“That’s excellent news, Jim. And how’s your other half, well I hope?”
“My wife is very well, thank you, Mr LJ. She’s still a peacock in everything but beauty. But I love her to bits and wouldn’t be without her.” Jim said with a mischievous smile.
Roberts, who was sitting opposite LJ asked in a quiet voice, “Is he always so rude about his wife?”
“Don’t worry, old son. He only makes the joke about her, because she was once a beauty queen, and is still an extremely good-looking woman at the age of sixty.” LJ looked up at the counter, adding. “In fact, Jim is a totally devoted husband. Like nothing I’ve ever seen, and most refreshing in this day, and age, if you ask me.”
“And why didn’t he charge us for the coffee?”
“Ah well, Jim and I go back a long way, Roberts. We worked together for many years at MI5. I was Jim’s handler, and he was an extremely good field operative. Until, that is, one wet November night about twenty years ago. You see, he’d been captured and held for four days by an IRA hit team who were working out of a safe house, down in Kent. He’d been tortured of course, and beaten badly. But he’d not given in. What they wanted was my name, and he never told them. I’m afraid he lost his nerve after that, and resigned. But, I still make sure that he and his family are taken care of financially. Jim occasionally gives me the odd snippet of worthwhile information that I’m able to use or pass on for a favour or two, and so the trading goes on.”
“So did you help his son get into Sandhurst?”
“Absolutely not. He got in on his own merit and ability. Unthinkable, Roberts.” LJ said, with only a hint of indignation.
Roberts leaned back on his chair, impressed. “So why have we come here today?” he asked.
“No reason, other than to say hello to Jim, and to get one of his splendid coffees. Oh, and to discuss with you, my trip to Jersey. It’s much safer to talk somewhere like this, off the beaten track so to speak. And of course, this way only you and I will know the exact arrangements.”
“Well, I’ve checked with Phil Allerton, and as luck would have it, he’s available this afternoon.”
“There you are then.” LJ glanced at his watch. “I want him fully fuelled and ready to leave just after three o’clock. With a tail wind, that means I’ll be in Jersey around four-fifteen.”
“Do you want me to come with you, Sir?”
“No, Roberts, I want you to stay here in London. That way, you’ll be able to look after things while I’m gone.”
“Would you like me to book you into a hotel?”
LJ shook his head. “No, I’ll be staying with Dillon and Vince Sharp at the rented lodge, after all it does have three bedrooms.”
“Almost sounds like you anticipated having to go there yourself?”
“Something like that.”
“Look, Sir,” said Roberts in exasperation, “what exactly is going on?”
“Roberts when you find out, tell me!” LJ emptied his cup, and went and put it on the counter. “Thanks, Jim.” He turned to Roberts. “Come on, we’ve got lots to do before I leave,” and he walked off out of the café and got back into the rear of the Mercedes.
* * *
Malakoff had remained in his study aboard the Solitaire. He’d been on the telephone since five-thirty that morning, and had even had time to work out for an hour in his private gym. Having showered, he was now sitting at the table on the stern sun terrace, enjoying his breakfast in the early morning sunshine filtering through the canopy overhead, when Kurt brought him the telephone.
“It’s Lord Asquith,” he said, handing Malakoff the receiver.
“A beautiful morning here,” Malakoff said cheerily. “How’s London?”
“Full of fumes, as always. I’m just about to grab a sandwich, and then spend the rest of the morning inside a lecture theatre with a group of snotty nosed students, who all think that Indiana Jones is a real archaeologist. Look, Hugo, Edward Levenson-Jones has been to see me again this morning and, this time I’m positive that he suspects me of leaking information to you.”
“Please don’t be so melodramatic, Oliver.”
“I’m not, but it’s worrying all the same. Apparently, Dillon was attacked last night in Bonne Nuit, and almost killed. What on earth was that about?”
“My people were just softening him up a little, Oliver. That’s all, and as you said before, he knows of my existence.”
“Yes, but what Levenson-Jones is now interested in is how you knew who Dillon was, and that he was arriving in Jersey, and so on. He said you were far too well informed.”
“Did he make any suggestion as to how he thought I was getting my information?”
“No, only that he was sure that someone in the know was feeding you with information. However, he did say that he’d be joining Dillon and Sharp in Jersey for a few days.”
“Did he now? That should prove extremely interesting. I look forward to meeting him.”
Asquith said, genuine despair in his words, “Bloody hell Hugo, they know about your involvement. How long before they know about mine?”
“You’re not involved on paper Oliver, and neither was your father. No mention of the name Asquith anywhere, and the great thing about this whole affair is that it is now a personal matter between Levenson-Jones and myself. As I’ve already told you, Levenson-Jones won’t want the authorities in on this. We’re rather like two wolves fighting over the same carcass.”
“I’m still worried,” Asquith told him. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Simply keep your head, Oliver, and ensure that I’m kept informed of any developments. Nothing else you can do.”
Malakoff put the phone down, and Kurt said, “More Champagne, Mien Herr?”
Malakoff nodded. “Edward Levenson-Jones is coming to join in the fun.”
“Here in Bonne Nuit?” Kurt smiled, adding. “What would you like me to do about him, Mien Herr?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something suitable,” Malakoff said, and drank his Champagne. “In the meantime, let’s find out what our friend Dillon is up to this morning.”
* * * Kurt went around the island to St. Helier in an inflatable taking one of the divers with him, a young man called Zola Charon. They wore swimming shorts, T-shirts and dark glasses, and looked like any other tourists enjoying the sunshine. They pulled in amongst the small craft at the dock, Kurt killed the outboard motor, and Charon tied up. At that moment Dillon appeared at the end of the dock. He wore a pair of jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt and carried a large kit bag with a couple of towels draped over his shoulder.
“That’s him,” Kurt told Charon. “Get going. I’ll stay out of the way in case he remembers me from last night.”
Rob Chapman who was manhandling dive tanks from a trolley onto the deck of a small twenty-three foot dive boat, turned and saw Dillon. He waved, and went along the pontoon to join him, passing Charon who stopped to light a cigarette close enough to listen to them.
As Chapman got closer to Dillon, he said incredulously. “My God, you look as if you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. What the hell happened to you?”
“Something like that, but I’m really not in the mood to talk about just now, Rob.”
“Well, let me give you a hand to stow your equipment aboard, and then we’ll get under way.”
They moved away, Charon waited, and then made his way back along the dock to join Kurt.
* * * Chapman had a wide range of dive equipment laid out on the deck of his boat, and Dillon commented on this as he stepped down onto the deck.
“Have you got one of these, Jake?” Chapman asked, handing Dillon the dive computer he’d just picked up.
“Yes, I picked up one from the dive shop just the other day. Remarkable bit of kit.” Dillon said, turning it over in his hands, and then added, “Especially for someone like me, who is absolutely dreadful at mental arithmetic. All I can say, is thank goodness for the age of technology.”
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br /> Dillon gave the dive computer back to Chapman. “So what have you got planned?”
“Oh, nothing too arduous, you’ll see.” Chapman smiled. “Let’s get going,” and jumped back up onto the pontoon, and untied the bow and stern lines. The next minute, He was firing the inboard diesel engine, and manoeuvring away from the dock.
Zola Charon dropped down into the inflatable. “By the looks of it, they’re going out to dive.”
“Are they now?” Kurt said.
As Dillon and Chapman passed by the inflatable, the big German ducked down out of sight, only reappearing after they’d left the marina area, and had moved out into the mainstream of the harbour.
Kurt said, “Was there a name on that boat, Charon?”
“Wave Dancer that’s what it’s called,” Charon told him. “I asked up at the dive shop. You know I’ve done a lot of diving around these islands, and I’ve heard of this Chapman. He’s one hell of a diver.”
Kurt nodded. “Okay, we’d better get back and let Herr Malakoff know what’s happening.”
Charon cast off, Kurt started the outboard, and they moved away.
The Wave Dancer was doing a steady fifteen knots. The sea was not as calm as it could have been, and Dillon held on tight as the boat rode up over each rolling wave and then plunged back down again.
“Do you suffer from sea-sickness?” Chapman asked.
“Not that I know of,” Dillon shouted above the roar of the engine.
“I’m glad to hear it, because it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But, we’ve not got much further to go now.”
Waves rolled in, long and steep, and the Wave Dancer continued to carve her way through them. Dillon hung on, taking in the incredible scenery, and then they were close to Fiquet Bay, turned in towards it and moved into the calmer waters of the small deserted bay.
“Fiquet Bay,” Chapman said. “A nice dive.” He pressed a button on the consul and the anchor dropped.
“There’s not much to tell you. Thirty to eighty-five feet, and only a light current at this time of the day. The reason I’ve brought you here is because of the wreck. It’s lying on a ridge at about sixty feet. Nothing special to say about it, except that it’s about seventy years old, and thought to be a French trawler that ran onto the rocks during a storm.”
“Sounds like the kind of place you’d bring novices,” Dillon said, pulling on his black and red wetsuit.
“Doesn’t matter whether you’re a novice or an experienced diver. This site is not only interesting. It’s safe.” Chapman told him calmly.
Dillon got into his gear quickly and fastened a weight belt around his waist. Chapman had already clamped air tanks to their inflatable jackets, and helped Dillon ease into his while sitting on the dive platform in the stern. Dillon pulled on his gloves and adjusted his mask.
Chapman said, “See you at the anchor.”
Dillon nodded, checked that the air was flowing freely through his regulator, and went over backwards into the sea. He swam under the keel of the boat until he saw the anchor line, and then followed it down, pausing only to equalise the pressure in his ears by swallowing. A technique designed to alleviate the discomfort felt as one descends and ascends on a dive.
He reached the ridge, paused with a hand on the anchor, and looking up saw Chapman’s blue wet suit rip through the surface in a gush of white bubbles, before descending to join him. A large shoal of mackerel scattered as Chapman swam to where Dillon was patiently waiting for him. At that moment, an amazing thing happened. A grey seal about two metres in length shot out of the gloom, and on seeing Dillon, turned and darted off towards the shallower waters of the bay.
Chapman made the okay sign with his finger and thumb, and Dillon responded in kind before following him as he led the way along the ridge. As they went over the edge of the reef Chapman pointed towards the sheer wall of granite that disappeared straight down into the darkness of the deep water. It was covered in elegant sea fans and soft coral. All crammed together with jewel anemones in every shade of the rainbow. Chapman paused, pointing, and Dillon saw a huge reef conger pass in the distance.
It was a pleasant dive, but nothing out of the ordinary and after about thirty-five minutes they were back at the anchor line. Dillon followed Chapman up the line nice and slow, finally swam under the keel and surfaced at the stern. Chapman unfastened the harness of his buoyancy compensator jacket and took it off. With practised ease, he hauled himself up onto the dive platform pulling his gear behind him. Dillon did the same with his jacket, and Chapman reached down and pulled it and the air tank on board. Dillon joined him a moment later.
Chapman went straight to work, clipping fresh tanks to the jackets, and then went and pulled in the anchor. Dillon towelled himself dry and then poured himself a coffee from the thermos flask that Chapman had brought with them.
“The grey seal,” he said. “Does that happen often?”
“Not often enough, I’m afraid. Think yourself privileged to have seen one at such close quarters.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen one in open water.”
“I’ve been diving these waters for years, and it never ceases to amaze me just how graceful they are down there.” Chapman told him.
“How often would you see one of those grey seals?”
“How often, well, let me put it this way. I doubt very much whether you’ll see another while you’re staying here. Sure, they’re dotted around the island, but they’re very shy and afraid of humans, and they have good reason to be as history shows. Did you enjoy the dive, by the way?”
“Yes, it was fine thank you.” Dillon shrugged.
“Which means that you thought it was a little tame and you’d like a little more excitement.” Chapman started the engine and engaged the gear. “Okay, let’s go for something a little more exciting then.” Chapman said, and he opened up the throttle and took the Wave Dancer out of the bay into open water.
* * * They went back around the island anti-clockwise passing St. Catherine’s Bay on the way. Some distance away the Solitaire was at anchor in deep water half a mile off Rozel Bay. Pierre was on the upper deck, scanning the area with binoculars. He recognised Chapman’s boat and told Captain Armand who examined the chart, and then looked up on one of the computers a list of dive sites in the Channel Islands.
“Keep watching,” he told Pierre as he scrolled through the information on the flat screen. “They’re dropping anchor,” Pierre informed Armand, “and it looks like they’re running up the dive flag.”
“Saie Harbour,” Armand said. “That’s where they’re diving.”
At the moment Kurt came in and held the door open for Malakoff who was wearing a dark blue blazer, open neck shirt, and pair of lightweight beige trousers.
“What have you to report, Captain?”
“Chapman and Dillon are about to go diving, Monsieur.” Armand pointed in the direction of Saie Harbour and handed Malakoff the binoculars.
Malakoff could just make out the two men moving about in the stern of the Wave Dancer. He said, “Could that be where the tunnel entrance is?”
“No way, Monsieur,” Armand told him. “It’s a fairly difficult place to dive, but it’s popular with all of the dive schools and visited many times a week throughout the summer season.”
“Is that so?” Malakoff said. “Well, put the inflatable in the water, and we’ll go and have a look anyway. I think this is a good opportunity to see what these two divers of yours, Mazzarin and Zola, can do.”
“At your command, Monsieur, I’ll get things organised,” and Armand left the bridge followed by Pierre.
Kurt said, “You wish me to come too, Mien Herr?”
“What a splendid idea.” Malakoff said. “Even if Dillon sees you, it really doesn’t matter. After all, he definitely knows you exist.”
* * * The cliffs, at first glance, appeared alive with gulls and terns of every kind perched up on the ridge. Some circled high above the turbulen
t sea, squawking as they soared effortlessly on the offshore breeze.
“Saie Harbour,” Chapman said. “I’d rate this as an advanced dive and most definitely not for the faint hearted. Drops down to about ninety-five feet. There’s the wreck of a De Havilland mosquito down there, that the Nazis shot down as it was making its way back from the coast of France. There are a number of ravines, fissures, two or three smallish tunnels and a wonderful show of rock and coral reefs. Unfortunately there is one problem, the current, it’s especially strong at this time of the day.”
“How strong?” Dillon asked as he fastened his buoyancy jacket.
“Eight to ten knots is fairly common. Anything above ten gets interesting.” He looked over the side of the Wave Dancer and raised his eyebrows. “I’d say it’s more like twelve to thirteen today.”
Dillon smiled and said, “Sounds as if it could be fun.”
“It’s your shout Jake.”
Chapman got his own gear on, and Dillon went down onto the dive platform to rinse out his mask.
“Looks like we’ve got company?” Dillon said, as the inflatable rib made its way towards them.
Chapman turned to look. “Well it’s not anyone I know. And the dive schools wouldn’t come here today with this current running. They’d almost certainly go somewhere easier.”
The swell was much bigger now; the Wave Dancer bucked up and down on the anchor line. Dillon went over and paused to check his air supply, and then immediately started down towards the thick forest of kelp below. He paused on the bottom, and waited until Chapman had reached him, beckoned and turned towards a large formation of rocks. Dillon followed, amazed at the force of the current pushing against him, and was aware of a stream of white bubbles over his right shoulder. A moment later he saw an anchor descend.
* * * On the inflatable, Malakoff was sitting in the stern while Armand went forward and dropped the anchor. Pierre was helping Mazzarin and Zola into their buoyancy jackets.
After five minutes Armand said, “They’re ready to go, Monsieur, what are your orders?”
“Instruct them to have a good look around,” Malakoff said. “But, they’re to leave Chapman and Dillon alone. I don’t want any trouble, understand?”
Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 22
