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

by Andrew Towning

  Kate took the phone from her. “Hello, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here,” the voice was soft but professional. “I’m very sorry if I upset Miss Cunningham. Unfortunately there’s never an easy way to do this.”

  “Please don’t apologise, after all you’re only doing your job.”

  “Look, we have Mr Cunningham’s wallet and of course his mobile phone, but would it be possible to find out where he was staying in London?”

  “Staying? Yes, just a minute.” Kate crouched down beside Annabelle. “The Police want to know where Nathan was staying in London.”

  Annabelle, absent mindedly pulled a small piece of paper out of her bag, and handed it to Kate who read out the details to the Policewoman.

  It was just before twelve o’clock, when Edward Levenson-Jones received the telephone call from the Police. Informing him that his friend was in a critical condition at the City Hospital intensive care unit. On the way there he telephoned the Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police and called in a favour, by asking for a complete press blackout of the incident. He told him that Nathan Cunningham had been a Royal Navy Commander. Who for many years had been involved in many joint intelligence missions, and that he thought the accident may be connected to possibly something from the past or an extremely sensitive matter that Ferran & Cardini had been asked to look into by Commander Cunningham.

  “Edward, one of my constables has spoken briefly to his Daughter in Jersey. She’s obviously upset, but said that she will fly over this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take care of her when she arrives.” LJ broke the connection, as Guy Roberts pulled up outside the hospital

  * * *

  The intensive care unit was extremely busy when LJ walked into the outer reception area. A nurse came out and escorted him to a small side ward, which had harsh fluorescent lighting that bounced off the white specially lined walls. There was only the one bed in the room, which Nathan was laying in. To one side of him there was a machine to assist with his breathing and another monitoring his heart rate. He had tubes coming from his mouth, arm and another that was draining excess fluid from his right lung, punctured by one of the three ribs broken when the vehicle struck him.

  Outside the room a Policeman stood guard, his orders were to stay there and to only phone the Chief Constable the instant Nathan became conscious. A tall thin man came in wearing a smart navy blue pin striped suit and a stethoscope around his neck. He introduced himself as the consultant surgeon in charge of Nathan.

  “And you are?” He asked LJ in a clipped tone. “Edward Levenson-Jones, Commander Cunningham is my friend and was staying with me while on business here in London.”

  “Well your friend, Mr Levenson-Jones, is a very lucky man. He’s in a state of coma, common in severe head trauma cases of this kind. It’s the brain’s way of coping with it all. I believe he has a daughter. Has she been informed?”

  “Yes, and she’s flying up from Jersey this afternoon.”

  “Good, the sooner she gets here the better. I’ll speak with her when she arrives then.”

  “He is going to be alright?”

  “Only time will tell, Mr Levenson-Jones. Only time will tell. Goodbye.” He turned, and left the room as quickly as he had arrived.

  From the back seat of the Mercedes, LJ instructed Roberts to drive straight to the British Museum.

  * * * “Well this does leave us in a bit of a quandary, doesn’t it?” Oliver Asquith said, he was wearing a white disposable overall and peering into a large metallic looking urn from some ancient period of long ago.

  “What concerns me, Oliver, is that it would seem, that this wasn’t an accident. The eyewitness who telephoned for the ambulance, gave a statement to the Police, and she is in no doubt whatsoever. That the car came out of a nearby junction, and apparently started to slow down as it approached the crossing. But at the last minute accelerated instead. According to her, Nathan was half way across the road when the driver of the car hit him square in the middle of the bonnet. Anyway, whether it was an accident or a deliberate attempt on Nathan’s life, it’s still a hell of a shock. I sincerely hope that he pulls through quickly. But needless to say, it leaves us in a bit of predicament all the same.”

  “In what way?” “The location of U-683. We still haven’t a clue where it is.” LJ said.

  “But what about his daughter. Do you think she might know?”

  “What? Oh Annabelle. She might, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope there, old son. Nathan had had a lifetime of keeping secrets. And this was probably the biggest. No, at best he would only have sketched out where he’d found the sub. But I’ll ask her this afternoon when she arrives.”

  “Well let’s hope she has the answer to the problem,” Asquith said.

  “And if she hasn’t?”

  “Then you will have to think of something else.”

  “I wonder what Sir Lucius will make of all this?” LJ paced up and down the office, a look of despair on his face. “I’d better bring him up to date. Keep the old chap happy,” and turning, he left.

  * * * Oliver Asquith made a brief telephone call; locked the door to his office and immediately drove his Porsche Cayenne 4x4, in record time, from London to his country house on the outskirts of Sherborne in North Dorset. He was through the front door and mounting the wide sweeping staircase that led all the way up to the third floor. Opening a small door at the end of the long landing, he took the rickety wooden stairs two steps at a time all the way to the top. On the landing, he stood for a moment leaning against the old timber door while he got his breath back. Hinges protested noisily under his weight, at having their slumber interrupted, but gave in and allowed access to an enormous attic space.

  The frail old man who was kneeling in front of a large travelling trunk, stood up on hearing Asquith enter. “Lord Asquith. I wasn’t expecting you for another forty minutes sir.”

  “Is that so, Jenkins. Well thankfully, there was only light traffic coming out of London, and I had a clear run down the motorway. Have you found any of my father’s diaries yet?” He lit a cigarette, and walked over to a small skylight window, and peered out of the dirty glass.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It would seem that the late Lord Asquith was fastidious about not keeping records of any kind.”

  “Damn and blast him. Well, can you tell me about the war years, Jenkins?”

  “What would you like to know, sir?”

  “Well, weren’t there whisperings in certain Whitehall circles that my father had Nazi sympathies. That he actually thought about going over to the Germans before the war started. You were with him throughout, Jenkins. Tell me, was this true?”

  “Yes, the rumours were true my Lord. But then there were many of the aristocracy who had the same feelings. Adolf Hitler had charisma, and believe me that was like a breath of fresh air. Not only to the people of Germany, but to many Englishmen as well. Your father met with him, you know? Just before England entered the war properly.”

  “No, I didn’t know that, Jenkins, but go on I’m intrigued.”

  “Well, sir, he went to Germany at the personal request of Hitler. The British Government knew of course, and asked him to find out as much as he could while he was there. This was an extremely unusual situation that he found himself in. You see, he was asked to go to Berlin because of his immense knowledge of Middle Eastern religious antiquities, and of course because of the standing your father had within English Society.”

  “Do you remember what it was that Hitler wanted my father to look at, Jenkins?”

  “To tell you the truth, sir. I wasn’t there at the private meeting they had. But, I did on one occasion overhear part of a conversation that his Lordship was having at breakfast one morning. I believe it was with one of senior party members. I do recall that this chap spoke fluent English, and was saying something about a religious artefact that Hitler had a particular obsession with. Apparently he always kept it securely hidden
in a vault, and had it guarded day and night. It had come into his possession when he annexed Austria. Hitler wanted your father to authenticate it, sir.” His voice faded, and he went and sat on one of the other wooden trunks. The old retained servant looked tired and exhausted as he sat there in the gloomy light of the attic.

  “Austria, Jenkins?” Asquith came over to where the old man was sitting, and crouched down in front of him.

  “I’m very sorry, my Lord, but I really can’t remember much more about that time, it was such a long time ago, and my memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”

  “It’s okay, Jenkins, please take your time. I know that you have a memory like an elephant. So, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Tell me, did my father ever have any dealings with the Nazis at any other time during the war?”

  “My Lord, there are certain things that should be left well alone.”

  Asquith pressed the old butler harder for more information. “Did he, Jenkins? It’s vital that I know.”

  “Your father was, like you are my Lord, passionate about archaeology, and in particular, myths and legends that surround certain artefacts. There was a period during those dark years of the war when he would disappear for weeks on end. Your mother never really knew where he was, she simply assumed that he was on a dig somewhere. And, at the risk of sounding impertinent, sir, I was sworn to secrecy by your father.”

  “That as may be, Jenkins. But that was a long time ago, and something has now cropped up that makes it imperative that I know whether or not my father was at any time during the last months of the war involved with Heinrich Himmler?”

  “Heinrich Himmler, my Lord?” The old man looked pale, and was physically rocked by the mention of Himmler’s name. He averted Asquith’s piercing blue eyes by looking down at the dusty wooden floorboards of the attic. After a brief moment he composed himself, looking up and continuing, his voice had taken on a renewed vigour.

  “Alright my Lord, I’ll tell you what I know. The conversation, which I overheard that morning in Berlin, was between your father and Heinrich Himmler. That was when his lordship swore me to secrecy. Apparently, the two men had met a few years before at a political rally that Hitler was holding. Your father had just graduated from Eton and was on holiday with a group of acquaintances. As I understand it, they met afterwards in a bar and instantly became firm friends…” His thoughts were wandering a little.

  “Carry on, Jenkins, I’m listening.”

  “Those were such difficult times, sir. Before the war, Himmler used to often spend time here. He was such a gentleman then. Your mother and father spent hours listening to his tales about how Germany was going to be saved by Adolf Hitler.” The old man’s voice trailed off again, as he became lost in his own thoughts and memories.

  “Did Himmler ever contact my father during the war, Jenkins?”

  “Yes my Lord, that’s when you father would disappear. A messenger would arrive with a package, and then leave immediately, usually without a reply. His Lordship would then instruct me to pack his travelling things, and a day later he would leave. But, I’m afraid that I was never told where his Lordship was going or how long he would be gone for. Now if you’d forgive me, my Lord, I really must get back to my duties downstairs now,”

  “What? Yes of course Jenkins,” Asquith was lost in deep thought as the old man got up off the trunk, patted the dust off his black trousers, and slowly walked to the other end of the attic towards the small door.

  “Just one other thing Jenkins?”

  The butler turned, his hand about to turn the tarnished brass doorknob.

  “Did my father ever visit Jersey in the Channel Islands?”

  “Why of course, my Lord. Your family owned a large residence on the island for many years. I believe, it was sold shortly after the war.”

  “Thank you Jenkins, you’ve been very helpful.”

  Asquith closed the door gently, and went downstairs to his study. He poured himself a large gin and tonic, and sitting at his desk began thinking about it all.

  The revelation about the discovery of the subterranean cavern had shocked him beyond measure and it was remarkable that he had kept his composure in front of Edward Levenson-Jones, but now he knew for certain what he had always suspected. It was not really surprising that his father, a member of the British aristocracy had had empathy with the Nazi Party, if only to be different. But a friendship with Heinrich Himmler, one of the most feared of Nazi party members. Now that was something else.

  Jenkins had said, that his father had met Himmler some years prior to the outbreak of the War. Which almost certainly meant that by the time Britain had joined in the fight, his involvement would have been more considerable than ever thought. The regular trips away, and the mysterious messenger turning up, the family residence in Jersey and that private meeting with Adolf Hitler to authenticate his religious artefact. It was all pointing towards the U-boat and her precious cargo, still tied up in the Cavern.

  He got up from behind his desk and went and poured himself another large gin and tonic from the drinks cabinet, adding more ice and lemon for good measure. Asquith had never liked to be cooped up inside, so he walked over to the French doors, and throwing them open he walked out onto the terrace. Taking in the magnificent unspoilt view across his estate. The fields and woods stretched for as far as the eye could see, as they had done for the last four hundred years or more. His famously patriotic ancestors would turn in the family mausoleum if they knew that one of them had been a traitor, he thought.

  If LJ sent someone to Jersey, who then managed to locate the underwater tunnel entrance, and get to the U-boat. Well, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind about what they would find. His father had helped the Nazis find the cavern, and would have shown them how to create the sea tunnel to allow the submarine into the subterranean harbour. Asquith knew from his days as a childhood eavesdropper, ear pressed against firmly shut doors. That his father’s obsession with the Spear of Destiny was as intense as Hitler’s had been, and that was the real reason why he had been asked to authenticate it. The last thing that he would have wanted was for the priceless artefact to fall into the wrong hands.

  But what concerned Oliver Asquith more than anything, was the whereabouts of the one thing he knew would be easily found somewhere inside the cavern. Although his father wasn’t interested in keeping documents of any kind, he had always kept a personal diary of any important dig that he was involved with. This was usually a daily record of the work carried out, and an eccentric habit that Asquith had also inherited from his father. He had believed that a written account left at the site would be invaluable to anyone finding it in the future. There was no reason to doubt that his father’s name would eventually come to light as a Nazi collaborator, and traitor to the British realm. The scandal would finish him. Not only would he have to say goodbye to his lucrative position at the British Museum, but he would almost certainly have to leave his beloved England. A shiver ran through him. It really didn’t bear thinking about, but what was to be done?

  He stood at the top of the limestone steps deep in thought, looking down on the raised pond that was the central feature of the beautiful Italian garden. An ornate fountain in the middle, shot plumes of water high into the air, and large carp swam just beneath the glinting surface in the sunshine. The solution was very simple. Hugo Malakoff, Hugo would know what to do. He used his mobile phone to dial up the number of Malakoff’s French château.

  “Sabine, this is Lord Asquith here, I wish to speak to Monsieur Malakoff.”

  “Lord Asquith, what a pleasure. I’m afraid that Monsieur Malakoff is not in residence at the château. He’s currently on a business trip to Tangier. But he’s due back tomorrow. Can I take a message for him?” The feminine French voice purred down the telephone line at him.

  “No message, but I really do have to speak to him urgently. I’ll try him on the mobile number that he gave me. Thank you Sabine.”

 
“You’re very welcome Lord Asquith, goodbye.”

  The line was broken and Asquith immediately dialled the number. He breathed a sigh of relief when Hugo Malakoff himself answered the phone at the other end.

  “Malakoff.”

  “Hugo this is Oliver. I’ve got to see you; it’s imperative that I see you as soon as possible. Something disastrous has happened here, the implications of which will finish me. Hugo, you are the only person on earth who can help me.”

  “Oliver, you must calm down. It really isn’t good for your heart. Now where are you calling from?”

  “My country home in Dorset. Why?”

  “If I remember correctly, you have a private airfield nearby. Charter yourself a plane and a pilot this afternoon and fly down to the château. You’ll be there in no time. I’ll phone Sabine and inform her that you will be staying overnight. We can have dinner together and you can tell me all about it. And Oliver, please stay calm. Everything will be alright.”

  The phone clicked, and the connection was broken. Asquith went back up to his study, and phoned the airfield to book a twin engine plane for later that day. From the safe he took his passport and a wad of Euros, then went upstairs to his bedroom and packed an overnight bag which he left behind the door of his dressing room so that Jenkins wouldn’t find it.

  The old butler had instructed cook to prepare a light lunch for him. After which, he then walked his two favourite gun dogs and met with his gamekeeper for an update of how things were going generally on the seven hundred-acre estate. This took up most of the afternoon, but still gave him enough time to go back to the house and change. His overnight bag in hand Asquith came down the sweeping staircase just as Jenkins entered the hall from the drawing room. “Leaving us so soon, my Lord?”

  “Yes Jenkins, official museum business, I’m afraid. Won’t be back for a day or two. I’ll give you a call and let you know when I’ll be down next. Say my goodbyes to Mrs James will you, and tell her that she’s still the best cook in the land.”