Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  As they approached the pontoon mooring at Key West, Dan Parker was there with a special team of agents ready to receive their prized guest. The still paralysed Harry Caplin was lifted off of the boat and into the back of an unmarked van. Dan Parker told the tired duo of the various events that had led up to the mechanic Fernandes being shot dead trying to escape custody.

  Dillon’s thoughts were already back in London, with the nagging doubt as to whether he was still suspended from active duty. Harry Caplin had been the cause of all his recent problems, but would his part in apprehending the drug trafficker put him back on the active assignment roster? Only Edward Levenson-Jones, his boss at Ferran & Cardini International was in a position to know that.

  * * * In 1987, two dynamic men, Declan Ferran and Richard Cardini, both former high ranking intelligence men, created Ferran & Cardini International. These two enigmas soon became known simply as “the Partners.” The shadowy and elusive duo had previously roamed around the globe for MI6, brushing shoulders with criminals, terrorists and some of the most powerful and politically corrupt people in the world.

  Outwardly, the company they own looks and operates just like any other legitimate corporation. But, is shrouded by extreme secrecy, and behind their elaborate façade is former M15 director of operations, Edward Levenson-Jones and the special projects team. Which unofficially handle assignments where the conventional intelligence agencies do not want to go. This department, located deep under the streets of Docklands, also undertake the setting up of information networks throughout Europe on behalf of the British Government. Ferran & Cardini owes allegiance to one person only. Former Prime Minister and the firm’s benefactor, Sir Lucius Stagg who, at the age of seventy-three, keeps his finger on the pulse of those in power. Edward Levenson-Jones has steadfastly nurtured and guided the special project team, which since its inception had seen a number of Prime Ministers of both the main political parties come and go, and had no allegiance whatsoever to any of them. His office is located under the prestigious wharf-side glass tower block. Cocooned in thousands of tons of reinforced concrete in what used to be the cellar network of the original warehouse that had stood on the site. He was still working at his desk at eight o’clock in the evening, when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” LJ was stood at the drinks cabinet; a tall rather debonair looking man in his late fifties with a thicket of fair hair.

  As he poured himself a glass of single malt whisky the door opened behind him. The man who entered was in his late twenties wearing a charcoal grey pin stripe suit, pristine white shirt and sober coloured silk tie. He could have been a high flying stockbroker or even a successful business executive, but Guy Roberts was neither of these things. He was a spy. Not an ordinary one, but a spy all the same with an honours degree in criminal psychology, and after a little arm twisting, LJ had succeeded in borrowing him from M15 as his temporary personal assistant.

  “So, what have you got for me Roberts?” LJ’s voice had a clear clipped tone to it.

  “Mostly run of the mill stuff, I’m afraid sir. There are rumours circulating that Clive Bingham-Carter at M16 is furious about the Prime Minister’s personal request, that Ferran & Cardini are to have a major input with the new European network, and that they will handle key field operatives in the future. The word is, that he’s lobbying the Prime Minister to sever all association with the firm, sir.”

  “Good heavens, doesn’t he ever give up? I’ve already given him my word that we will update his lot on a regular basis, and to liase with his number two, each dammed week. What’s his name?”

  “Neville-Smith, sir.”

  “What, oh yes, Neville-Smith. Well that’s all the cooperation they’re going to get out of me. What else have you got Roberts?”

  Guy Roberts smiled. “Actually, I’ve saved the best till last. Dillon?”

  Levenson-Jones looked up from his paperwork ever so slowly. “What about him?”

  “We’ve just received a message from the FBI in Florida. According to this, he’s redeemed himself in the eyes of the Americans by unofficially helping them to apprehend and extract the drug trafficker Harry Caplin out of Cuba and back to Florida to face trial. Dillon is now in California and staying at the Beverly Hills Hilton. Courtesy of the American taxpayer it would seem.”

  He passed a sheet of paper across to LJ, who put on his round wire framed reading glasses, and studied it. He nodded in satisfaction. “So he pulled it off did he?”

  “It would appear so, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining his record from personnel. I hope you don’t mind, Sir?”

  “Um, have you now. Well stick it in the pending tray with the others, Roberts. Oh, and you can go home now.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Guy Roberts left the room, and Levenson-Jones crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured another large measure of single malt whisky. “This one’s for you Jake Dillon,” he swallowed it down, returned to his desk, and resumed his work again.

  Chapter Two

  JERSEY, CHANNEL ISLANDS A few miles off of the northwest coast of France in the English Channel are the Islands of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney and Sark. The largest, Jersey, has been an island for well over eight thousand years; human activity dates back two hundred and fifty thousand years when small dark pre-Celtic hunters used the caves at La Cotte de St. Brelade as their base for hunting mammoth. Eventually, settled communities replaced these nomadic bands of hunters in the Neolithic period, naming the Island Angia. From around 56AD and for well over five hundred years the Romans then inhabited this enchanting place which they called Caesarea.

  The Vikings arrived in the ninth century and renamed it Jersey. Meaning island.

  Throughout its rich history; Jersey has been a flash point and the scene of many skirmishes between France, who ruled there from around 933 right up to 1468, and England. But because of the strategic importance to the English Crown, Sir Richard Harliston was sent by King Edward IV to claim back Jersey and the other islands for England. Afterwards the Treaty of Calais was reconfirmed with King Louis XI of France, at which time the Channel Islands were declared neutral territory, and are still to this day. With all of these different cultures having inhabited the island a language called Jerriais evolved. This vivid means of verbal communication replete with sayings and proverbs is still firmly rooted in today’s traditional rural life. Without a doubt Jersey is one of the most idyllic locations in Europe.

  But not that night, as gale force winds swept in across the old harbour of Bonne Nuit, stirring the boats at anchor, and driving rain across the rooftops, the sky exploding into thunder.

  To Rob Chapman, restlessly sleeping at Castle Point on the other side of Bonne Nuit bay, it was the sound of death. He tossed and turned in his bed, and suddenly it was the same old nightmare, the explosions were all around him, the ground shaking beneath his feet. He’d become completely disorientated climbing up the rope ladder, and had lost his bearings as he ran out of the cave panic stricken. Throwing himself down on to the wet sand, arms protecting his head as he took cover behind a large rock, was not even aware of being hit, and only as the noise faded and he sat up was there any pain.

  His left leg had an open gash about nine inches long just above the ankle, blood on his hands. As the noise and smoke subsided, he found himself shaking from shock, and his fellow archaeologists who had also managed to clamber out and onto the beach were either dying or dead around him. Chapman cried out, and sat bolt upright in bed sweating, and wide awake now.

  It was the same recurring nightmare; the uncharted coastal cave system in Peru where he and four colleagues had been sent by their wealthy employer to investigate a tunnel network. Then came the explosions above and below ground, but that was a long time ago. He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, checking the illuminated digital clock on the small cabinet next to him. It was just past midnight. He took a deep breath, and stood up, running a hand through his spiky blond hair as he made his
way barefoot through the dark hallways, to the circular sitting room, and poured a large whisky into a tumbler.

  He was much tanned from regular exposure to sea and sun. Around five foot eleven, he had a fit muscular body, not surprising in a man who worked out every morning before breakfast and was a qualified diver and archaeologist by profession. Fifty years of age, but most people would have taken him for forty.

  He went through the dining room, and down the stone staircase into the airy garden room at the back of the old renovated castle which overlooked the English Channel. Rain-washed over the glass roof and out to sea, lightning crackled. He drank a little more of his whisky then put the glass down beside a framed photograph of his nine-year-old daughter and wife both laughing at him. He gently touched his lips with the tip of his index finger, and then placed over each of their images. Remembering the happy times they had spent together, before the fatal car crash on the cliff top road had taken them both from him almost five years ago. He now lived alone in the home that they had practically rebuilt stone by stone with nothing more than his memories of them both. He found that the only way to ease the pain and utter hollowness that he still felt was to concentrate on his archaeological work and occasional diving tours with excessive fervour.

  A loud clatter of thunder overhead brought him back to reality, and slowly he walked back to the bedroom. Laying back in the dark once again he tried to get a little more sleep. He was taking a party of amateur marine archaeologists out from the St. Helier marina at ten-thirty, which meant that as usual, he needed his wits about him, plus all of his considerable experience and expertise.

  At that moment on the other side of Bonne Nuit Bay, Nathan Cunningham sat at his desk in the spacious living room going over sea charts by the light of a single lamp. The ocean and harbour below could be clearly seen through the wall of glass that ran down one side of the room. It always thrilled him to gaze out to sea, it took him back to the days when he was a young man serving in the Royal Navy. He had attained the rank of Commander, with an impressive service record and numerous military decorations to his name, could even have gone on to command a desk at the Admiralty, but had decided to call it a day and retire to the quite life.

  On reflection he’d had a good life. At sixty-two, widowed with one daughter and having made a large fortune from the sale of his construction firm in London that he’d set up after his retirement from the Navy. He’d decided to up-root and move to Jersey. It was a family holiday to the island years before that had made his mind up, and at the same time Rob Chapman had introduced him to archaeology and scuba diving which had become his new found passions. After the death of his wife from a heart attack he’d sold his business and his house in St John’s Wood, moved to Jersey and bought his present home. His life was completely satisfactory and fulfilled, especially as Annabelle had had something to do with that as well.

  He picked up her photo. Annabelle Cunningham, twenty six, face vibrant, wide chestnut eyes above high cheekbones, and a mane of dark hair that fell in loose curls around her shoulders. She’d come to Jersey with him, and had immediately fallen in love with the magic of the place. Nathan had invested in the only café bar in Bonne Nuit for her that was right on the waterfront called Annabelle’s. It had proved to be a big hit with both the locals all year round and tourists in the summer. Putting the photo back on the polished desktop he quietly reflected on just how perfect his life was. Outside, the crunch of gravel on the drive, as his daughter pulled up in the new Mini Cooper he’d given her, for her last birthday. And then the sound of the front door closing, and she came in smiling and happy as she always was. She threw her wet jacket over the back of a nearby chair. A small puddle formed on the polished wooden floor, as it dripped. She then leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a storm like this, it’s like hell out there, Pops.”

  “The forecast is good for tomorrow though, you see it’ll be clear by the morning.” He swivelled around in his chair. “Good crowd in tonight?”

  “Extremely.” She said walking through to the kitchen for a glass of milk. “We had a group of Americans in who decided to stay until closing.” Yawning she added, “God, I’m tired.”

  “You ought to get off to bed, it’s almost twelve thirty.”

  “Perhaps I will, but we really must discuss the ideas that I have for the café refurbishment in the morning, though.”

  “Sounds just fine, but I’m going out in the boat first thing, may even dive, weather permitting, of course. What say I come to you at the café for coffee late morning?”

  “I hope you’re not going out on your own, you know how dangerous it is, especially after a storm like this.”

  “Annabelle, I’m an old eccentric man who likes to scrabble around on the seabed, and in caves and tunnels both above and below the water. Please humour me by not worrying, I would never intentionally endanger my life. You know that.”

  “Just by diving on your own is asking for trouble if you ask me, and especially as you will insist on diving this side of the island.”

  “As true as that may be, I’m always careful. You forget, I had one of the best teachers in the business and believe me, Rob Chapman taught me well.” He got up out of his chair and gave her a hug. “Now stop worrying about me and go to bed.”

  She squeezed his hand and went out. He returned to his sea charts, taking one across to the sofa in front of the open fire and stretching out comfortably. Since losing his wife he had found it increasingly difficult to sleep at night, but after a while his eyelids became heavy and it wasn’t long before he was asleep. The sea chart of the northern coastline of Jersey sliding onto the floor.

  The blue light of dawn came flooding in through the wall of glass onto Nathan as he lay sleeping on the sofa, gradually waking him up. He lay there for a moment; then looked up at the rescued ship’s clock on the wall above the fireplace. It was a little after five thirty. He got up off of the sofa, stretched and then went across the room and pulled back the two enormous sheets of toughened glass that led out onto the hardwood deck. The sun was just appearing over the horizon, but strangely there was a calm, almost a stillness about the air and the sea that was unusual, no doubt something to do with the storm last night, he thought. But, excellent conditions to take the boat out, and absolutely perfect for a dive.

  The sunshine always made Nathan feel happy, but on this morning he also felt excited about taking the boat out. Going through to the kitchen he put the kettle on, and ground coffee beans while it boiled, making a round of chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches for later. He made himself a coffee and some toast, and went back out on to the deck to eat his breakfast. After he’d shaved he quickly wrote a note for Annabelle, and then went out to the garage, gathered up his diving equipment in to a large canvas kit bag, and walked outside into the brilliant sunshine.

  It took Nathan no time at all to walk the short distance down the winding lane to the old harbour. It was still very quiet, and much too early for the tourists, with only a hand full of fishermen about, and a few noisy seagulls squawking overhead. He dropped the kit bag into his fibreglass dinghy at the jetty. Cast off, and rowing slowly, started to thread his way between the fishing boats at anchor until he came his way between the fishing boats at anchor until he came foot power cruiser.

  Pulling down the stern step he scrambled aboard. After securing the dinghy on a line, he made a thorough inspection of the boat for any storm damage. Happy that everything was as it should be, he slotted the three full air tanks that he’d stowed the previous day into an upright holder on the stern platform.

  He then went below, and checked all of his equipment that was in the kit bag. The full-length wet suit that he’d bought from the local dive shop had excellent thermal properties, bright blue with yellow flashes down each of the arms and legs. Fins, mask, buoyancy jacket, gloves, air regulators, and his dive computer. He checked everything with meticulous care always remembering what he’d
been taught by Rob Chapman, check everything at least twice before a dive, and don’t take unnecessary risks.

  He went back up to the wheelhouse and the single diesel engine roared into life, the boat gently drifted before he engaged the powered anchor winch. The chain wound its way back in to the self stow locker in the bow and he took the Nautical Lady towards the open sea with boyish enthusiasm.

  Nathan pushed the fibreglass craft up to eighteen knots as he sat in the plush leather seat feeling total exhilaration as the fresh salt air rushed over him. He felt alive, and very happy as he pondered over the dive site he was going to. The sun was up now with the sea the most perfect deep blue, the granite cliffs of northern Jersey rose up on his left side creating a breathtaking sight. “Nothing on earth could possibly be better,” he thought.

  “God, I LOVE THIS PLACE!” He shouted at the top of his voice and pushed the throttle even further forward, taking the boat up to twenty-one knots.

  He had quickly reached the spot where he planned to dive. It was an area considered by those more experienced local divers as extremely dangerous due to the large jagged rocks that were completely unseen at high tide. Even Chapman didn’t dive there due to the strong currents, and an underwater nightmare world of fissures and channels.

  Rob Chapman had told him that just after the Second World War there had been two divers from the Royal Navy conducting a search of the area for any mines that the Nazis may have laid during their occupation of the island, they had gone down, and never re-surfaced. Few people even knew of this, and the professional divers all over Jersey never took anyone there because the sea around the rocks was generally so turbulent. That in itself, was enough to keep anyone away, but not on this sunny morning. After the storm the night before it was like a millpond. Cunningham had not seen anything like it before. Adrenaline suddenly surged through him as the excitement of what lay beneath took a hold. He switched on his depth finder, and throttled back the engine. It was then he spotted it, the lines on the screen showed what he was looking for.