“Okay, I accept what you’re saying and I apologise for disturbing your evening. Thanks anyway.”
Dillon was about to hang up when Hart said quickly.
“We will get you, Jake. Don’t mistake a liking for a weakness. In my world I cannot afford to be weak. I think you know that. And we can’t mark time forever – you’re going to find out just how much the stakes are stacked against you.”
“Well you haven’t told me anything new, Charlie. Life is never simple and to be honest, you’re right. Like you, I can’t afford to be weak. How do you think I’ve survived all these years for Queen and country? What do you expect me to do? Give myself up?”
“I could have easily said that we have the girl; would you have given yourself up then?”
“Oh, most definitely. You see Charlie, I have this old-fashioned belief: a life for a life. Issy’s life is worth saving far more than mine.”
Dillon laughed, and then said, “You’ve just missed a never-to-be-repeated golden opportunity, you know?”
Hart sighed heavily. “That would be too easy, Jake. But it is not solely my decision. We make strange enemies, don’t we?”
“I believe we do. Thanks for your candour, Charlie.”
Dillon hung up, satisfied that Hart had told him the truth.
He had a restless night. His mind kept churning over, not allowing him to relinquish to sleep. He couldn’t tell any of his contacts in the police – their hands would be instantly bound by MI5 if they were to open an investigation of any kind against any of the four men involved. For reasons he did not understand, he knew the security service were up to no good and that they wanted him locked up the minute he showed his face at any of his regular haunts. If he showed up at Ferran & Cardini that would put the firm in an awkward position also. He was on his own. He had always been on his own.
The next morning he rang Havelock who at once told him that MI5 had absolutely no knowledge of Isabel’s disappearance. But that they were eager to meet with him and believed they could effectively help find her.
“All they want, Dunstan, is to lure me into a trap,” Dillon said bitterly, certain that they were listening.
“What the hell for? And whose side are they on anyway? They’ve always got a hidden agenda and I don’t believe for one moment that they just want me out of the way because of a list of names and addresses.”
“I’m not in a position to force them into coming clean, particularly if they are telling the truth. They only talk to me as a favour – I have no real pull with them. But who has these days? Even the Prime Minister doesn’t know the half of it.”
“What do they want me to do apart from walking through their doors and handing myself in?”
“There’s a man called Brendon Morgan. I have a private mobile number for you to ring. You’ll have to take it from there.”
Dillon scribbled the number onto the back of an envelope.
“Why don’t I just talk to the guy whose listening in to this conversation? After all, it would most likely be a lot easier. I don’t like doing business this way, Dunstan, but if that’s all you’ve got to offer I’ll give him a call.”
Dillon hung up and looked at the number Havelock had given him, well aware that they would try and fix his position the moment he called it. He slipped quietly out of The Old Colonial Club and went to the nearest public bus stop. Five minutes later he was sitting on the top deck of a London tour bus. He dialled the number and was not surprised when it was answered after the first ring.
“Brendon Morgan?” Dillon was suspicious before he started, constantly scanning for anyone watching him too closely.
“Jake Dillon? I’m so glad you called. Can we meet somewhere?”
“For what reason?”
“I understand your friend Isabel Linley has gone missing. I thought we might be of assistance to you in locating her. I’ve already cleared it with your boss.”
“You’ve spoken to Edward Levenson-Jones?”
“Of course, merely as a matter of courtesy, old son. After all, he was one of us once upon a time.”
“Bullshit. He wouldn’t give you the time of day. But it’s intriguing me why you would want to get involved in something like a kidnapping when the police could so easily handle it.”
“Oh, come now, Dillon. Stop pissing about. We help you locate your woman in exchange for information you might have that would help us on another issue.”
“Dunstan Havelock knows what I know about whatever it is you want to know. Why don’t you simply ask him?”
“Well, in the first instance we doubt very much whether Mr. Havelock knows everything you know. He may be in receipt of the bare bones, but you will have kept back crucial facts because that’s how you’ve been trained to work. You like to be sure of everything and that is what makes you such a good field operative. Secondly, Mr. Havelock is far too close to the Home Secretary for us to apply crude pressure. If he chose not to tell us, there is virtually nothing we can do.”
“Why not just snatch his wife like you have Issy? Or you could just fabricate some sort of scandal and then blackmail him. Your lot are extremely proficient at that. I’m surprised you haven’t tried that one on me yet. It’s like this, Brendon. I don’t trust you – it’s that simple. So what have you done with Issy, and what is it going to take to have her released?”
“As I’ve already said, Jake, we do not go around snatching innocent people out of their homes or straight off the street. You of all people should know that. All we want is to compare notes relating to your current assignment. You can name the meeting place and we’ll be there.”
“I bet you will. Along with an armed response unit at the very least. I tell you what, Brendon, I’ll think it over and ring you later.”
Dillon hung up and looked at the call duration. Two minutes and fifty seconds. Under three minutes and not enough time to trace him on the top of the moving bus. He switched off his phone and got off the bus at the next stop. He got straight into a taxi and headed back in the direction he’d just come from. During the short journey he pondered on whether he’d done the right thing. If MI5 had Issy, he was sure that she would not come to any harm. They must be satisfied by now that she really did not know anything or, more importantly, where he was. And although she was a prisoner, she would be fairly well looked after. Issy’s biggest worry would be in not knowing who her captors were, although she might by now have made an educated guess.
In spite of his concern for her he decided to take a chance. If the security service had her, she was perfectly safe from Trevelyan. If Trevelyan had her, he could not afford the time to have a cosy chat to MI5 simply so they could pick his brains. They clearly thought that he had information they could use. He knew that he was placing enormous trust in Hart and that it was a risky strategy. This whole business was risky.
He went to The Guardian offices and looked through their back issues for 2005. It was a laborious task, made worse because he wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly or that it would be there. If he knew that, the staff could most likely have pin-pointed the relevant issues for him.
By lunchtime he’d had enough and went out to find something to eat. He returned half an hour later to continue and found something of interest dated November 17, 2005. He made some notes, realising that what he’d found might be totally irrelevant and could be considered as potentially misleading and therefore to be used with caution. It was late afternoon before he left, and he considered it good luck that he’d found the issue so quickly.
He phoned Havelock again at his office, because now that MI5 had disclosed their interest, any phone tap from that source would have been removed for fear it could create a stir if discovered. Although the home phone would almost certainly still be monitored, as a matter of routine. He briefed Havelock about his discussion wit
h Brendon Morgan and explained that all MI5 wanted was to trade information in return for Issy. That he’d declined to meet with them for the time being, which put Havelock on edge and made him slightly irritated, not wishing to go as far as Dillon in his appraisal of the security service’s devilishness. Dillon asked Havelock to keep up the pressure on them because he was convinced they were holding Issy somewhere in the city.
He hoped that he was right about Havelock’s office phone not being tapped, but the time had long gone for being overly cautious. He knew that he was becoming reckless but he doubted that he had said anything that they didn’t already know. As Havelock’s home was obviously under twenty-four hour surveillance, it would be impossible for him to call there in person again, whatever the disguise.
He thought that some of the paintings he’d found, and had told Havelock about, were possibly connected to a number of high profile robberies from museums and art galleries throughout Europe and the United States. He neglected to say that he thought the art objects could have come from the looting of an Iraqi museum in Baghdad after the fall of Saddam Hussein in 2003. As far as he knew MI5 had no idea he had found any of it. He would have Vince Sharp investigate this possibility using the Most Wanted Stolen Works of Art database, compiled and held by the FBI.
After ending the call with Havelock he drove around a bit more, found another parking space in a supermarket car park and rang Grace, hoping she would be home. “It’s Dillon. I’ve got no news about Issy, but my hunch is that she might be safe. I hope I’m right, but that’s all I’ve got at the moment. I don’t suppose anyone has called, have they?”
“No. But a large white envelope has come for her. It doesn’t have a stamp on it, so I’m assuming it was delivered by hand. Do you want to see it?”
Dillon drove the Porsche across town and arrived at Grace’s apartment about twenty minutes later having used every side street he knew to get there as quickly as he could. Grace poured him a drink after handing over the letter, which he opened immediately.
It turned out to be a bundle of legal documents from the partner who was standing in for her at the firm. The note inside simply apologised for having to send it by motorcycle courier, but it required her urgent attention and return. Dillon was disappointed, but at the same time relieved to find it wasn’t anything sinister. Dillon thanked Grace for the drink and was about to leave when his mobile phone started to ring. It was Vince Sharp. He walked out into the hall, out of earshot of Grace, and answered the call.
“Jake, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve exhausted every avenue of enquiry concerning Rosie Poulter. And I’m afraid, chap, that I can’t find anything that connects her, in any shape or form, to Charlie Hart.”
“I thought that might be the case, but thanks for trying. Forget about that for now. I want you to concentrate on the photos I took at the house in Lyme Regis. In particular those images of the small figurines, seals and artefacts. See if any of them tally with those stolen from a museum in Baghdad in 2003. I’d also like you to dig around in the FBI database and check if any of the paintings I found in the wooden crates down there are on the list.”
“Only a small task then?”
“It’s nothing to a big fella like you. This is only a hunch, but I think I’ve discovered the key to what is so important to Hart and those other cronies; Trevelyan, Hammer and Latimer. If you can confirm this, we’re moving in the right direction.”
Dillon hung up and went back through to the living room and was standing for a moment, thinking about Rosie Poulter. He thought he was going mad and was aware of Grace looking at him strangely. What had any of this to do with this woman, Issy and a hidden cache of stolen gold bullion and works of art in Dorset? He was side-tracking. Whatever Hart’s interest in Rosie Poulter, it could make no difference to the real issues of the assignment. What were Hart and Trevelyan really up to?
“I’m sorry. You must wonder why Issy hangs about with a liability like me?”
“Because she’s madly in love with you.” Grace smiled wickedly. “But there’s no accounting for taste, of course and I suppose it’s the danger that surrounds you. It’s extremely attractive to some women, I guess.”
“Is it? Well I will get her back, you know?”
“I have no doubt about that. I wish someone would come along and look after me like that.”
Dillon felt slightly self-conscious and was left wondering why such a beautiful woman was still single. Back at The Old Colonial Club, Dillon put a call through to an old friend from his army intelligence days who was now working for the Metropolitan Police Art and Antiques Unit.
“Steve, can you run a routine check for me on a private collector by the name of Charles Hart? He has a penchant for Vermeers. I just want to tidy up something. I’ll send you a crate of that Burgundy red you like so much. And you can contact me on this mobile number.”
Steve Kirkwood was the only man outside of the firm who Dillon would give the number to. He hung up to Steve’s laughter; they had been serving intelligence officers together.
He had gone as far as he could for that day, and the frustration of inactivity set in as he went in search of a meal somewhere close to the club. All he could do was wait for information and, apart from being deeply worried about Issy, on a purely practical level he missed her help.
The small hours of night-time, unless he could go exploring, were becoming difficult to bear. He felt that things were on the move and yet he had to exercise a degree of patience until the moment was right. He really had nothing in terms of real knowledge, but there were all sorts of bits and pieces, and from experience he knew that they would all eventually come together. But there was one big factor missing – he felt he had come close to it but had somehow missed it. He was as satisfied as he ever would be that Trevelyan did not have Issy. If he had he would have wasted no time in letting him know through the grapevine. That MI5 most likely had her only showed how seriously they were taking this affair, to go to the lengths of abduction. But he couldn’t be absolutely sure and MI5 would know how to play it out.
There were times when he felt he should play ball with them, but he knew them too well and didn’t like the way they operated. They had snatched Issy, taken her hostage just to get at him and what information they thought he could give them – like spoilt children stamping their feet because they couldn’t get their own way. But there was a much larger question hanging over him: Just what business was it of MI5’s to search for a cache of painting and artefacts? Unless, that is, they believed that those people involved were involved in the generating of large sums of money to support terrorists in the UK. Only then would they have every right to be involved. Otherwise this would be left to the customs boys who would also work closely with the serious crime squad to deal with the matter. Unless MI5 really knew nothing and were just following up their own hunches and suspicions. But what sort of suspicion?
Dillon sometimes thought he was chasing shadows. There were so many things that could not be clearly assessed, not least Hart himself, who was particularly difficult to place in context. His association with Trevelyan was strange; as was that of Latimer, but Hammer was a wealthy man and money always made the way easier.
The next morning Dillon weighed up his options. After some deliberation and rummaging around in the canvas holdall, he pulled out a pair of white trainers, blue overalls, and a wig. From a pocket on the side he took a small leather-bound file and flicked through the plastic inserts until he found what he was looking for. The forged identity card had a photo of him wearing the wig on one side of it, and the name of a telecom engineering company down the other. The telephone number shown went straight through to a maze of options offered by the automated switchboard number at Ferran & Cardini.
Dillon left his rooms at The Old Colonial Club and went down to the car park. He put on the disguise he had chosen in the car and
five minutes later drove off towards Julian Latimer’s apartment. He parked the Porsche in a multi-story car park two streets away and walked the remaining short distance to Latimer’s apartment block. It took him only a few minutes to locate the main terminal box for all of the apartments in the building. And only a few seconds for him to access it and disable the phone line to Latimer’s penthouse apartment. He pushed the intercom button and then stood back and waited for a reply.
“Peverill Telecom, Mr. Latimer. Our system has detected that you have a faulty line, sir. I’ll need to come up and check that everything is okay with your installed devices.”
“There’s no problem here. I’m afraid you’ve been sent on a fool’s errand. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Dillon jumped in quickly, “I think you will find that your phone line and broadband are both down, sir. It will only take up a moment of your time.”
Latimer huffed down the intercom, went and tried his phone and then came back. Dillon could hear him pick the handset up again.
“Damn and blast it. You appear to be right – the bloody thing is completely dead. Bloody inconvenient.”
There was a short buzzer sound and then the front door catch was released. A moment later, Dillon entered the familiar entrance hall. The heavy door closed automatically behind him and it was a stark reminder of the risk he was taking by trapping himself in this way. He took the lift all the way up to the top floor and Latimer’s penthouse. As the door slid back he remained inside, listening for any noises that shouldn’t be there, but it was uncannily quiet. Anyone who worked would already be out by this time, but Dillon had taken the chance that Latimer would not leave for the House until later that morning, if he went at all.
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 27
