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

by Andrew Towning

  “We were unlucky, that’s all, Mr Malakoff. The girl was just about to talk, when that mad bastard Dillon, jumps us from out of nowhere waving a gun like Billy the Kid.”

  “Was he really, Slater?” Malakoff mocked, “And did he simply beat you both up, and walk off or did he stop and want to have a cosy chat about who you were both working for?”

  Slater lied easily, “We didn’t tell him anything, Mr Malakoff, honestly.” He sensed that Malakoff didn’t believe him. “Okay I’m sorry, Mr Malakoff, but he would have blown us away, if we hadn’t told him who you were.”

  Malakoff remained completely silent at the other end of the telephone line, allowing the tension to build up, and then suddenly said, “I seem to have not only misplaced my trust in you Slater, but also your friend, Mr Black. You have also taken a considerable cash advance from me which I want back. You are a bungler and a liar Slater, and this is most disappointing.” The phone clicked and the connection broken.

  Slater put down the phone, and took a large swig of the vodka, emptying his glass with a single gulp. He knew exactly what that meant. Nudging Black who woke suddenly from a dozing sleep, he quickly told him what Malakoff had just said.

  Frightened more than they’d ever been before, the two men quickly gathered and an old cash box with eighteen thousand pounds in. What was left of the money that Malakoff had advanced to them a week earlier. Shoving everything into two canvas holdalls they squeezed them both into the Ferrari’s tiny luggage space, Black jumped in behind the wheel, and started the engine, easing the red sports car out into the narrow side street.

  Pulling away from the lockup he remotely closed and locked the double doors, and a minute later they had disappeared up the road. Stopping off briefly at their flat they threw whatever clothes they could lay their hands on into a black dustbin bag, made sure everything was locked up and secure, and then headed south out of London.

  Slater had an old Aunt who had retired down to the New Forest in Hampshire. He’d always been her favourite nephew so she wouldn’t mind them turning up out of the blue and staying for a while. At least until the dust had settled, and it was safe for them to return to London again.

  Hugo Malakoff was in his study sitting at his desk, the telephone receiver to his ear. After what seemed like an eternity of time having passed. A gruff Irish accented voice answered the phone at the other end. “O’Rourke. Malakoff here. I have a little disposal job for you and your boys, and I would like it to be taken care of this evening. Yes I know it’s short notice, O’Rourke, but it’s extremely important. Now stop complaining, and please take down these details.” Malakoff then gave him the names of, Slater and Black, who the Irishman already knew of from the East End, told him about the stolen Ferrari, and then gave him the name of the contact, who would be able to retrieve the GPS position of the sports car.

  “Phone this man, O’Rourke, and he will get you the tracker information together with its last known position. Yes, O’Rourke, the payment will be made through the usual channels, and placed in your Cayman Island account as usual. The same amount as before on successful completion and there’s an additional fifty thousand for your trouble, if you take care of it tonight. Good, that’s settled then. Phone me when the job has been successfully completed. Goodnight, Mr O’Rourke.” Malakoff replaced the receiver back on its cradle, turned off the light to his study and went to bed.

  * * * So far so good, Slater thought to himself as they accelerated down the slip road onto the M25 motorway. Since driving away from their flat, he’d kept a constant eye out for anyone following them, but had seen nothing to make him suspicious. His face throbbed where the broken nose had been reset again and he imagined that Black would be hurting as well, and looking at his friend, he thought what a sorry state they were in.

  By the time they were approaching the intersection and turn off for the M3, it was raining quite hard, and the traffic moving more slowly because of roadworks. Black indicated to move over into the inside lane, but a large red and white breakdown truck had moved up alongside and now barred their way.

  Black overshot the turning, and cursed out loud at the big vehicle with a string of expletives, he shifted down to second gear, and accelerated hard across and out into the outside lane towards junction thirteen at Staines.

  The driver of the powerful recovery truck also accelerated up to a steady eighty-five miles an hour along the middle lane on a virtually deserted stretch of motorway.

  Glancing up into the rear view mirror, the tiny rain soaked rear window simply blurred the headlights of the cars behind. His preoccupation with not wanting to miss the next junction meant that he took no notice of the one car that came up fast, and drew up close behind him in the outside lane. It didn’t try to overtake, simply shadowed the Ferrari for a quarter of a mile along the motorway.

  Slater looked across and said to Black, “Put your foot down, mate. I think it might be a good idea to put some tarmac between us and that Beemer.”

  The powerful saloon car had squeezed alongside them. Slater knew exactly what was going down, and the next moment it happened.

  The side window of the seven series BMW slid down, and Black responded by swerving towards it, in an attempt to make it swerve into the central barrier. But the other driver responded by braking hard, and falling in behind the red sports car. The Ferrari slewed precariously across the wet road as the tyres fought desperately to find grip on the tarmac. The BMW immediately accelerated back out into the outside lane again, and was once again alongside. Black changed down into third gear, and accelerated over onto the hard shoulder and then without hesitation back across to the outside lane in an attempt to shake off the BMW. The other driver played a game of cat and mouse, and with his sharp reactions was able to mimic every move that Black made.

  This in turn enabled the shooter to fire the machine pistol to deadly effect into the side window of the Ferrari which instantaneously disintegrated into a million tiny pieces.

  The tiny flashes of light coming from the interior of the other car, would have been the last thing that Slater and Black saw. The next second they were both dead, killed instantly under the hail of bullets.

  Next the tyres were shot out, and the low sports car swerved violently across the motorway towards the hard shoulder; rolling over and over until it smashed through a safety barrier on its roof, and down the steep embankment on the other side.

  A small herd of cows that were stood sheltering from the foul weather in the corner of a nearby field, scattered as the rolling wreckage of the Ferrari ploughed down the grassy slope, and ended up in a waterlogged ditch.

  Afterwards the only sound that could be heard was the rain hitting the hot engine block, hissing as it quickly turned to steam, and then seemingly hovered over the macabre scene.

  The BMW slowed down, and moved across into the inside lane before driving on. Seconds later the big red and white recovery vehicle that had barred Black from getting off the motorway, arrived at the place where the Ferrari had gone over. It reversed up and three men got out. Two of them went straight down the slope dragging thick wires behind them to attach to the wreckage of the crumpled sports car. The other, much older man, stood as big as a house at the top, and barked out orders in a gravely Irish accent while operating the winch that hauled what was left of the car and its two occupants back up the embankment. All three men worked methodically to strap it down on to the flat bed of the recovery truck and then to quickly cover the wreckage with a large green tarpaulin.

  A police motorway patrol car pulled up behind the recovery truck just as the tarpaulin was being strapped down, and two young traffic cops got out. O’Rourke went up and spoke briefly to one of them; before discreetly pulling a plain brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket, and handing it over to one of them. After taking a cursory look at the contents, the two officers got back into their vehicle, and drove off. O’Rourke climbed back into the warmth of his truck, smiled, and a moment later pulled back out onto
the motorway.

  Chapter Seven

  Edward Levenson-Jones was in his office sitting at the head of the large conference table sifting through a pile of old photographs. Guy Roberts was standing by the coffee machine when the door opened, and Vince Sharp walked in closely followed by Jake Dillon. “Roberts, you must be a mind reader; I’ll take mine black, and very strong, thank you.”

  LJ glanced up coldly. “May I remind you Mr Dillon, that Roberts is not one of your skivvies. He has a degree in psychology with honours, and is with us on a secondment from MI5 to specifically assist me, not you. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Well, I hadn’t expected a lecture at six-thirty in the morning but yes, you make yourself crystal clear. Thank you.” Dillon then sauntered over to the coffee machine unperturbed by the tetchiness of his boss, and poured himself a cup, before returning to where the others were standing.

  LJ continued to arrange an assortment of old black and white photographs in lines across the polished table, then looked up, and said to everyone, “So gentlemen, here we are. You may be wondering, why I’ve asked you all to come in at this early hour? Well let me enlighten you as to what we have here.” He swept his arm expansively over the photos. “We’re looking at the extent of what we know so far about the mystery surrounding U-683. We obviously know that Nathan Cunningham discovered it while exploring an underwater tunnel and cave system somewhere along the northern coast of Jersey. That there may be this religious artefact known as the Spear of Destiny on board, and that it’s supposed to give unthinkable powers to anyone who has it in their possession. Personally, I’m not convinced about this theory, and feel that it’s a little too fanciful, but I’ll keep an open mind for the time being. Obviously, the wider issues are criminal and terrorist interest, not only because of the spear, but also the possibility of gold bullion.”

  “Professor Asquith, has suggested that there might be a large amount of Nazi gold; either on board the submarine, or hidden in any one of a number of ante-chambers that will almost certainly spur off from the main hall of the cavern. I’m inclined towards this theory, given the fact that the U-boat was running under the protection of Heinrich Himmler himself. And, it’s for this very reason that we now find ourselves involved on a quest to solve this mystery. Furthermore, Sir Lucius has informed the Partners of this firm, that he is quite prepared to fund the entire assignment out of his own pocket.”

  “Unfortunately, and most frustratingly, we are working against the clock on this one, and are still no nearer to ascertaining the exact location of this cavern. Since the only man who does know remains in a coma. However, Commander Cunningham does appear to be holding his own. By the way, Jake how is Annabelle bearing up after the ordeal with those two thugs?”

  “She appears to be okay. And, although shaken up by the attack, she is in good spirits.”

  “That’s good then. Now where was I, oh yes, on a more sinister note there was the break-in at Belgrave Mews, and the subsequent discovery by Vince of the three electronic bugs. Then there was this dreadful incident at the hospital where the police officer was murdered in cold blood. This quite frankly demonstrates the seriousness of the person behind all of this, and let me just add, the ruthlessness of the man, to stop at nothing to get at this U-boat. I think the incident outside of our own building last evening demonstrates this, and the audacity of the attack is beyond belief. Annabelle was extremely lucky that you came along when you did Jake, or perhaps she would have become murder victim number two.”

  “This Frenchman, Malakoff? We now know that he is pulling the strings of those two thugs. But, it also tells me that he must have a pretty good reason for wanting that U-boat either found or permanently hidden.”

  LJ got up and walked around the table once before taking out a cigar and lighting it. He pulled hard on the strong tobacco, and as he exhaled the smoke danced and swirled above his head as the air conditioning cut in and dragged it up through the vents in the ceiling.

  “Roberts, tell them what you’ve found out.”

  “Hugo Malakoff is the driving force behind an international group of companies, which import and export just about everything and anything. He owns one of the largest, and certainly the most architecturally prized châteaus in the whole of France, and his estate covers well over one hundred and fifty thousand acres. This includes some of the finest hunting to be found anywhere in Europe, and which the Malakoff estate generates a healthy income from. They host exclusive weekend hunting parties for the rich and famous, which will relieve anyone wishing to partake, a little over fifty thousand pounds per head.”

  “However, one of my contacts in Paris told me that there are rumours in certain quarters of Interpol, that some of these weekends are never advertised, and cost in excess of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. For this amount, you apparently get the opportunity to hunt down men, these are usually former foreign legionnaires, who have been hand picked off the streets of Paris. They’ve normally not been able to adjust to life outside of the service, and live on the streets as vagrants. They’re lured by the offer of making a lot of money, and apparently, all they’ve got to do is outrun the shooters over a set distance. This only came to light, after one of the men actually managed to outrun them, and wasn’t paid. He escaped, and went straight to the police. Nothing was ever followed up, because it was Hugo Malakoff. And the complaint filed, because the officer thought he was just another nutter with a grudge.”

  “Is that a fact?” Dillon said.

  “Yes, that is a fact, Mr Dillon. He appears on the surface to be a legitimate businessman, and is currently ranked within the top one hundred of the world’s superrich people. I’ve searched databases at MI5 and 6, the FBI, and Interpol. Every search on this man has come up with the same result, absolutely nothing. However, I had a lucky break late last evening when I received an email from one of my old university chums who is now working in the monitoring centre within Thames House. He’d spotted me snooping around in their system. The note had three words written on it. Interpol, Malakoff and encrypted. Finding the file was a little tricky because it had been layered under many other documents, but once I’d found it then there was only the encrypted code to break. It took me two hours to crack it, and the contents make very good reading. Basically it contains a list of very interesting names of people thought to be linked with organised crime, terror organisations and far right political parties. Hugo Malakoff is on that list.”

  “Why would, Malakoff’s name be on there?” Vince Sharp asked.

  “Because his import and export companies are suspected of having links with organised crime syndicates throughout Europe and America. The legitimate sides of these businesses are almost certainly being used to front the illegal trafficking of class-A drugs, and most recently illegal immigrants around the world. Malakoff is also suspected of supporting a far-right wing political group in Germany, and is thought to be the party’s main benefactor. Although this has never been proven.”

  “Why is it, that all of a sudden, I’ve got a really bad feeling about Hugo Malakoff and this assignment.” Dillon said.

  “I’m afraid it gets worse. I ran a search on all businesses owned by the Malakoff family past and present and discovered that there was one, and it’s registered in Jersey. The interesting thing about it is, that it’s long been a dormant shell company with no trading record for many years. It was registered on June the fourth, nineteen thirtynine by Hugo Malakoff’s father in the name of, AngloFrench Exploration.”

  “Anglo-French Exploration?” Dillon sat down on the arm of the leather Chesterfield sofa. “Now that’s interesting, but why use the word Anglo? Especially for a supposedly French business?”

  Roberts said, “Malakoff’s sixty-two, and comes from a long line of aristocrats. He was born in Paris, and his father attended Oxford university, after graduation he returned to France. The family fled shortly after the war started to England where the father immediately joined the ranks of high
society, and then started to purchase a number of expensive prime location properties throughout London. As for young Hugo, he was packed off to a private preparatory school somewhere in the country. According to the Interpol file, they arrived with virtually nothing, and were immediately given the red carpet treatment by certain members of the House of Lords. At the same time a substantial amount of money was deposited into a Swiss bank account by parties unknown, and the sender bank was never placed on record.”

  “So what. That doesn’t prove anything. Those were uncertain times, and all sorts of strange things were going on. As a matter of fact, as French Aristocrats, they would have had contacts all over the place.” Dillon said with a little rancour.

  “Quite so, Mr Dillon, but according to those who went through a similar ordeal, and are still alive today. If you were lucky enough to flee from the Nazis with your life and the clothing that you stood up in. You would almost certainly have been robbed of all your worldly possessions, land, houses and any bank accounts that they could easily get their hands on. These would have been immediately stripped of all funds.”

  “I see, and your point is, Mr Roberts?” Dillon said.

  “My point is simply this. That there are far too many anomalies with the information relating to Malakoff’s family past.”

  “So the real question should be, how did dear old Hugo make his millions? The distribution of drugs, well granted it’s a lucrative business, but he’s no fool, and it’s far too recent to have helped him create the enormous wealth that he’s now amassed.” Dillon said.

  “Let’s face it, nobody really knows do they?” Vince said as he uprooted himself from the low chair that he was wedged in, and added. “Anyone else for another coffee?”

  LJ had been sitting listening to everything that was being said with interest. “Roberts, thank you for that informative little talk. But, what are we actually learning from all of this, gentlemen? What is the connection to U-683, the northern coast of Jersey, and all the stuff that Nathan Cunningham retrieved out of the sub about Heinrich Himmler being involved?”