“Worldwide Art, Daniel, is retained by various museums around the globe to investigate unsolved art thefts. Putting it bluntly, your father owns a number of paintings by Vermeer. One in particular grabbed the attention of the friend who you took down to Sandbanks.”
Daniel led the way through the gardens of Christ’s College to a small busy tea room.
“These tea rooms are the best in Cambridge,” explained Daniel. “Mind your head on the beams,” he said amiably, pulling up a chair. “Now what’s all this really about?”
Dillon ordered tea and cakes before saying, “It was an excuse to get out of London for the day really, the sun shining is definitely a bonus. It’s about one of the Vermeer paintings, The Concert, that’s what this is about, Daniel. The friend you allowed to view it has unintentionally stirred up a bit of a hornet’s nest. You must have known what happened that day?”
“Oh yes. How will I ever forget that little misdemeanour? My father is never happy about strangers entering the house, let alone his gallery.”
Dillon nodded, but remained silent.
“The collection is his and his alone. Sharing it with others just doesn’t come into the equation – a sentiment I do not share. He told me that someone thinks that it might be the original stolen from the Boston gallery and not the exquisite fake that we know it is. Absolutely preposterous.”
“We’re trying to piece together where your father’s painting originally came from.”
Dillon kept his posture casual and his intonation indifferent.
“Of course, we’re more than aware that your father is a well-known collector in certain circles, and as you say, it would be preposterous to think that he’d purchase a painting of dubious origin. Especially one that is so internationally well-known. But he says that he genuinely can’t remember where or from whom he did obtain it from. I’m not surprised, really. With a collection of that size and with such diversity. But he was kind enough to show me around the gallery, you know? We’re trying to help the American authorities with this one. Is it possible...” Dillon waved his hand dismissively. “No I suppose not. But he might have told you something that perhaps he himself, with all the best will in the world, might have forgotten with time?”
“You mean about that particular Vermeer?” Daniel seemed surprised. “I think it’s common knowledge that the painting you’re enquiring about, Mr. Bateman, along with others that were stolen, are possibly still hidden somewhere within a forty mile radius of Boston. Only a fake hangs in my father’s gallery. As for where he obtained it, I’ve absolutely no idea.”
He leant back whilst a waitress arranged a pot of tea and cakes. When she had gone he added, “My father doesn’t tell me as a rule where he’s obtained this painting or that piece of carving from. Sometimes he does, but I’ve usually forgotten within minutes. I do know that he uses one or two agents from time to time. He didn’t tell you who they were, then?”
“Unfortunately not. After all, he has so many paintings in the collection. And it is a private collection, so why should he have to remember them all? Although, I would have thought he would have remembered that particular Vermeer. It is unquestionably the most outstanding of the entire collection.”
“Well I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Mr. Bateman. It’s a long way to come for nothing,” Daniel murmured over his raised cup.
“All part of the job. I’ve already told my superiors that there’s nothing to come from these enquiries. If nothing else, it will go towards pacifying the American authorities. Do you miss Delhi?”
“Depends, really. Sometimes, usually when I’m away from Cambridge and the bustle of university life. Too much time to dwell is not good for you, you know? And it’s been a long time since I was there, things change. I’ve changed.” Daniel sipped his tea.
“I’ve never been to Delhi,” Dillon lied easily. “I’ve always wanted to, but have never had the time, unfortunately.”
“Well, if you do ever go make sure it’s between March and October. That way you’ll have a pleasant visit and be able to see the city at its very best.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
“Does your mother still live there?” And then quickly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked you that.”
“It’s all right. I never knew my mother and my father won’t talk about her, so something odd must have gone on. I’ve tried looking for something, anything that might lead me to finding out. But to no avail, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I’m sure that she’d be very proud of you if she were able to see you now,” Dillon said sincerely. “Was your father actually born in Delhi?”
“Oh yes. Of British parentage, of course. They died long before I came along, so I never got to know them.”
“Your father speaks the language fluently then?”
“My father, Mr. Bateman, speaks at least a dozen languages fluently and with perfect syntax. He’s a natural,” Daniel corrected gently. “Lucky for me I’ve inherited his gift. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here.”
“Did you come straight to the UK from India?”
“No. We seemed to travel around a lot. Never staying in any one place for too long, except Hong Kong, that is. We were there for nine months before coming to Europe. It was at that time my father purchased a house in south London.”
“I’ve travelled around Europe a bit. Italy. Now there’s heaven on earth. Fantastic food and beautiful people. Just perfect.”
“We were mainly around northern Italy, Milan and then southern France. Mostly around Monaco, Nice and Cannes. But I agree, Italy is a beautiful country.”
“They tell me that they’re quite good at building the odd sports car as well.”
Dillon’s friendly demeanour hid his doubts about whether he could probe any further for fear of blowing his cover. He decided that he’d gone as far as he could in such a short time with Daniel. He didn’t want to raise any immediate suspicions in the youngster’s mind, but knew that this meeting would almost certainly get back to Hart himself. It was time to leave. As he drove away from Cambridge towards London, he was satisfied that Daniel was not involved in his father’s affairs.
* * *
Charlie Hart liked to be outside, to breathe the fresh sea air when he needed to think things through – it enabled him to set his mind straight. On this particular morning the sun was shining in a sky of unbroken blue, but the darkness he felt and carried with him would not go away. He walked as usual barefoot along the beach, liking the feel of the cool white sand moving between his toes; bringing back memories of his younger, more carefree years. Hart was angry. He did not like the matter of Jake Dillon having been taken away from him. It made him look as if he were weak, which he wasn’t. He had always handled his own problems, but had made the mistake of underestimating Dillon and, instead of warning him, should have killed him at the outset. The truth was, he’d never liked killing, especially in cold blood, and had always had a problem understanding why. But Trevelyan was a natural and certainly had the contacts for taking care of troublemakers, which he didn’t have. It was an easy decision, but it still annoyed him.
Since Dillon had intruded into his life, the ability to sleep had diminished to the point where two or three hours at most of unbroken sleep a night were the norm. He kept telling himself that it was Dillon’s fault, but he was only partly to blame. What had thrown him off balance more than anything else was the sight of the tired, haggard old woman in Boscombe. That had brought back bad memories of the past, and the increasing hopelessness as life slipped by with agonising slowness. Life had not been worth living and there had been a time when his despair had taken him to a level where he’d almost wanted to end it all. But something inside him would never allow him to go through with it. Another day would drag by and then another and he would still be drawing breath and ki
cking ass. And all the time he wondered why he couldn’t let go.
He was proud of his son, knew that he was overly protective of him to the point of distraction. His mother had been a singer in a popular Delhi nightclub. Hart was young and on his way to becoming extremely wealthy, had immediately fallen under her spell, captivated by her beauty and sophistication. From the outset their love affair had remained a secret – passionate and uncomplicated. Until she fell pregnant.
Daniel was born in a rented house in a quiet superb of Delhi. Within hours of giving birth she had vanished into thin air. The midwife that Hart had hired to look after her, had turned up on his doorstep with the baby and a handwritten note telling him that there was no use trying to find her and that she never wanted to see either of them again. So that was the way it had remained ever since. Her name was never spoken and Daniel would never know who or where his mother was. Hart knew exactly where she was and received regular updates as to her wellbeing. The bank account he’d opened in her name was kept in credit and a lawyer made sure that she never knew who her benefactor was. Although he had always assumed that deep down she knew. Whatever happened to himself, Hart had made sure that Daniel would always be well provided for and his son’s wellbeing was now his main priority, although there was another. He vetted Daniel’s girlfriends from a distance and without him knowing. There was nothing wrong with the Dutch girl who came from an extremely good diplomatic family, but it was a pity how she had aroused the curiosity of those in high places and had led them to his doorstep. For that he would never forgive her.
* * *
The names and addresses that Dillon had given him meant very little to Edward Levenson-Jones. At first he’d not known what to do with the information. He had made notes as Dillon had outlined the bare bones of what he had found out so far, taking particular interest in the various locations across the south coast. He was frustrated at the slow progress his number one field operative was making; Dillon wasn’t usually so cautious. But this assignment was all wrong – there was something not quite right about this whole affair. He was well aware that Dillon was now in a precarious position. It worried him that he’d had to go to ground in order to evade the people he was investigating. This in itself wasn’t unusual, but the open contract on Dillon’s life was.
He sought out an old friend in MI5 who he had worked with on numerous occasions in the past. They met for lunch in LJ’s club and were shown to a table in a quiet part of the restaurant. LJ faced the tall Georgian windows with his back to the room, and Robert Marriott sat opposite him.
LJ had memorised most of what Dillon had told him and Marriott allowed him to speak without interruption. When he’d finished, LJ was sitting there thinking how far-fetched and ridiculous it all sounded. He was asking for the senior spook’s help in finding out information about certain people at specific locations in the south of England. Marriott was enjoying his lunch and was savouring every mouthful of the perfectly cooked Aberdeen Angus steak.
“So what are you saying, Edward? That there might well be some sort of connection between all of these names and locations?” Marriott asked.
He was in his early fifties, hair the colour of steel, with a good-looking firm face and clear green eyes. He wore a two piece charcoal grey suit with white shirt and an All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club tie.
“I really don’t know. I thought I’d bounce them off you and see what you make of them.”
Marriott gave a twisted smile.
“Well, let’s see now,” he said. His brow furrowed with concentration.
“Given that these locations are strung out along the south coast and are in predominantly rural areas, it could be some sort of smuggling operation, I suppose. Or maybe it’s something like dog fighting or any manner of equally illegal activities. How’s that for starters?”
“All of those possibilities have been considered. I was hoping that you’d come up with something a little more original, Robert.”
“Oh, look here, Edward, if you want originality you’re going to have to be a lot more forthcoming. Where did you get this stuff from anyway?”
“You know better than that. I will tell you that the source is reliable and the secrecy under which this was obtained shall remain just that.”
“Now you’re making this all sound very mysterious, Edward.” The moss green eyes were mocking.
“If you’re not prepared to tell me more why not call one of your pals at the Met and let them take a look at it?”
“Because I stupidly thought I’d come and talk it over with an old friend who could be relied upon to give constructive input.”
“Sorry, I’m the stupid one. Look, have you got something written down that I could take away and mull over?”
“Yes, I’ve made a copy for you. I’ve got others back at base.”
Marriott glanced at the top sheet, briefly scanned through the others, and then slipped them all into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.
“Right, I’ll take a closer look at these later. But I really do think you’ll find that this is nothing more than the names and addresses of people involved in some sort of local club, or even local members of say, the masons.” He sat back, smiling.
“I hope that this information was obtained legitimately, Edward.”
“Of course, Robert. Absolutely.”
“Is Dillon involved?”
“It is one of his assignments, yes. Why?”
“He’s a blunt instrument, Edward, who should have been sent packing a long time ago. That’s why. You wind him up and let him loose on the world and then you come to us when a favour is needed. It’s not on, old boy.”
“Oh, Dillon is hardly a blunt instrument. But I do acknowledge that he can be a bit bullish and infuriatingly persistent beyond the call of duty sometimes. Both of these traits, as far as I’m concerned, are strengths in this business, Robert. You’d be wise to remember that he’s saved the day for your firm on many occasions. And by the way, this matter was deemed as too insignificant for your lot to be involved at the start.”
“Bullshit,” Marriott stated. “I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Sooner, if possible. Dillon’s back is against the wall on this one.”
Marriott stood up. “Thanks for lunch, Edward. I’ll be in touch.”
In fact, Marriott rang LJ two hours later that same afternoon.
“Edward, I came up with it sooner than I thought. The whole thing is nothing more than a big waste of time. I’d forget it if I were you, you’re wasting your time.”
“Can you be more specific, Robert? Why are we wasting our time?”
“Nothing to tell. Something that was laid to rest a long time ago. Now shred the copies like a good chap.”
“Not until you’ve told me what I’m shredding, old son.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s still classified. But what I am allowed to say is that it’s nothing to concern yourself with. The list of names and locations is ancient history. Dead in the water, as they say. Edward, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but that’s the way it is I’m afraid. By the way, I’d like to have a chat to Dillon about this. Where can I find him?”
LJ went cold. Since leaving the intelligence service he had always protected the members of his special projects department from the vagaries of both MI5 and MI6. If Marriott wanted to get hold of Dillon it was most certainly not for a pleasant little chat over tea and biscuits.
“I’ve not seen him, I’m afraid. As I said before, he’s gone to ground. Sorry I can’t be of more help, but you know how it is, old son.”
“It would help us enormously if you could get hold of him. After all said and done, I have just done you a favour. Be fair, Edward. All we want is to have a chat with him.”
“You’re going to have to
find him yourself, Robert. And you’ve done very little to help me, old son.”
LJ hung up, aware that Tatiana was standing in the doorway to his office. He wouldn’t want her to know that Dillon was getting in over his head. But the main concern was that all the time Dillon was avoiding would-be hit men looking to enhance their bank balances, he was completely unaware that MI5 wanted to have a little chat with him. If they went looking for him he would be in double jeopardy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dillon phoned Havelock. The civil servant picked up the receiver almost immediately and before Dillon could tell him about the meeting with Jasper Lockhart earlier in the day, he butted in and blurted out, “Thank heavens you’ve called! LJ has been trying to get hold of you all afternoon. MI5 are on the look for you.”
“Are they now? Well whatever else you do, Dunstan, you’d better do everything in your power to keep the jackals off my back.”
“I’ve already started doing what I can, Jake. But it’s not easy – they really don’t take kindly to anyone telling them what they can and cannot do. LJ said that Robert Marriott was evasive beyond belief and I agree with him – we should be extremely careful from now on.”
Havelock sounded nervous and tired. Before he could say anything more, Dillon vented his anger down the line.
“What the hell is going down here, Dunstan? My life is on the line and you suggest exerting caution. Unbelievable.”
“Look, Jake. All I’m saying is that there’s something going on that we’re not aware of, and that until we do know, we should tread very carefully. LJ says Marriott didn’t show any particular interest in the names and addresses initially and that it wasn’t until a few hours later when he called him back that he became very cagey. It could be that it’s political or something equally as sensitive. But one thing is for sure, LJ was told to back off. Not in those words, of course, but that’s what Marriott meant. Apparently it’s an old file, but it’s still classified. Interesting that he wants to have a chat with you, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 19
