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

by Andrew Towning

  “I suppose you see these luxury cruisers coming and going all the time from your place?”

  “Yes, and I’ve got a clear view across both bays from my piece of rock, but I’ve never seen this one moor up before though.”

  Dillon said goodnight, and walked out through the main door of the café. The bartender came up to where Chapman was sitting.

  “Would you like another drink, Senor Chapman?”

  “No thank you, Afonso. But I could murder a beef sandwich. That is, if it’s not too late for chef?”

  “For you, Senor. This is no problem.”

  Chapman reached for his glass and at the same time noticed the two rough looking characters from the corner table get up and leave.

  “Those two men that have just left, have you ever seen them before, Afonso?”

  “Only once before, Senor. When I worked at the marina in St. Helier. They are in the employ of a wealthy Frenchman, I believe his yacht the Solitaire is moored in Gifford Bay, Senor. The smaller one, I think he’s the first mate. The other is the Frenchman’s personal bodyguard, and please excuse my language, Senor. But he is a real mean bastard.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s a cold blooded killer, that’s why. He stabbed a man outside one of the bars in St. Helier about six months ago. The man bled to death in the gutter because no one had the courage to help him. The police couldn’t press charges because there were apparently no witnesses, so he walked away a free man. I would say that he’s the kind of animal to keep well clear of, Senor.”

  “I’d certainly agree with you, Afonso. And, I do remember reading about that.” Chapman almost got up to go after them, but remained seated. After all it was nothing to do with him, and anyway they hadn’t caused any trouble. Dillon was more than capable of looking after himself in any event. Of that he was in no doubt, whatsoever.

  Dillon walked away from the harbour, and started the climb up the steep hill towards the Fisherman’s Lodge, thinking about his impromptu meeting with Chapman.

  He’d liked him straightaway, a charming man with a sharp mind and tenacious character, but then remembering what young, Roberts had discovered about his background. And, with this in mind, he was in no doubt that he would have to keep his guard up around him.

  Keeping tight into the verge, Dillon made his way steadily up the unlit road, which was made more hazardous by having no pavement to walk on, and numerous potholes to dodge along the way. Rounding the bend he became suddenly aware of footsteps coming up the hill behind him. There were at least two people he thought, possibly other diners from the café who were walking to the car park.

  He reached the entrance to the narrow gravel lane, and stood for a brief moment, waiting for whoever had been coming up the hill behind him, to walk straight past. They didn’t, and as he stepped out from the shadows to confront them, was knocked expertly to the ground with one heavy blow in the middle of his shoulder blades, and he knew immediately that he was in trouble.

  Rolling over, he looked up and caught a brief glimpse of Kurt’s triumphant face, illuminated by the light of a full moon. As Dillon attempted to get up the steel toecap of the big German’s boot made contact with his ribs. Instinctively he recoiled, rolling over towards the edge of the lane.

  Cursing the Englishman, he took a pace forward, and tried to kick Dillon in the side of the head. Missing his skull by a hair’s width, but clipping his right ear in the process. Dazed from the kicking that he was receiving, Dillon tried to crawl to safety over the grass bank, but felt himself being roughly manhandled, and then lifted up off the ground by two hands around his ankles and another pair tightly grasping his wrists. Silently, he cursed himself for being so sloppy. Seconds later, and in a daze, he had the strangest feeling that he was flying, as they threw him over the bank and down the grassy slope towards the cliff top below. He landed heavily on his side, rolling over and over into dense brush, bounced down into a shallow ditch, and came to an abrupt halt on his back.

  Gasping for breath, and with a searing pain down his left side, and ringing in his ear he lay perfectly still in the grave-like hollow. From the roadside above he heard laughter and then a heavily accented voice called out, “Welcome to Jersey, Mr Dillon.”

  A moment later, they started to shoot at him with silenced machine pistols set on fully automatic. Bullets scythed through the dense brush, whizzing a few inches over his head. Only to eventually end their lethal journey by thudding harmlessly into the trunks of the surrounding trees.

  After they’d used up all of their ammunition, Kurt and Pierre strolled off back down the hill to the harbour. Dillon remained motionless for another fifteen minutes before struggling to his feet. After making sure that they’d left, he very slowly made his way back along the cliff top path to the Fisherman’s Lodge.

  It was just past two o’clock, when the phone at the side of Edward Levenson-Jones bed in his London flat started to ring. He came awake instantly, and picked up the receiver.

  “Levenson-Jones.”

  Dillon was sat in the sitting room of the Fisherman’s Lodge with a large brandy in one hand, and his mobile phone in the other. “It’s Dillon” he said, “Down here in sleepy Jersey.”

  “Good God man, do you know what time it is?”

  “About two in the morning, if my Omega is still telling the correct time. I thought you’d like to know that I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting two of Malakoff’s hired goons.”

  “What?”

  “Yes you heard me; they tried to play football with my head.”

  LJ was fully alert, and sitting up he tossed the bedclothes aside. “Are you absolutely certain that they work for Malakoff? After all they could have simply been drunken yobs after your wallet?”

  “Without a doubt, and definitely not.” Dillon grimaced with the pain running down his left side. “Listen, they knew me by name, and they knew exactly what they were doing. Even down to how far to go without actually killing me. I’d say they’d been tipped off that Vince and I were staying here. But how do you suppose that could have happened? It’s time for you to start filling me in on those little details that you like to hold back, don’t you think?”

  “I really don’t know, old son,” LJ told him. “That’s all I can say at this point in time. How’s Vince, has he settled in?”

  “LJ, if my ribs weren’t hurting quite so much, I’d laugh. But yes, Vince is settling in, and I’m sure he’d be touched by your concern for his well being. The lodge is fine, and I’m supposed to be diving with Rob Chapman first thing this morning.”

  “In which case, I’d say that you’ve already made excellent progress, old son. Now, if you don’t mind, I would rather like to get back to my slumber. You should do the same, and from now on watch yourself.”

  “Is that it, is that the best you can do?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dillon. Stop whinging,” LJ snapped at him. “It’s because you’re more than capable of looking after yourself that you were chosen for this assignment. No bones broken, are there?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, what’s your problem? Malakoff is simply trying to intimidate you, that’s all there is to it. You’ve encountered far worse than the beating his two thugs gave you this evening, I’m sure. Treat it as the warning it is, and don’t go doing anything rash. Oh yes, and try not to get caught off guard again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “I’ll look into things at this end first thing in the morning. Goodnight Jake.” LJ put the phone down, and switched off the bedside light. He lay there mulling it all over. After a while he drifted into sleep again.

  Dillon walked across the sitting room to the low drink cabinet, and poured himself another large brandy. Over the granite mantel of the open fireplace hung a picture in watercolours of Bonne Nuit Bay dated 1871. Standing in front of it, his thoughts drifted as he studied the detail of the calm scene before him.

  There was much more to this
whole affair than he’d been told, of that he was sure. The silenced machine pistols confirmed that, and he was furious with himself for having been taken down so easily on the road earlier. But that would be the one and only chance they would ever get.

  He finished his drink in one gulp, put the glass down on the table, and went into his bedroom, gently closing the door behind him. Going over to the bed he reached into his holdall, and pulled out the Glock automatic pistol, still in its leather shoulder holster. He stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of the ocean waves coming through the open window as they crashed onto the rocks below, and from the adjacent room the sound of Vince snoring loudly.

  Sliding the weapon out, he held it up in the darkness, running the palm of his hand slowly over the barrel and caressing the cold steel. The game had commenced, and he was on guard, but now the odds were even he thought. * * *

  In Gifford Bay, Kurt and Pierre climbed the sea ladder that was situated at the stern of the Solitaire. Once aboard the big German went straight to Malakoff in the main salon to report on the evening activities. When he had finished Malakoff said, “You did well Kurt. But, I hope that you were discreet in your ministrations?”

  Kurt said, “Naturally, Mien Herr. But there is one concern, should he go running to the authorities?”

  “I can assure you that he won’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I am. It will interfere with his quest to find the U-boat, and that is the last thing that he or his boss would want right now.” Malakoff had suddenly grown very tired, dismissed his bodyguard, and before retiring to his quarters went out onto the main deck for some fresh air. Raising his glass towards the Fisherman’s Lodge, he said, “Good luck Mr Dillon. Because you’re going to need it,” then threw the empty glass over the side, turned and went back inside.

  Chapter Nine

  It was seven-thirty the following morning, when Edward Levenson-Jones arrived at the home of Sir Lucius Stagg. He was immediately taken upstairs and shown into the study, where the former Prime Minister was seated at his desk, surveying a large bound document.

  “Edward, good of you to come at such short notice.” He said, looking up.

  “You asked to see me, Sir Lucius?”

  “Yes, and I’ll come straight to the point. I have been

  reliably informed, that this French fellow Hugo Malakoff is now moored in Gifford Bay. Not only is this news disturbing, to say the least, but he could jeopardise the whole project down in the Channel Islands just by being there. Between you and me, I’m still trying to fathom out how he appears to be so well informed. Is Malakoff a problem, Edward?”

  “I’m afraid he is, Sir Lucius, and it certainly does seem as if he’s there to stir up trouble. In fact, Dillon has already had a little run in with two of his hired help, late last evening.”

  “Nothing he couldn’t handle, I hope?” Stagg said, pushing the heavy looking document to one side.

  “I think his pride took more of a battering than he did, Sir Lucius. Apparently they jumped him on his way back to the rented house.”

  “Well, the point is Edward, a man like Malakoff, is not someone you want around when you’re trying to find a World War Two German U-boat. Especially given his high profile. Hell, some snap happy photojournalist has only got to spot him, or that large boat of his, and before you know it we’ve got a hoard of them down there. That sort of attention is something, we most definitely do not want.”

  “I can pull Dillon and Sharp out, if that’s what you wish...”

  “...but what would that achieve?”

  “I personally think that we have the best man for this particular job. To be quite frank, Sir Lucius. It’s a dirty one, and it’s already become apparent since we last spoke that there are people he will have to deal with, who play very dirty indeed.”

  “I’m in total agreement Edward, and your comments have been duly noted. I’ll of course leave it to your own good judgement, but watch your back. Remember, this Frenchman is infamous for being ruthless and playing dirty.”

  “I will, Sir Lucius,” LJ said, and withdrew.

  Guy Roberts was waiting in the Mercedes. As it drove away he glanced up into the rear view mirror, and said, “Did your meeting with Sir Lucius go well, Mr LevensonJones?”

  LJ told him. “He’s got a point, of course. But, what do you think, Roberts?”

  “Sir Lucius is a wise and well informed man, Mr Levenson-Jones. I’d say that he’d not be concerned unless there was something to be concerned about. Personally speaking, from what I’ve read about Hugo Malakoff, I’d not trust him an inch.”

  “Um, you may be right, Roberts, and please call me LJ. I think you’ve been with the department long enough, don’t you?”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “Interesting thing though, is that Malakoff’s not at all bothered about concealing his presence in Jersey. In fact, quite the reverse, and now Dillon’s guard is up. Well, it makes me wonder what his game is?” LJ said, extracting a mobile phone out of his briefcase. He then dialled Oliver Asquith’s office at the British Museum. He wasn’t there; he was at the House of Lords.

  “Could you please, pass on a message to him,” LJ instructed Asquith’s assistant. “Tell him I need to see him urgently, and that I’ll meet him in the bar of the House, at nine o’clock.” He hung up. “You can come with me, Roberts, you’ve never been to the House of Lords, have you?”

  “No, but what’s going on, Sir?”

  “Wait and see, Roberts, wait and see.”

  On the Thames, pleasure boats passed by the House. Eager sightseers could be seen on the decks, jockeying for the best position from which to get a decent photograph of the imposing building. LJ and Roberts stood at the bar, coffee in hand.

  “Doesn’t it make you proud to be British, Roberts? Just the majesty of this place is simply awe inspiring, wouldn’t you say?”

  Before Guy Roberts could answer. Oliver Asquith came into the room, and immediately headed towards them. Roberts craned his head around his boss, and LJ automatically turned around to see what was so interesting.

  “Ah, there you are, Oliver.” LJ said.

  “Got your message, LJ. But, I’ve got to say that I’m struggling with time. What with this lot here, and then I’ve got another day’s work back at the museum to contend with. Hell of a day, I say.” Asquith caught the attention of the waiter.

  “Let me get you a strong black coffee, Oliver. Good for the system, so I’m told.” LJ ordered a double espresso coffee for Asquith, and then all three men went to a quiet corner table.

  “Look, LJ. I don’t mean to be rude, but can we make this quick. I really don’t have the time for a cosy chat right now, you know.”

  “As you wish, Oliver. I had a meeting with Sir Lucius Stagg earlier this morning, and I’m extremely concerned about the Jersey project.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?” Asquith asked, concern in his voice.

  LJ paused long enough to allow the tension to rise sufficiently. “Well, it’s like this, old son. There appears to be someone leaking information.”

  Asquith’s eyes flickered like a butterfly, and he’d broken out into a sweat across his forehead and upper lip.

  “What do you mean, a leak?” His voice had become edgy, and it was quite evident that he was fighting to control himself as he glanced at Roberts. “I’m really not in the mood for your little games, LJ.” Asquith said, adding, “Who’s this?”

  “Let me introduce you to Guy Roberts, Oliver. He’s on loan to Ferran & Cardini, and in particular my department, courtesy of MI5.”

  “Bit irregular, isn’t it?”

  “No, not really, Oliver. Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, it just strikes me as odd, that’s all. Anyway, can we press on? As I say, I’ve got a million and one things to do, and very little time to do them in.”

  “Of course, Oliver. Dillon discreetly arrived in Jersey yesterday, and was attacked late last ev
ening by two crew members of Hugo Malakoff’s boat, the Solitaire. They weren’t content with simply duffing him up, and running off. No, these two were very thorough. After they’d knocked him unconscious, they pushed him over an embankment that led down to the cliff tops, and then opened fire with silenced machine pistols. In fact, had it not been for him landing in a ditch. He would almost certainly be dead.”

  “My God!” Asquith said in genuine horror. “Is he alright?”

  “Oh, yes, Dillon is as tough as old boots. Personally I think they were trying it on, hassling him. Of course the interesting thing is how come they actually knew that he was there?”

  “Now look here,” Asquith began, “I hope that you’re not suggesting any lack of discretion on my part?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Oliver. All I’m saying is that someone who is in the know, is most definitely feeding Hugo Malakoff information. The question is, who and why?”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to take a short holiday,” LJ told him. “You know, a little rest and relaxation? They say that Jersey is at its most lovely at this time of the year.”

  Asquith nodded. “You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Of course, old son.” LJ smiled, and turned to Roberts. “We must be going, we’ve lots to do.”

  On the way back to Ferran & Cardini, LJ told Roberts to pull the Mercedes into the side of the road. Down by the Thames, and creating a spectacular backdrop, the London Eye loomed up high into the air.

  “Come on, Roberts. I’m going to show you where you can get the best cup of coffee in London.”

  The two men walked a short distance up the road towards a small brightly-lit café. As they entered the owner looked up, and greeted LJ as an old friend.

  “Beautiful day out there, Mr LJ.”

  “It could be worse, Jim. How’s the wife, and family?” LJ enquired, as he walked with his cup of coffee to a tiny round table in the corner.

  “My boy has just been accepted into Sandhurst,” Jim said with pride.