors, keyboards and electronic displays full of listening and recording equipment. These are the eyes and ears of Ferran & Cardini in Europe and can watch and listen virtually anywhere and at anytime using satellites that happen to be in the right place at the right time. This has been particularly useful to the firm over the years, especially with some of the more covert activities of the department. But also when negotiating deals of a more delicate nature or avoiding international currency and stock market fluctuations, Father Pedro Ramon Sancho and his many guiding stars have shown us time and time again the true path to tread.
An American satellite was just coming into range of the coast of Spain and the Balearic Islands. “When did the plane leave the airstrip?” asked Father Pedro as he positioned himself in front of one of the flat screen monitors.
“It was 5.15am. No more the twenty minutes ago,” I replied quickly. “If we assume it has an airspeed of 150m.p.h. and stays on that south-south-west heading, we’d expect it to be half way between here and Morocco. Wouldn’t you say, Father?”
There was a long silence while Father Pedro, looking intently at the monitor watched the satellite rotate its onboard spy camera and give us a bird’s eye view of the Spanish coast line from Barcelona right down to Gibraltar. The North African coast showed clearly at the bottom of the screen. Father Pedro typed in a number of command sequences. An overlay of all the light aircraft flight plans for the region now covered the screen, and one of these thin lines showed darker than the rest.
“The dark line is presumably our Cessna?” I said over his shoulder.
“Possibly, but at this stage it’s difficult to be positive, Jake. I have given the computer all of the information to hand. That is to say, the airstrip where it took off from, the time that it departed and of course the heading that it left on. Now, what we have here is the official history overlay of all light aircraft movement in the area for around that time. Even if your man hadn’t filed a flight path, it would still show up here, as this shows everything that has been and is in the air up to this point in time. Give me a moment and I will have the real time imaging direct from the mainframe of air traffic control at Palma International Airport. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course, father,” I agreed, nodding soberly
The lines moved around the screen. Some altered to new headings while some disappeared completely as they left the Palma control zone.
“The line that is still showing darker than the others, I would say, is most likely to be our Cessna. It fits the profile almost exactly. But wait a minute, it’s changing course.” The small blip was turning, the Father typed more commands, and this time most of the lines disappeared, leaving just half a dozen all heading in roughly the same direction.
“Look here Jake, this is very interesting. Our Cessna has changed course towards the Spanish mainland. It looks like they’re heading into the Seville air traffic control zone. This may get tricky if they keep on this heading. We may even lose them in the thick of all the commercial air traffic in that area.”
“Sorry Father, but that’s not one of the options. Get the satellite image enlarged over that region,” I said patiently.
“Now, merge the flight path of the Cessna on your screen with the satellite image on this screen.” He quickly typed in the command. The dark line now showed on the live satellite image.
“So we should be able to pinpoint the Cessna’s position just as long as the satellite stays within range.”
“That is correct Jake, but I can do better than that. Watch, learn and be amazed, my old friend.”
The good Father tapped away at his keyboard, until the image that filled the screen was that of a solitary twin engine aircraft, high above the cloud level and travelling along the dark superimposed flight path. “The satellite will track the plane for as long as it is in range,” he said. “I’d say that we have thirty minutes, maximum,” he added.
We were brought freshly baked croissants and coffee. The manner of the rotund monk who had let us in hadn’t changed, he was still aggressive and doubting. We all waited in silence as the Father did his stuff; the small plane eventually changed course. The Cessna was one of the larger twin engine planes, with a forty-foot wingspan. It was apparent that it was ‘coasting’ on a pre-determined course, away from the main commercial routes.
“I would say, Jake, that given the flight path, the aircraft is on auto-pilot,” said Father Pedro.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” I asked.
It was Jason Stewart who answered. “I’d say that he’s probably ‘coasting’, he’ll continue on that bearing until he reaches the coast. Then he’ll drift along the coast until he recognises Marbella. Then the pilot will set himself a new course, using wind direction and velocity according to how far he’s off his original course. That is quite an old plane by today’s standards and he probably has only very basic navigational aids, you see.”
“Will he cross the coast at Marbella?”
“No, he’ll go for maximum cover. It will more than likely be a little bit east of Malaga.”
“Jake, we’re just about to lose the satellite, it will be out of range in two minutes. But we’ll still be able to track the Cessna by using the link with the air traffic control system,�
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“OK, Father. You’ve been more than helpful and I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed, but your job isn’t quite finished yet. I must know where that plane lands. Let the computer continue to plot its course and call me on my mobile phone immediately it touches down with the location. We’re going back to that airstrip to question anyone who can or will tell us where Flackyard is heading and to find a plane fast enough to get us to wherever that Cessna is going.”
In the meantime Fiona had slipped out and had brought the 4x4 round to the side entrance of the monastery.
Chapter 38
Marrakech, the old pink city with its narrow streets, lies coiled in the shadow of the High Atlas Mountains like a viper on a bed of rumpled hessian. By June the tourist season is in full swing, although this fantastic city is bestvisited early summertime when the heat is still bearable. In the bars of the big white hotels of the Ville Nouvelle district, drinkers steadily ruin their livers, and wallets get a hammering in the souvenir shops of the Medina, the heart and soul of this mystical city.
In the afternoon heat the bustling square of the Djemaa is crowded with people who seek entertainment; they gather round the many storytellers, acrobats and musicians. American and European tourists stroll around the Koutoubia mosque, visible from practically anywhere in Marrakech.
The call to prayer ricochets down the tortuous labyrinthine alleys of the old Arab quarter, quivering through the lemon and orange groves and out across the dusty walled town. Overhead, interwoven matting squeezes sunrays like orange pips and transforms the dried mud into dazzling patterns. Wispy tentacles of smoke rise through the dusty air from small fires, giving the beams of sunlight tangible dimensions. Sliced kidney crackles in aromatic cedar smoke. Men from all over congregate here, those with black-enamel faces from Timbuktu crowd together with light-skinned Berbers and ruddy-faced men from Fez in the narrow thoroughfares.
Outside the riad where we had settled the crowds moved back as an old black Mercedes saloon came to a halt. It had darkened privacy windows.
The occupants got out of the vehicle and knocked hard on the heavy wooden door.
No sooner had our gracious host’s manservant announced “A gentleman to see you” than he was unceremoniously brushed aside by a short burst of Arabic.
The three men entered the riad’s courtyard and through double doors to the palatial room beyond.
Two of them were dressed in black suits and very dark sunglasses. The third man wore a white linen suit and soft red fez over a round brown face.
His moustache, although sad, was well cared for, and a large nose drove a wedge between his small eyes. He tapped the nose with a silver-topped cane. In fact, as he stood before us, he looked like something dreamed up by Hollywood. He spoke:
“My name is Hassan, Youssef Hassan of the Moroccan Internal Affairs Bureau. I would like to welcome you and your friends to our beautiful country. The fruit is succulent and plump on the trees. The date is moist and the snow is still crisp and firm on the top of our mountain slopes. We hope you will stay long enough to take advantage of the many wonders of our land.”
“Yes,” I said. I watched his two colleagues. One opened the fly screen and spat into the street, the other riffled through my papers, which lay on the table. I’d had dealings with Hassan and his department on a previous assignment. He was not a man to mess with.
“May I ask - Mr Dillon, what is the purpose of your visit is here in Marrakech on this particular occasion? Of course you must consider yourselves the guests of my department. Whatever you wish, it will be arranged and naturally we hope you will have a most pleasurable stay in our country.”
“You know what we European capitalists are like, Hassan, all work, work, work.”
“Without capitalism, Mr Dillon, I would most certainly be out of a job,” he said while snorting a laugh down his nose.
One of Hassan’s sidekicks was looking through the wardrobe and the other was polishing his shoe with a handkerchief. Overhead I heard the whine of a jet engine.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am, of course, fully aware why you and your friends are here. You are, how do you say, on the trail of the multi millionaire entrepreneur playboy Mr Robert Flackyard. Am I correct?”
“You are very well informed, Hassan, and you are quite right, we are keen to have a little chat with Mr Flackyard.” I said.
“So, as with anyone who breaks the law, my country is most enthusiastic that the criminal is apprehensive.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I said, smiling to myself.
Hassan turned and walked up to Fiona, “I am told by your superior, Miss Price, that you intend to make the arrest of this person and any associates that may be with him here in Marrakech, is this true?”
Fiona was quick to say, “No, that is not true, Mr Hassan, but you are right, it is Robert Flackyard that we have followed to Marrakech. We’re hoping that he can help us with our enquiries, that’s all. I am currently investigating an associate of Mr Flackyard, a Mr Harry Caplin, and American. It is this gentleman that we wish to apprehend, Mr Hassan.”
“Ah, those famous English words of Scotland Yard, ‘able to assist those in their enquiries,’” Hussan, said it again for practice. He stopped twirling his cane for a moment. He leaned close and said. “Then before you make your arrest, you tell me because it may not be permitted.”
“We’ll certainly tell you, Hassan,” I said, “but Miss Price and Mr Stewart are here under special license and by the kind permission of your Government.”
“They will be very unhappy if you do not permit.”
Hassan looked perplexed, to say the least.
“So,” he said, “we shall liase again soon.”
“OK,” I said.
“Meanwhile,” said Hassan, “I have transported your colleague from the airport. Your colleague Mr Vincent Sharp.”
Hassan shouted some Arabic, and one of the black suited policemen drew a pistol. Hassan bellowed very loudly using one or two very rude Anglo-Saxon words. The young man put away the gun with a shamefaced expression and went downstairs to get Vince out of the dusty black Mercedes.
“Your friend is a specialist for the lady investigator?” he said, tapping his nose with the silver tip of the cane once again.
“Yes,” I said.
“I think I am recognising his face, your friend.” Vince came through the door wearing his Australian bush hat, a billowing bush shirt, as big as a tent covering his seventeen stone hulk, and trousers with dirt and dust all over them.
“Then I shall leave you in peace,” said Hassan.
“Allah goes with you,” I said.
“See you around,” said Hassan; he tucked a smile under his sad moustache.
The Mercedes hooted its way up the narrow street.
Chapter 39
As Hassan had said, it was a country full of wonders. That evening we went to the Medina, searching out cafés to drink sweet tea and sample some of the local food. We sat outside wrapping skewered meat, sizzling hot from the spit, into rich coarse bread and discussed the various options open to us.
Vince went through a plan that he thought could be simply put into action the following day and roughly sketched the layout of Flackyard’s house here in Marrakech. The crowds had thickened, and the lines of food stall vendors and cooks advertised their skills like chanting auctioneers to those seeking sustenance.
Vince explained at length that his plan would require precise timing, and a head for heights. Storytellers and musicians had arrived, while fortune-tellers revealed the secrets of one’s destiny for the price of a cooked meal.
Acrobats, contortionists and clowns entertained the crowds. Snake charmers, dancers and boxers performed for gathering knots of passers-by. But amidst the cacophony of noise and the rising tide of odours, sweet and foul, to assail the nostrils of the medieval town square, our beds and the need for sleep beckoned.
The next day Fiona and I visited Robert Flackyard. He
wasn’t a cheerful criminal like Harry Caplin, or a sad fanatic like George Ferdinand. Here was a man who had a special kind of manipulative and devious brain. An intellect that had no bounds, and a conscience that did not exist.
Flackyard’s residence was a traditional Riad, in the old Arab quarter of Marrakech. The narrow lane that led to it was barely five feet wide between the other ancient dwellings that pressed in on both sides. We entered through a mysterious door set in the age-worn and blank white wall. Once inside the hidden courtyard, high wrought iron gates made shadow pictures on the hot tiles. A small red and yellow songbird high on the wall sang a short cadenza about how it wanted to escape from its tiny bare wooden cage.
Inside was cool and calm. Flackyard sat crosslegged on a fine antique carpet reading a copy of the Times newspaper. Other carpets lined the walls and behind them bright-coloured tile work shone with complex Arabic calligraphy. Here and there were large leather Berber cushions and through the dark doorway, just visible at the end of the corridor, a cool green patio; the slim leaves turning to silver swords as the breeze moved them under the hot sun.
Flackyard’s features were different, thinner, but he wasn’t thinner; he wasn’t even different, when I had seen him before he was the part of a wealthy English playboy. But here, in this place he no longer had to portray himself to the world.
“Mr Dillon, Miss Price,” he said, continuing to study his newspaper. “Your letter, Miss Price said, ‘investigating’”
His voice was booming in the sparsely furnished room.
“Investigating what, exactly?”
“Class A drug manufacturing and distribution in Sandbanks, Mr Flackyard,” Fiona told him.
He laughed a course spiteful laugh that was rich with gold.
“Ah, so that’s it,” he said. His eyes stayed completely calm and still.
“Miss Price works for the Government, Flackyard. She’s assisting Scotland Yard which is involved with an ongoing European investigation in conjunction with Interpol,” I said, with the hint of a sneer, “into serious criminals, just like you and Caplin. The arrests so far have been impressive to say the least.”
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 22