High, elegant gold-painted wrought iron gates, set between white pillars covered in the most fragrant juniper, made an impressive entrance. There was a small CCTV camera set high on one of the pillars and down at street level, an intercom panel. Dillon paid off the rickshaw driver and pushed the button.
A man’s voice enquired, “Yes?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Devdas Shah Zafar. My name is Jake Dillon from London.”
“I’ve been expecting you Mr. Dillon. Come through the gates and across the courtyard to the door on the far side. I’ll send my manservant, Baskhar, down to meet you.”
The right-hand gate swung back and Dillon walked through and under a covered area that opened out into a magnificent courtyard adorned with the sweet fragrance of marigolds, begonias, poinsettias, nasturtiums and calendulas. As he approached the heavy solid teak door, it opened and a burly-looking man stood in the doorway, almost filling the space with his muscular hulk. He was wearing a well-cut, three-piece black suit and a crisp white shirt and black silk tie. He bowed his turbaned head as Dillon approached, gesturing with a sweeping motion of his open upturned palm for Dillon to enter the home of Devdas Shah Zafar. The interior of the building was not at all what Dillon had been expecting. Everything was minimalist chic, spotlessly clean with white painted walls and the cooling effect of exquisitely polished marble floors. He entered the capacious hall and was led the way to a magnificent, circular room. Baskhar opened the curved door, motioned Dillon into the room and then left, closing the door behind him. He was standing in a room of pure luxurious indulgence. Expensive Indian rugs scattered strategically around underfoot. Silk of the most vibrant colours adorned the windowless walls and high above light cascaded in through the most amazing conical glass roof.
“I thought you might have called last night,” said the slight figure seated on the far side of the room.
“I’m told that you’re a man of action and was rather disappointed that you didn’t. You would have been perfectly safe.”
The English was clipped but otherwise perfect.
As Dillon walked towards the figure, he noticed that Devdas Shah Zafar was dressed in a suit that any Saville Row tailor would find hard to be anything other than complimentary about. Although diminutive in stature, the man had refined features and was smiling as if at some private joke. As he stepped towards Dillon to proffer his hand, Dillon took it, feeling a good deal of bone and very little flesh. But he did not put the sophisticated man standing before him as being older than Charlie Hart.
“Please, do sit down, Mr. Dillon.”
The little man gestured to the many comfortable-looking chairs positioned around the circular room.
With so many to choose from, Dillon had some difficulty in choosing one and when he did, it seemed to mould round him like a velvet glove.
“I can tell you are impressed. You should have seen Mr. Hart’s mansion. It made this one look like a hunting lodge.”
Dillon was impressed by the little man’s quiet exterior demeanour. In fact, after only having met him two minutes ago, he had no doubt whatsoever that it was nothing more than a façade which masked something quite different altogether. It did appear though that he had done very well for himself, but it was perfectly clear that he still had strong links with Hart.
“It’s kind of you to see me, Mr. Zafar, but I doubt now that you can help me.”
Zafar, now seated, seemed to have chosen the biggest chair in the room and was almost lost in it.
“That, Mr. Dillon, depends entirely on what it is that you want of me. Do not make the mistake of assuming my hospitality is a sign of goodwill.”
“Please call me Jake, everybody does.”
“That is not the way I conduct myself, Mr. Dillon. Now what it is you want? After all, you’ve not travelled halfway around the world for nothing.”
“You already know why I’m here. I can see that visiting you was a mistake. Please forgive my intrusion and that I could have been stupid enough to think that you might have been willing to talk candidly about your past employment with Charlie Hart. It’s now quite obvious to me that you are still in touch with each other.”
“You might also observe that it is unlikely that I was ever his employee. We were business partners, Mr. Dillon. We still are. We’ve always been close, as close as one can be with an Englishman. We are virtual brothers. We taught each other a great deal. You see, you’ve learnt something for your trouble after all. Do ask your question.”
Dillon remained silent whilst Baskhar came in with tea and small cakes. A cup was placed on a coaster beside him on a small occasional table.
“Do you take your tea as a Westerner, or as we do in India, Mr. Dillon?”
“Without milk, Mr. Zafar.”
“Excellent. Tea tastes so much better when not corrupted.”
“What sort of business are you involved in, Mr. Zafar? I hope I’m not being rude, but it must be extremely lucrative to provide such a luxurious lifestyle.”
Dillon felt the question was too bold and that he would get nowhere with this small cheerful character who knew that he was in total control.
“You are not being rude, Mr. Dillon. There is a lot of money to be made here for those prepared to work hard. I have lived here all my life. We also have one of the most active stock exchanges in the world. India is rich and, like so many wealthy countries, full of deprivation and discontentment. Does that answer your question?”
“How about dealing in arms?”
“Yes, of course we deal in arms. Mostly small weapons that can be transported with the minimum of fuss. But you of all people know that we are not the ones who create the need. We merely fulfil it by supplying those who want them, but only if we are able to obtain the right stock at the right price. But that has always been a relatively small part of our business. What you are dying to ask, is what was Charlie Hart up to when he was here. Why is this so important to you?”
Dillon felt that, whilst he had his head in the vice, he might as well go ahead and tell him.
“It’s his background. It seems to be in order, but it’s also obscure and it intrigues me. I’m sure he’s already told you of the strange circumstances in which we first met. But stranger things have happened since then. There have been a number of attempts on my life which I would like to get to the bottom of.”
“But Charlie likes you, even admires you, why would he want to kill you?”
“Because, like me, he’s a realist. And no matter how reluctantly he might do it, he looks upon me as a threat.”
“Are you a threat, Mr. Dillon?”
Zafar’s tea remained untouched whereas Dillon felt a great need for his. But he left it where it was and said, “I’m simply trying to stay alive. I believe that part of the threat to me is rooted in his past. I know it may be foolish of me to say that, but you must have heard from him already.”
Zafar spread his small hands in surprise.
“Mr. Dillon, I can tell you that there is absolutely nothing strange about Charlie Hart’s past. I was ten years old when I met him. Our fathers worked for the same company here in Delhi. And it was a very sad day when his parents were murdered. It was positively tragic that they died like that and it was a very distressing period in Charlie’s life. But he coped with it and focussed on building himself a business empire.”
“He was not left wanting and has been increasing his wealth ever since. He left India because he wanted Daniel to grow up and be educated in the country of his origin. There’s nothing odd in that, and he also wanted to be within easy reach of his son’s university. I miss him a great deal. He’s a very fine man.”
Dillon was eager to ask for more detail about the deaths. But decided that to do that would be to cast dispersion on what Zafar had just told him and it could be dangerous to question h
is word in that way. He was not going to learn anything that he didn’t already know and checking out old press reports or anything concerning the deaths would immediately get back to the little man. But he was right – he had learnt something which only increased his fears. His questions had been answered but he had effectively come up against a solid wall of granite. Dillon was also fully aware that to find anyone who had a grudge or dislike of Hart would be totally impossible. He was fairly sure that anyone who had, was sure to have been eliminated a long time ago.
When Dillon smiled at Zafar , the little man was smiling as if to say, ‘you will never hear a bad word about Charlie Hart.’
But Dillon felt in a more dangerous position than before. If Hart wanted to have him taken out of the equation, then this was most definitely the place to do it.
“You appear to be uncomfortable, Mr. Dillon. And you have not touched your tea.” Zafar laughed in a softly chiding way.
“It’s not poisoned!”
He picked up his own cup and drank from it to prove the point.
Dillon smiled at Zafar but didn’t touch his drink, although he believed Zafar was telling the truth.
“Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Zafar. It’s time for me to leave you in peace,” Dillon said as he stood up.
“Please do not apologise, Mr. Dillon. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. It’s not every day that I get such an interesting and cultured visitor come to my home.”
Zafar eased himself off his chair.
“I’ll let Charlie know we met just in case you do not get the opportunity yourself.”
Dillon was hearing the threat in every innuendo. He leant down, took hold of the tea cup and raised it to his lips and drank.
“Very nice tea, Mr. Zafar,” he said.
“I wonder if I could use your phone to call a taxi.”
Zafar approached with his hand held out.
“It has already been done.”
Their hands met.
Dillon wondered how Zafar had ordered a taxi – there had been no move that he had noticed, no ordering his manservant to do this.
“No doubt you will be flying straight back to the UK?”
Why did that sound like an instruction? But really, it did not matter what Zafar said, Dillon could put no credence to any of it. Zafar struck him as a man who could tell smooth convincing lies in his sleep.
Zafar walked with Dillon towards the large curved door and it was opened by Baskhar just before they reached it. Dillon’s natural assumption was that Zafar must have a communication device on him. What he noticed immediately, which had not been evident when he had first arrived, was that the manservant was now wearing white cotton gloves. There was nothing odd in that, after all he could easily have been polishing the silver. But why have them on as he was leaving? The pressure was being subtly applied without one wrong word being spoken. As criminal minds go, it made Trevelyan look second-rate, at best.
Zafar escorted him all the way to the courtyard garden as far as the outside gate, just as a taxi arrived, as if on cue. Dillon climbed in the back.
“The Shangri-La Hotel,” he instructed. He glanced back at the entrance gate as the taxi drew away, but Zafar and his manservant had already disappeared back into the courtyard. He sat back, thinking over the futility of the trip as the taxi weaved it’s way slowly through the crowds of people in the busy street. It then struck him as he looked over the shoulder of the driver, that he was wearing white cotton gloves of exactly the same type as those worn by Baskhar. Then he noticed the glass partition between himself and the driver like in a London taxi. But this was Delhi and the taxis were virtually all basic saloon cars.
He tried to lower the window, only to find that was stuck fast and would not budge. And the same with the door – locked firmly into place. With resignation he sat back in the seat and cursed himself for having been so stupid. He had been reeled in like an amateur and trapped like one. He accepted the situation without rancour, but with a good deal of self-disgust. There was no point in shouting or trying to kick the windows out, as they were most likely bulletproof. He would have to let the situation take its natural course and try to keep his wits about him – something he had not done since arriving in India.
As he sat back he thought how he had been led around like a lamb to slaughter since stepping off the plane and he now began to wonder at Khan’s part. He had no idea where he was being taken until they took a turning and started to head towards a major motorway and New Delhi. At least he was going that far. When the driver veered away from the general direction of the hotel, Dillon started to feel uneasy.
It was reassuring, and at the same time a little uncomfortable, to feel the Glock tucked into his trouser band in the small of his back. But if he had learnt anything at all about Devdas Shah Zafar, it was that he would already know that he was carrying one. It was not very often that Dillon felt as if he had lost control of a situation, but it had happened. And now he was helpless.
He looked out of the window and was somewhat surprised to see that they were heading in the direction of the airport. Moments later, and the driver was turning into the concourse at Indira Gandhi International Airport and his faith in human nature was restored. The driver pulled into a vacant parking space and immediately spoke into a microphone attached to the sun visor. The speaker was somewhere behind Dillon’s head.
In heavily accented English he said, “The door is now unlocked, Mr. Dillon. There is someone waiting inside the main terminal with your luggage and return travel documents, including your passport. You will only leave the airport on the plane. We have all the exits covered and will kill you on sight if you step outside. There will be people watching you inside until you get on the aircraft. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. You are a lucky man. Please leave your handgun on the seat and get out of the car now.”
He watched Dillon place the Glock on the rear seat and then step outside the car into a wall of heat and the smell of aviation fuel fumes.
The roar of jet engines seemed to be all about him, but suddenly they were like music to his ears. He walked towards the departure bays, knowing that he was being constantly watched and wondering why they were allowing him to leave without so much as a roughing up, or even in a wooden box! There must be a reason – he felt that he was being allowed to leave India because the real danger was back in England. This is where he would be led to a place of execution. To be buried without a trace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brendon Morgan had once again kept his word. As Dillon stepped off the plane he was met by an airport official and whisked away in a Mercedes 4x4 to the VIP arrivals lounge at London Heathrow airport. He went through passport control and retrieved his luggage, after which he made his way back to The Old Colonial Club.
The moment Dillon was back in his rooms, he phoned Issy to make sure that she was okay and to tell her that the assignment was at the stage where it would soon be drawing to a close. He knew that he had been saying that for some time now, but since her abduction she no longer got angry or argued.
He added, “If you see anyone hanging about outside, don’t worry, he’s simply keeping an eye on you.”
He rang Hart, only to get no reply. He didn’t call Morgan, who obviously knew that he was back in the UK. But he did consider whether there was something that he was holding back. Khan, Morgan’s contact in Delhi, had not added much to what he already knew and had in fact misinformed him about Devdas Shah Zafar.
There was only one other person left to speak to, but he would only be able to contact him by email and would most likely not get a reply for some hours after. Ten minutes later he had sent a brief message to his old friend, Lieutenant Colonel Paddy McNamara, who was still a serving officer and currently assigned to the SAS on sp
ecial ops in Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, Dillon would have to curb his impatience and wait. He still couldn’t fathom out how easily he had been allowed to leave India. It could only be with Hart’s agreement and he must have a motive for allowing it.
* * *
Morgan was sitting at his desk when Toby Cooper knocked on his office door. Cooper entered and waited a few minutes whilst Morgan demonstrated his seniority by ignoring him as he studied some documents. After thirty seconds of silence Cooper said, “I can see you’re busy, I’ll come back later. I just wanted to report what we’ve found out about Jake Dillon. But you most likely already know.”
He opened the door to leave as Morgan called out, “Sorry, Toby. Need to get these signed off before lunch. Come back and sit yourself down.”
Cooper closed the door and sat back down again without invitation. He was bored of Morgan’s stupid little ways.
“So, what’s this about Jake Dillon?” Morgan demanded.
“Did you know that he owns a derelict theatre in the West End?” Cooper was most pleased to see the obvious irritation that Morgan was feeling at that precise moment.
Morgan leant back and threw his pen on the desk.
“If you’ve come here to tell me something I’ve known all along, you can piss off, Toby. I’m under a lot of pressure and do not need you barging in here and wasting my time. Now what else is there to know that I don’t already have in his file?”
“I was told that you’ve been looking for him. Well, I’ve found out where he’s been staying. His secret bolthole.”
“So where is it?”
Morgan was now fed up with the way Cooper had to always make such a song and dance about this sort of thing. He was nothing short of a silly little pratt who had been passed over on numerous occasions for promotions, and now had an enormous chip the size of a mountain on his right shoulder. Morgan made a mental note to have him reassigned to other duties. He smiled at this thought.
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 33
