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

by Andrew Towning

  Dillon moved forward, raised his left knee up sharply, and made heavy contact with the unprotected face. The Frenchman’s head snapped back, and blood instantly started to flow from his broken nose.

  “That’ll teach you to mess with me, sonny.” Dillon said, standing over the unconscious man.

  Kurt calmly rolled his head from side to side, vertebrae clicked and crunched into place. He picked up a dangerous looking meat cleaver, eyeing it up and down, before repeatedly switching it from hand to hand. Dillon pulled out the Glock and pointed it at the big German.

  “Put it down, or I’ll put a bullet in your thick head.” Dillon said calmly.

  Kurt raised the cleaver above his head, but before he had a chance to move Malakoff intervened, “No Kurt, leave them. Get Pierre on his feet.”

  “A wise move Malakoff. Now clear off, and take that scum with you.”

  The German helped Pierre to his feet. He appeared dazed, blood on his face and he led him out. Malakoff stood glowering at Dillon for a moment, before turning and storming off.

  Chapman hugged his sister to comfort her, tears rolled down her face as she sobbed on his shoulder. Still physically shaken and distraught from the encounter with Kurt. He led her back upstairs through the garden room and into the lounge area, where he made her lay on one of the large sofas. After covering her with a large throw from one of the other chairs, he led Dillon and LJ to the front door.

  “Now you have my attention. And, if what’s just taken place, has something to do with Nathan laying in a coma. Then count me in on whatever it is you’re all involved in. But, I’d obviously like to know a whole lot more first. Now, if you don’t mind gentlemen, I think it’s probably for the best, if you leave now. Jake, Edward - it’s been interesting to meet you.”

  He opened the big oak door and swung it back on its hinges.

  “How about a dive in the morning, Rob. That is, If you’re up for it?”

  “Be down by my boat at eight o’clock sharp.” Chapman said as he closed the door.

  The drive back to Annabelle’s Café took no longer than two or three minutes in the Range Rover. Dillon was trying to think of a reason why Vince hadn’t phoned them to say that Malakoff had left the restaurant. Dillon parked the 4x4 a little way back up the hill at the side of the road.

  As they entered the café, LJ discreetly tapped Dillon’s arm and pointed towards the bar. Dillon immediately noticed that the place was empty apart for Vince sitting on a wooden stool, talking to two men who were standing either side of him drinking and laughing loudly.

  On seeing the two men, Vince Sharp slipped off the stool and motioned for them to join him at the bar. It was obvious to Dillon that he was very drunk, and probably the reason why he’d not noticed Malakoff and Kurt leave earlier. He introduced Mazzarin and Zola and beckoned the Portuguese barman to bring another round of drinks for everyone.

  “Vince, I’m sorry to be the party pooper, but we’ve really got to be up at the crack of dawn in the morning. So if you’ll excuse us gentlemen.”

  As Dillon turned to leave he felt a hand grab his shoulder, and as he turned, Mazzarin punched him hard in the stomach.

  “But the party’s only just begun, Englishman.” Mazzarin said with a malicious sneer.

  Dillon recoiled away from the blow, knocking tables and chairs over as he fought to keep his balance in vain. Zola stood leaning against the bar sipping his beer, he’d been joined by Pierre who was now sitting on the stool still holding a wad of tissue to his broken nose. Malakoff had positioned himself at the far end of the bar and was whispering into the ear of the barman, and handing over a large wad of fifty pound notes to him.

  Kurt had joined Mazzarin, and the two men moved in fast. Vince ducked the first blow and with surprising agility, punched Mazzarin in the stomach, and half turning, he reverse elbow punched the big German just below the sternum, who automatically doubled over with the pain. Zola came at Vince from behind with a kick to his right leg, just behind the knee. Vince went down like a sack of Jersey Royal potatoes, and rolled around on the floor clasping at the pain. Zola was fast, and kicked him hard in the back to ensure that he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, as Kurt got up and stood menacingly over him.

  “So my little fat Englishman, let’s teach you some manners.”

  Dillon was already up on his feet and went at the German on the run as Kurt raised a foot to stamp down on Vince’s face. Dillon sent him sprawling onto the floor with the sound of splintering furniture, the big German’s head smashed against the edge of a table, rendering him immobile. He then took care of Zola with a sideways punch to the jaw. Vince was already on his feet. Kurt was on the floor, and only semi-conscious, but when Mazzarin moved in to help the others it raised the odds, and Dillon and Vince prepared to defend themselves again.

  There was the sudden loud clang of a ship’s bell from behind the bar that rang out and stopped everyone in their tracks. LJ was standing by the bell with one hand still grasping the rope, and the other holding Dillon’s Glock automatic.

  “If you’ve quite finished, gentlemen?” He said looking around the room.

  There was silence for a moment, and then Malakoff said in French, “Back to the Solitaire.”

  Malakoff’s men left unwillingly, Mazzarin and Zola supporting Kurt who still looked dazed, and Pierre still trying to stem the bleeding from his broken nose.

  “Until the next time Mr Levenson-Jones,” Malakoff said in English and followed them.

  Vince wiped away the blood at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “What the hell was all that about?”

  “That Vince, was to show us that he is able to do whatever he wants. Because, he believes that he is safe in the knowledge that we won’t go running to the authorities.”

  “But what about all this damage?”

  “Oh, already been paid for, old son. I saw him give the barman a wad of fifties just before the fighting started. Compensation no doubt, for the damage and loss of business.” LJ looked at the barman, and added, “You will make sure that the money goes into the till, won’t you?”

  The barman flushed with embarrassment, went to say something, but thought better of it and carried on cleaning the place up. At that moment, the door opened and Rob Chapman walked in.

  “Bloody hell, what’s happened here?” Chapman said as he walked through the devastated room to the bar.

  “Malakoff.” Dillon said.

  “Well would somebody like to tell me now what the hell is going on then?”

  “Follow me, Mr Chapman, we need to talk. Somewhere private.” LJ said, and they all went back to the Fisherman’s Lodge.

  Chapman said, “The most amazing story I’ve ever heard.”

  “But you agree that it could be true?” LJ asked. “I’ve got translated copies of all the documents, including the personal dairy of the Korvettenkapitan with me here in my briefcase. You’re most welcome to take a look, if you like?”

  “The U-boat being found here is quite plausible,” Chapman said. “After all, the Nazis did occupy these islands from 1940 to 1945, and there are many locals who’ll tell you stories about how they used to restrict access to the northern side of Jersey.” He stood up and stared out of the window into the darkness outside. “Of course I’ve read many locally written accounts about the occupation, and some do make reference to U-boats coming and going. But to think that Donitz and Himmler, who were two of the most powerful men in Nazi Germany, hatching a plot or whatever. Right here under the island. It’s quite remarkable.”

  “So, you believe that U-683 could be tied up in a cavern under this island?” Dillon said.

  “Yes. Anything is possible, Jake.”

  “Good, but where is it most likely to be?”

  “Have you got a chart of the island?” Chapman asked.

  LJ went out and came back with one which he unrolled. It was the Channel Islands’ chart for Jersey.

  “Here is Bonne Nuit Bay,” he said indicating a poin
t on the northern coast. “Now, there are numerous coves and small inlets that lead to caves all the way along this area of the island.” He drew his index finger from one side of the map to the other. “But from what you’ve told me, we’re not looking for anything as obvious as that, are we?”

  “Unfortunately not. Apparently we’re searching for a deep channel gouged out of the seabed, that’s big enough to take a V11C type U-boat. And that’s only for starters. Once found, this will then lead us to the tunnel entrance. According to Nathan, there’s only enough room for one diver at a time to squeeze between the falling rocks and into the tunnel. So you see, Mr Chapman. We really do need your help and expertise, if we’re to have any chance at all of locating that U-boat.” LJ said.

  “Well, I can tell you now, it’s not going to be anywhere usual. By that I mean somewhere people dive, however regularly, and I’ll tell you something else. It would have to be within eighty to one hundred feet.”

  “What makes you say that?” Dillon asked.

  “Nathan is a recreational diver, and as you know Jake. At those depths, no decompression is necessary if you follow a few simple rules. For the benefit of Edward and Vince who are not divers I’ll tell you what that means. Let’s say that Nathan dived to one hundred feet, which is just about the maximum depth for that kind of sport diving. At that depth he would only have ten minutes of bottom time before having to go back up to the surface. Just think for a moment, he’d searched around the bottom, found the channel, squeezed through the tunnel entrance, and then had an arduous few minutes swim against a strong current to reach the other end.” Chapman walked around the table where they were all sitting, and shook his head. “It just isn’t feasible and Nathan is not a young man. He knows his limitations as a diver.”

  “So what are you saying, Rob?” Dillon asked.

  “To discover the channel and tunnel entrance, enter and swim through it and then discover that U-boat.” Chapman ran his hand through his spiky blond hair.

  “I’d say twenty to thirty-five minutes bottom time so his depth would most likely have been seventy-five to eighty feet or there about. Now, there’s nothing unusual about diving at that depth around the island. But that’s why I say the location has got to be somewhere out of the ordinary, or considered to be so dangerous, that nobody ever dives there. Sitting back down, he stared at the map laid out before them and frowned.

  “But surely, you must have some idea. After all you know these waters like the back of your hand, old son.” LJ said.

  “The morning Nathan made his discovery must have been the day after that last storm we had. There was virtually no swell, water was like a mill pond in fact. I remember phoning Nathan that morning, to ask him whether he’d like to give me a hand at the war tunnels in the afternoon, but spoke to Annabelle instead. She’d mentioned that Nathan had gone out early in the Nautical Lady, for a dive. That’s his boat over there, by the way.”

  “Did she say where he’d gone?” Dillon asked.

  “Only that he’d be careful and for her not to worry. Nathan would often do that, go off without telling anyone where, though.”

  “So where does that leave us?” LJ said.

  “Well, I’d say we need to concentrate our search along the coast between Bonne Nuit and Greve De Lecq. That’s roughly four miles of coastline.”

  “Can you narrow that down?” Dillon asked.

  Chapman frowned. “I can narrow it down to whatever you want Jake. But, in reality, you’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  LJ’s mobile phone started to ring, it was Annabelle. He listened without interruption for a moment, and then asked how Nathan was before breaking the connection.

  “That was Annabelle; she was phoning to say that Nathan is making good progress. He’s not yet conscious, but the doctors are still optimistic.”

  “That’s excellent news.” Dillon said. Vince and Chapman agreed.

  “There’s something else. She’s come across a piece of paper with one of Nathan’s famous doodles on it. Maybe nothing, but it was tucked inside a pocket of that old battered brown briefcase that he insists on carrying around with him whenever he travels. The sketch she tells me is of a large mythical looking man with horns and hooves, who is holding a trident.”

  “Did you say a trident?” Chapman asked.

  “Yes why, does it mean something?”

  “The Devil’s Hole.” Chapman said instantly, pointing to it on the chart.

  “You ever dive there?” LJ asked.

  “Only once since I’ve lived on the island. Trouble is if the sea’s rough, which is most of the time, you’ve got to anchor quite a long way out so that your boat’s not smashed into a million pieces on the rocks that are hidden just below the surface. It’s also quite a long trek from St. Helier, where I usually berth my dive boat. In the winter, well you can forget it. The whole area becomes a maelstrom of treacherous water.”

  “So, why is it called the Devil’s Hole?” Dillon asked.

  “Well, the scientific explanation for it’s existence, is that the sea has naturally eroded the granite over many hundreds of years, and that’s what’s created the tunnel that runs right through the granite. But, it’s when the tide turns, that’s when this place comes to life. You see the water races through this tunnel at such a rate, that it comes out of the opening on the other side with such violence, and with the most eerie of sounds. Of course, the locals will tell you a very different story though, about how the devil carved it out of the granite, and that the noise you here coming up from below, is in fact the devil himself!”

  “Can you show us this place?” LJ asked.

  Chapman looked down at the chart for a moment before answering. “I’m not sure; it’s the sort of place you stay well clear of.”

  “What if we chartered you and your boat? I’ll happily pay you three times your going rate Rob, to make it worth your while.”

  “It’s not the money,” Chapman said. “It’s the waters around that particular area. Like I’ve already said, you can only dive there when it’s really calm, otherwise you’re likely to be smashed and mashed against the rocks. Whoever called that place the Devil’s Hole, wasn’t joking, believe me.”

  “Okay, I’ll accept what you’re telling us, Rob. But please listen to what I’ve got to say.” LJ said. “We’re not looking for that U-boat for personal gain or for that matter to desecrate a war grave. There is a religious artefact on U-683, or so we believe, which could cause problems for the British and American Governments if it fell into the wrong hands. All that we want to do is recover it as quickly as possible and no harm done.”

  “Tell me, what is it that’s on board the sub?” Chapman asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s classified, old son.” LJ said.

  “What a load of old bollocks. I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Levenson-Jones. I think I deserve to know, don’t you? After all you’re expecting me to get involved with three treasure hunters who I’ve only just met. Oh, and let’s not forget, that there’s good old lovable Hugo Malakoff and his thugs waiting in the wings ready to shoot whoever gets in their way. So either tell me, or I’m leaving right now!”

  “Are you saying that you’ll help us if you know?” LJ said calmly.

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Spear of Destiny?”

  “You mean the ancient weapon, supposedly forged by the equally ancient Hebrew prophet, Phineas. Legend has it, that whoever owns it is invincible in battle.”

  “Quite so, old son. I’d almost forgotten that you’re an archaeologist. However, you are correct, and that is what the U-boat was transporting for Adolf Hitler during those last few days of the Second World War.”

  “And Malakoff, where does he fit into all of this?”

  “He’s obviously after the same thing as we are,” LJ said. “His motive is a complete mystery at this time. But I’ll find out what it is, of that you can be assured.”

  “So, are you on board, Rob?�
� Dillon asked.

  “I guess so. Anyway I’ve always been a sucker for an adventure and we are the good guys, right?”

  “Just one thing, Rob. This goes no further than these four walls.” Dillon said.

  “I’ve got no problem with that, Jake.”

  “Good, just as long as it stays like that.” Dillon said.

  “I’ll say goodnight then, and see you at the dock first thing in the morning, Jake.”

  * * * Malakoff, sitting on the bridge deck of the Solitaire, looked through night-vision binoculars towards the Fisherman’s Lodge on the cliff top above Bonne Nuit. And a few moments later, the lights came on in Rob Chapman’s place.

  “So he’s back,” he said to Kurt who was standing beside him.

  “It would seem, that your plan to bring them all together is working, Mien Herr. All we need to do now is to wait for Dillon and Chapman to make their move sometime tomorrow morning.” Kurt said.

  “The bugs on board the two boats are working, I presume?”

  “I checked them earlier this evening, Mien Herr.”

  “Good, then you’ll be able to follow whichever boat they are in, thanks to the bugs. Take the inflatable, but I insist you keep your distance, Kurt. There will be no contact with them, until I give the order. Understood?”

  Kurt nodded and said, “Should I take the two divers with me, Mien Herr?”

  “Why not, but I doubt that anything will come of it. Chapman doesn’t know where U-683 is Kurt, of that I’m convinced. All that they’ve done is asked him for his advice on any possible locations. You wait and see; they’ll simply bumble around and do nothing but waste their time.” Malakoff sighed and shook his head.

  “Is there something wrong, Mien Herr?”

  “The Cunningham girl not knowing the location of the U-boat, is not right, Kurt. Quite frankly, I’m still of the opinion that she has the answer to this little puzzle. But, no matter. We’ll just have to rely on Mr Dillon and his associates to find the U-boat for us. By the way, if we did find the tunnel entrance and needed to blast our way in could Mazzarin and Zola deal with that?”