“They choose the wine…” Harry went on. “… but I, Harry Caplin, select it.” Harry laughed a great boom of a laugh and slapped his thigh with his enormous hand.
* * *
Saturday 1.00pm That Saturday was one big long wasted day as I look back on it. We left Harry Caplin’s and returned to the house, to find one of Flackyard’s flunkies had phoned to inform us that the hand-over would not be taking place.
Instead, Mr Dillon was invited to call by at Mr Flackyard’s this evening to collect the samples for Mr Levenson-Jones in London to inspect. Charlie and Miss Price played backgammon arguing continuously about almost everything; eventually they agreed to disagree and went off to La Café for a drink. The Rumples had gone into town.
I cursed myself for forgetting the package of counterfeit Euros the night before. A repeat visit to Flackyard’s house was something I was definitely not looking forward to. On Rumple’s return, we had the expenses to discuss, as he was the only one LJ trusted with the bookwork as well as being in charge of the diving.
It was when Rumple was locking the accounts backup discs in the writing desk drawer that he noticed it.
We checked, sat down and thought about it, but Rumple found broken woodwork and then there was no doubt at all. Everything was as we had left it, the sea charts, Charlie’s sketches of the ocean bottom, but someone had stolen the photos that Rumple had taken of the Gin Fizz.
There is no alternative in situations like this. It wasn’t something that either of us found enthralling. In fact it was a sordid little job of the sort that constitutes much of our work. Rumple and I began to search everyone’s room. Apart from the usual personality insights that these searches always provide, there was only one remarkable thing. Among the several articles in Fiona’s room that a young single woman in the employ of a mundane Government department shouldn’t have in her possession was a small revolver and silencer, together with about twenty rounds of ammunition.
* * * LJ had sent one of the company’s helicopters down to take Charlie and me back to London. It was a fine clear night when I went out to the airport via Flackyard’s house. There were lights on, and outside in the sweeping drive there was a silver Mercedes and a red Ferrari, each brand new with local plates. Further along the exclusive road under a flowering cherry tree was Harry Caplin’s old black Mk1 Jaguar.
I knew that, as surely as sugar is sweet, a blue Porsche would be somewhere near by. It was. This only reinforced my suspicion, that there was more to Caplin than he was portraying, and that he had deliberately gone out of his way to introduce himself to Charlie and me, that day in La Café.
A bell jangled deep in the interior and echoed back like a laughing hyena. I rang again. Finally and to my surprise, Flackyard himself opened the door, and he passed me the package from his inside jacket pocket. It was still wrapped in brown paper and held together with clear tape. Charlie had the motor running when I got back to the Mercedes.
As we drove to the airport, we discussed the assignment and how we thought it was going in light of recent developments. Both Fiona Price and the Rumple’s names cropped up in the conversation a number of times. We found our reserved parking space with ease, slotting the Mercedes in one manoeuvre. The warm night air held the aroma of aviation fuel that had been spent through hot jet engines, and as we approached the main terminal building I spotted our pilot standing over by the entrance. Once we’d scrambled aboard the sleek Bell Jet Ranger helicopter the rotors were engaged and within a minute we were airborne. Before I knew it we were skirting the Gatwick air traffic control zone. In the small cabin the instruments glowed and with a sudden leap the pilot had taken us through the low clouds. The bright lights of the city cut through the fine mist that was now shrouding London as we descended towards the heliport. My thoughts were bizarrely, where the hell was Charlie staying tonight?
Chapter 9
London 11.00pm Levenson-Jones picked one up and held it under the banker’s lamp on his desk. The note was as perfect a forgery as you’re likely to get anywhere.
“Just gave you a bundle of these, did he?” said LJ. He opened a fresh packet of cigars and lit one. “Very good, he obviously took what I had to say to him seriously. This really is an excellent piece of work,” he continued still holding the note to the light.
The phone rang. Zara said she’d run out of ground coffee and would instant do. It was gone midnight and LJ told her to go home and get some sleep, but she brought up the coffee for us, and her smile was like a shaft of summer sunshine. LJ handed her the forged Euro note. The paper was crisp and rustled as she turned it over in her elegant hands.
Zara studied each side of the note carefully, and looked up at me and then at LJ.
“Isn’t it just as I said, Mr Levenson-Jones?”
“Yes, you were right, Zara,” said LJ. “A quite exceptional forgery.”
“But didn’t I tell you that it would be? When that Mr Flackyard visited the Partners that time, he had a wad of these with him. I knew I was right.”
So the Partners had already seen the quality of the counterfeit notes before we had even started the assignment. No wonder they were so keen to get involved.
Zara trotted off home at 1.30am and over our coffee LJ and I sat down and talked about the situation in Dorset and how the budget was going and how many days to his family holiday in Tuscany. That it all seemed a lot of expense for two weeks away, but his wife and kids liked it; then LJ suddenly said, “You never relax, Jake; it’s getting you down, this job?”
It wasn’t that he’d change it, if it was, he just liked to know it all.
“I can’t make it fit together,” I said, “and some things are too convenient.”
“Convenience, dear boy, is just a state of mind,” said LJ.
“It’s understanding that’s important. Understanding the symptoms you encounter will refer you to just one disease. You find a man with a pain in the foot and the hand and you wonder what he could possibly be suffering from with two such disparate symptoms.”
“Then you find that while hitting a nail with a hammer one day he slips and whacks his hand, dropping the hammer which lands on top of his foot.”
“OK,” I said, “so much for ER. Now listen to my problems. First of all, why are we even talking to these nutty old retired Italian generals? Do they really think that they could possibly take over the Mafia in Sicily, and why are the Partners getting involved with such a foolhardy enterprise anyway? Because of this, I’m ordered to dive into a sunken boat that belongs to a coke sniffing member of Parliament, and who just happens to be involved with a south coast gangster, to retrieve his plates that will produce counterfeit money.”
“Why? To give to the generals, and which will ultimately save the firm millions.”
“So far so good, but while I am returning from Bournemouth two cars follow me up the motorway. The first, we discover is owned by a Private Investigator working for our Minister, and the other’s owned by Flackyard and driven by two of his suited goons. When I ask for files to be pulled on both, what do you know they never appear…”
“They will,” said LJ patiently, “It’s only that Special Branch are involved on both counts. That’s hampered my progress in obtaining them, that’s all.”
I gave him the curly lip treatment. “OK, so what about Fiona Price. Is she just a lowly employee of HMG? Or is she in reality something quite different? After all, she does sleep with a silenced pistol under her pillow?”
“I must admit I’ve run another check on her and she appears to have an exemplary career record; in fact it’s totally without blemishes. I’d say it was almost certainly fictitious.” LJ offered.
“Yes, perhaps it’s too perfect, but I’m at a complete loss as to who she is working for and why she has been landed on my assignment. Oh, and I agree, her work record is completely false without a doubt, but her ability and expertise is real enough.”
LJ took out a monogrammed handkerchief and lowered his nose into it,
like he was going from the eighth storey window into something held by six firemen. He blew his nose loudly. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, she arrives unannounced telling us that she comes with your blessing on behalf of HMG. Her instructions are to retrieve the logbook from the Gin Fizz and not to go back to London without it. But when it can’t be found, she creates a song and dance about the trouble that she will be in for not locating it, but quite frankly her performance was very weak and I for one found her unconvincing. Unfortunately for her and luckily for us, I got to it before she did.”
I handed LJ the logbook. “You might find this interesting bedtime reading. Another thing that was odd, when we discovered the opium,” I put one of the waxy brown parcels down onto LJ’s desk, “her reaction was a little too relaxed. Especially as we all thought it was explosives we were dealing with. Finally, both Charlie and I agree that she had the opportunity on a number of occasions to take the photographs of the Gin Fizz. But why? We haven’t figured that one out, yet.”
“Are you sure you’re not blowing this all out of proportion, Jake?” LJ’s tone was patronising.
“No I am not, “I said loudly. “From the very start of this assignment the elusive Oliver Hawkworth has, I feel, been manipulating all of us. Flackyard is far more devious and powerful than we’ve given him credit for, and I for one will be watching my back from now on.”
“Ah…” LJ hesitated “… you think it’s a frame up, don’t you,” he said thoughtfully.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” I asked.
“It’s an American expression that…” then he saw me grinning and he frowned.
I went on, “Then there’s is this American, Harry Caplin, I can’t be sure but my guts tell me that he’s involved up to his fat little neck with those opium packages. But, I don’t think it’s with Flackyard…” My thoughts went back to the photograph of the hunting party at his house in Sandbanks. “He’s got more of an international flavour this one, of that I am sure.”
“So what do you conclude?” asked LJ.
“I don’t conclude anything,” I said, “but if I see a man waving the Stars and Stripes above his head I wonder if he’s trying to tell me something about his national characteristics, and I wonder why.”
“What about these photos of the boat that have gone missing?” LJ asked.
“Stolen. Whoever took them, wasted their time. They’re of little consequence now, especially as the Gin Fizz no longer exists, and the photos are only general shots anyway.”
“I hope for your sake that you’re certain of that old son,” said LJ sardonically, as he tried to touch his nose with his tongue.
“Yes, absolutely certain,” I said.
“Well, that’s OK then, but you must understand the Partners’ point of view; they don’t want to upset the status quo. There’s far to much at stake. You must look at the bigger picture as they do Jake. Take off the blinkers sometimes.”
“Oh, I do,” I said seriously. “Well now, that’s the Partners’ position as a rule, isn’t it? Not to upset anyone, don’t upset all the good work we’re doing – all that crap. Now doesn’t it strike you as odd that the Partners encourage us into this set-up and tell us, mark you, not to let anyone know what we’re doing off the coast of Dorset? But they are all bright smiles and winking eyes about it? They send down, this very attractive young woman, simply to help us?”
“Well, what do you want me to do about Miss Price?” LJ Said tapping his pen on the rim of his coffee cup.
“Give her back to whoever she belongs to.” I replied.
“Now then, Jake,” said LJ, “please be reasonable. I know that should be what we do, but it’s not that simple. The Partners and even the police want her left in place for the time being, just watch what you do and say around her. What else do you want me to do?”
“Just one thing,” I asked, “keep the wraps on that logbook from the Gin Fizz. Just don’t say a word about it to anyone. Let’s keep it between Charlie, you and me for the time being. You’ll see why when you’ve had a chance to read it through.”
“And Robert Flackyard,” LJ said, just so that I knew he was agreeing to do so. (He would never promise to go against company policy in so many words.) He continued as though I hadn’t mentioned the book. “The Price woman,” he said, “you might as well use her talents, and we’ll let whichever department she works for worry about what to do with her when this affair is over and done with. As you say, she’s capable and quick thinking. You never know. You may even grow to like her.”
I suppose I must have snorted as I closed the office door behind me.
Chapter 10
My converted loft apartment overlooks the river Thames in a fashionable part of town; I got back there at 7.30am after the all-night discussions with LJ. I paid the cab driver and climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the building.
I flicked on the heating control to constant, went into the kitchen and boiled a kettle. While I was waiting for the coffee to filter through I phoned Charlie, his mobile was switched off and his voice mail on. The message was simply for him to collect me at about four o’clock this afternoon. LJ had asked me to collect his car from the airport as we were going past it on the way to see a man who dealt in snippets of information that could be relevant to the Dorset assignment. LJ had left it there on his return from New York the previous day; as usual he’d had too much Champagne in business class.
I poured a generous measure of whisky into the black coffee and sipped it slowly. A night without sleep was beginning to pound my temples gently and tighten the muscles in the back of my neck. It was 8.15am I went to bed, then somewhere in the building a vacuum cleaner began its fiendish flagellation. I closed my eyes.
* * * I looked at my watch in the darkness. The doorbell was ringing. I had slept nine hours, and now Charlie McIntyre was at the door, eager to get to grips with his evening of freedom in the big city. He had a brand new Audi TT from the firm’s car pool. Only senior executives who had to go out of the city to visit clients used these. But on this occasion, as we were doing LJ an immense favour, he had authorised the vehicle for our use.
I had a shower, shaved and threw on the nearest smart casual clothes that came to hand. Charlie was eager to get back in the Audi and give it a blast down the motorway to the airport. It was a pleasure to see him handle the powerful car; his nimble hands stroked the controls as we slipped through the traffic with effortless ease and a skill he never otherwise showed. “Nowhere,” said Charlie quietly as we approached another intersection, “do the English show a greater enthusiasm to queue than on motorways.” He used the horn with Italian enthusiasm, indicated and moved the Audi over and out into the fast lane, accelerating with such speed that my whole body was pushed back into the leather seat and held there momentarily. Charlie moved past the queuing traffic with ice cool skill until we had left them in the rear view mirror.
When we arrived at Heathrow Airport he parked on double yellow lines just behind the taxi rank, and left the engine running. We drew matchsticks to see who would drive the Range Rover back to the office. Charlie won, so I would follow in the Audi.
It was 6.30pm, the sky had grown dark and menacing again and I felt fingers of rain tapping me on the shoulder. I gave Charlie the keys to LJ’s car pointing to where he always parked; we could see the dark green Range Rover Vogue from where we were standing. I went over to the newspaper vendor at the entrance to the terminal. The headline on the board read; BUSH TO CONTINUE WAR ON TERRORISM. I bought the Times and walked back out into the drizzle.
The lights of the car park created an almost surreal scene. I could see Charlie at the far end; he opened the door of the four wheel drive vehicle got in and started the powerful 4.6 litre petrol engine, switched on the head lights and drove around the one way system to the exit. As he emerged the rain tore little gashes through the long beams.
At the top of the ramp he stopped to let the exit barrier rise. From inside the car came
an intense light; each window was a white rectangle, and the driver’s door opened very quickly. It was then that the blast sent me across the wet pavement like a paper cup. The explosion lifted the heavy vehicle off the ground and flipped it over like a tiddly wink.
“Get back in the car,” I thought. Getting to my feet, I unconsciously rubbed my cut and bleeding hands down the front of my shirt. A current of cold air told me of a two-inch gash in my right leg. People ran past towards the burning car. The explosion had sent flames everywhere and a siren had began to sound close by. I heard one of the security guards shouting.
“Quickly, get the fire crew and medics here!” I got back into the Audi, eased it into first gear and inched out slowly from behind the row of taxis. From the car park I heard another “boom” and saw a flash as the petrol tank exploded.
I drove around the roundabout. “Other way, mate,” said one of the cabbies.
The grazed palms of my hands were throbbing and the steering wheel was wet with blood and sweat. I took out my mobile phone and pressed the speed dial for the firm’s unofficial number.
An armed policeman, machine gun in hand waved me on to the main road away from the airport. I made sure that I was well on my way before I made the call to the office. They answered almost immediately, asking for my personal code name.
“Go ahead Jake.”
“I regret to inform you that; the dark green Range Rover we were collecting for our colleague had developed a serious wiring fault while in the car park. Neither the car or the driver survived the shock.”
“That is very sad news, Jake. How are you proceeding, please?”
“M25, I should be back indoors within an hour.”
“Thank you, Jake, we will monitor the situation.”
When LJ phoned me he was touchingly concerned for my safety, but remembered that he had to contact his insurance company. He said, “We can’t afford to have them getting curious about how it happened before the firm has had a chance to call in a favour or two with the police.”
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 7
