Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Read online

  Andrew Towning

  The Constantine Legacy, Andrew’s inaugural Jake Dillon novel was first published in 2006. Andrew’s writing is a reflection of his extensive travels and inherent interest in national security and covert operations. Andrew lives in Dorset, where many of Dillon’s tours take place, with his family and he is currently completing yet another novel in the series of Dillon adventure thrillers.

  The Constantine Legacy

  ---------------------------------Andrew Towning

  Copyright Andrew Towning 2006 All rights reserved. There is no part of this book that may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by any means without written permission of Andrew Towning, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in their review to be printed or reproduced for social media broadcast.

  Cover photography by Jennie Franklin Photography.

  ISBN: 978-1482730203 First published in the United States in 2006 Second edition published in Great Britain in 2013 Published by Andrew Towning

  www.andrewtowning.co.uk ACKNOWLEDGEMENT For my family, Paula, Harriet and Eloise... ...with love

  Chapter 1

  London: Wednesday morning I loosened my tie, took off my jacket and casually threw it over the back of a chair in the far corner of the small bland office. I returned here after each assignment and took comfort in the thought that it wasn’t a place I had to visit very often.

  I’d been on the Ferran & Cardini payroll for just over a year now. It was an investment company that didn’t really have any clients or anything to invest in, which was just as well because I didn’t know the first thing about that! Life was good. I got paid a large six figure retainer, and I received a cash in hand bonus after every job. I still wasn’t sure which MI5 department Declan Ferran and Richard Cardini had worked for, but I wasn’t complaining. This was no two-bob company, and the smart Docklands property displayed a façade of respectability and wealth.

  The building, above ground level, was everything you’d expect with a spacious reception area, and lots of stainless steel and tinted glass. Even the security guards looked real.

  My office and the other rooms that made up the special projects department were located four floors down. An innocent looking tradesman’s entrance at the side of the building gave access to a bomb-proof elevator, which only allows you entry after you’ve been biometrically scanned.

  Edward Levenson-Jones, LJ for short, was my immediate boss. When I gave him the report of my last assignment, he put it onto his desk like the foundation stone of the British Museum, and said. “The Partners want to introduce a couple of new ideas for tackling the issue of this large sum of money that has been pledged to those high spirited Italians you spoke to some weeks back.”

  “For us to tackle them!” I corrected.

  “Well done, good to see you’re still on the ball, old son. Because you’ll always need to be one step ahead with this next job.”

  “You forget that I’m already covered in scar tissue as a result of the Partners’ good ideas.”

  “Well, as luck would have it, this one is better than most,” LJ said, ignoring my remark.

  I personally saw each job as having a high risk factor to the people who were involved, and this one was definitely sounding as if it were on the fringe; but LJ, with his colourful bow ties and Panatela cigars, was my immediate boss and his decision was final.

  Inside the wall safe lay a bundle of papers with the firm’s crest upon it, the information no doubt extremely sensitive. He picked the papers out and quickly flicked through them.

  “Anyway, the cheeky buggers have come back to us, and want the Partners to stump up the money sooner than was agreed. Apparently they want to see a sign of good will to their cause, so to speak.”

  “Do they now,” I said sardonically, “I bet the Partners agreed immediately to that?”

  LJ shot me one of his looks over the top of his glasses. “Well, funnily enough old son, a file was handed to me by one of my old pals over at MI5 two days ago, that may just tie in with all this.”

  “Suppose, just for one moment, that there was a way of giving the Italians what they wanted, but without it costing the firm a penny?”

  I didn’t say a word. He went on.

  “Approximately three miles off the coast of Dorset there’s a sunken boat by the name of the Gin Fizz, and on-board is a safe with two items inside.”

  “One of these items people of a criminal type, shall we say, would go to great lengths to get hold of if they knew of its existence.”

  He smiled, and sipped his coffee. I still said nothing. LJ continued enthusiastically, his voice upbeat.

  “This boat is thirty metres down on the seabed, and as usual, the Partners are being cagey about the details. They’re saying that she got into trouble and sunk. I personally think that she was scuttled. Either way, she went down, crew and all. But would you believe it, the skipper miraculously survived. Now, you may be wondering, how we know about this, and why we’re getting involved? Well, the Gin Fizz happens to belong to the Cabinet Minister, Oliver Hawkworth. For obvious reasons, he doesn’t want anyone to know where that boat is. That’s why I now have the file, and because this may get messy, MI5 doesn’t want any involvement.”

  “But, surely the coastguard would have picked her up on their radar?”

  “The full time skipper,” LJ said walking over to a tall cupboard and extracting a large scale chart, “Had been replaced with another, and he was under strict instructions to have no radio communication, whatsoever. And anyway, the Gin Fizz was fitted with a very sophisticated radar jammer.”

  “Hawkworth is saying that it was so he could sneak away for the occasional dirty weekend without his minders tracking him. So you see absolutely no one apart from the Partners and I know where she is at this present moment.”

  My boss is one of those men, who whenever he tells you about something, has to doodle or draw. On this occasion he started by tracing a line along the French coastline, which also showed the Channel Islands and the English coast.

  “Now then,” he said spreading the chart further over the conference table. “The information that we have, is that the Gin Fizz started her journey about here.” He put a mark on the chart, near to La Rochelle on the West coast of France. “She set off at first tide and made her way up the coast to a point, somewhere about here.” He marked a point just off the Normandy coast, near to Sillon de Talbert, continuing his line up towards Jersey.

  “Now, somewhere between the Normandy coast and Jersey she met up with another much larger vessel and according to the skipper, who I might add, has already been extensively questioned by MI5, it was at this point a small package was transferred from an unmarked ship, over to the Gin Fizz.”

  “According to his report, the men on board the other vessel were all heavily armed.”

  “What about the nationality of this other ship?”

  “Don’t know. You see the ship appeared to have no markings or flags flying. But the skipper did mention that the men on board had an Asian look about them, and that the overall appearance of them and their vessel was extremely sea-worn!”

  The line went on up to the Channel Islands and stopped. “Of course we can be relatively sure that this part of the voyage is correct, because it would seem that she was spotted on the way to Jersey. I had my source at the coastguard in the Channel Islands do a small favour for me, and run a check for that date and time, and sure enough the Gin Fizz had filed her course with the authorities there, and the same applied when he checked with the French.”

  “What did your chap at the coastguard say
about the course of the Gin Fizz after she left their waters?” I asked.

  LJ looked at the chart laid out before us. “Well - it all gets a bit strange at this point really,” he said. It would appear that she is still tied up at Bouilly Port near St. Brelades Bay, where she’s been since she docked a week ago.”

  He saw my puzzlement at this, even before it had arrived on my face.

  “So what’s the scam, if she’s now lying at the bottom of the English Channel?” I asked.

  “I did say you would need to be one step ahead on this one. The thought that I had was that they used two identical boats, or if you like a nautical doppelganger. The one now tied up at Bouilly Port is the clean decoy, while the other fitted with the radar jammer sailed for England, after having all the goodies transferred to her.”

  I got up and paced across the office, stretching my back as I went. I said, “Well this is all very intriguing LJ, and you have my undivided attention.”

  “But – what’s so special about the contents of that safe that would merit swapping boats, the Partners’ interest and indeed this department’s involvement?”

  LJ was one of those people who had to build up to a grand finale. “Well it’s very simple really. Inside that safe are two plates of the highest quality, for counterfeiting Euro note currency, oh and a half a kilo of cocaine. The Partners told me that our friend in Government is crapping himself, this boat sinking was definitely not on the agenda. It’s an absolute catastrophe for him in his position, especially as he had lent the dammed thing to one of his cronies for the weekend. So you see, the need for discretion and the utmost secrecy is vital.”

  “Forgive me if I’ve got this all wrong. But are you suggesting that we actually give the Italians counterfeit Euros to fund their fight against the Sicilian Mafia?”

  “If only it were that simple,” LJ said with a heavy sigh. He took out another slim Panatela cigar and lit it.

  “The idea is that we get the plates and the cocaine from the sunken boat, in order for the Partners to return them, temporarily you understand, to the person who owns them. We then get paid in sterling by Hawkworth for clearing up this mess, and as a bonus our Minister’s friend produces a large sum of counterfeit currency as a little thank you, which we will then hand over to the Italians.”

  “Oh no!” I said. “You surely haven’t agreed to stoop that low – have you?”

  “What the hell do the Partners think we are down here?”

  “I sometimes wonder,” agreed LJ raising his eyebrows, “but I suppose the Partners have to look after certain parties, especially those that are politically sensitive.”

  “Don’t give me their sob story, it might make me break down and cry.”

  LJ nodded, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes with his fingertips.

  “Look Jake, the Partners want us to retrieve these items. It’s a way of stopping a scandal from hitting the gutter press, and the fact is, how shall I put this? Favours that can be banked, will be banked. It should last the firm for years to come, and we also get paid a handsome fee for our trouble. Another factor is that a certain member of a certain family is long overdue for retirement in Sicily. All this can be achieved without implicating the firm or costing the Generals or us a penny. Comment?”

  “You mean that the Generals are going to use the ‘funny money’ to fund a Mafia war in Sicily, to buy weapons and then to finance their own dubious ventures afterwards?”

  “Quite so,” said LJ.

  “Call me cynical but, there is obviously more to this than you’re telling me?”

  LJ tried his impression of loosening up a little and said patiently, “Look, old son, it’s like this. The boat sinking is merely coincidence and the fact that she belongs to a Cabinet Minister is just our good luck. True, it does now play a small part, in what is very much a bigger picture with the Italians. She holds a vital element - the plates - and yes you have been chosen to dive and retrieve what’s inside that safe.”

  I said nothing.

  “Look, the firm is in a very strong position,” said LJ. “If the Italians do manage to create a re-organisation of control in Sicily, we as a firm stand to not only make millions out of it, but will have been, in our own small way, instrumental in changing the lives of thousands of families forever. It really is as simple as that.”

  “Oh, I can see how the Partners’ devious minds are working. They’re naturally working the firm into a position, where both of these clients will be inextricably indebted to us. While at the same time creating a flood of counterfeit currency throughout Europe. Brilliant, because this in turn will create panic and instability in the Euro as a currency. The rate will drop through the floor, which will be good news for anyone buying that currency at precisely the right time. But they’re wrong.”

  Levenson-Jones looked up sharply, and began tapping his pen on the desk.

  “You think so?” he said.

  “I know so,” I told him. “This Minister will be watching his back, and the Italians are tough guys. They’ve all been around. They’re just as likely to double cross the firm if things don’t go their way in Sicily. After all it was probably the Mafia who gave them their rank in the first place. Then the Partners will be all about urgent emails, all the way back down to us when the shit hits the fan.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes; LJ sat there with his lower lip jutted forward, tapping it with his pen. In between this he said “Umm” five times.

  After a few minutes of this, he got up out of his chair and began to pace, not wanting eye contact with me as he spoke.

  “I want to tell you something. Two days ago, when I first got wind of this, I spoke to an old friend and colleague of yours, Carter over at Military Intelligence. I believe you worked with him when you were there. He told me that he knew of only fifty people in this country, who had the expertise and knowledge to carry off an assignment of this type, discreetly. He said that there were only five who could do it undetected. Carter said that you would be his unconditional choice.”

  “Was he drunk at the time?” I said.

  “Perhaps,” said LJ, who considered anyone with talent, as dubious.

  “But the Partners might wish to reconsider their options if they knew that you were against it.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I told him. “The Partners will never pass up a opportunity of making money and acquiring favours from the Government. They’re probably up in the atrium now gorging themselves on self-congratulation.”

  * * * I was right. Within twenty-four hours, I had an email confirming the Dorset assignment. This was to be the first stage of a two-part operation.

  As LJ had said when I voiced my doubts, “But there is no one else for this job, old son. Firstly, you lived in Dorset for many years and know your way around the local coastline. Secondly, you speak four languages fluently with the correct syntax, and your considerable army intelligence training, which I might add, will be crucial to the success of the job.” And last of all, he threw in, “Oh, and you’re a qualified wreck diver, of course.”

  Chapter 2

  London: 3.45pm – Friday Friday afternoon and the drive down to Dorset started frustratingly slowly.

  The roads around the city were at bursting point; people dashing frenetically in all directions to start their weekends. But once the M25 was in the Mercedes’ rear view mirror, I relaxed a little, increasing the volume of the music beating out as I flew down the M3, onto the M27 and west towards Bournemouth. Penetrating drizzle had been escaping from the low cloud since I joined the motorway at Southampton; the glow from the dash clock showed 5.30pm. Half an hour later I was on the outskirts of Bournemouth, nearing my destination - a rented house situated on the Sandbanks peninsula near to Poole.

  This exclusive and enchanting area of Dorset is surrounded by ocean with only one road in and out. There are far reaching views out to sea and along the white sand beaches in either direction. The house that the firm had taken on a short
lease had direct water frontage with its own mooring and boathouse. The property itself was large enough to accommodate four to five people comfortably. A private drive was entered via high security electric gates, under the watchful eye of a CCTV camera.

  I pulled up and pushed the intercom button. A man’s voice almost immediately boomed at me through the speaker, gruffly asking me to identify myself. Looking up and smiling at the camera, I said; “Really, Rumple, we only spoke ten minutes ago, do we have to go through this every time we work together?”

  “You know the procedure sir. For all I know you could be an impostor. The rules are there for a reason.”

  After the week I’d just been through, I gave in easily. “Oh, very well, Mr Rumple, you win.”

  Rumple eventually opened the gates and let me into the drive. I could see two of the firm’s very special field operatives standing at the front door, waiting to greet me. We had worked together on numerous occasions over the years; their talent and expertise was invaluable as they had a knack for blending in virtually anywhere without attracting attention. In reality they were both highly trained and well organised professionals, who for many years had been employed by the Government on various deep cover surveillance assignments. I parked the Mercedes inside one of the double garages. Greeted them both, and was immediately shown up to my room. I always travel light, so unpacking took all of a few minutes. After a refreshing shower and a change of clothes I went downstairs, where Mrs Rumple had prepared a culinary feast as was customary whenever we worked together and there was an excellent full-bodied red wine to wash it down.

  After dinner, I had a look around and was briefed on the progress that they had made since arriving at the house on the Thursday morning. As I expected, every detail was being attended to, all of the equipment that I had requested was already neatly arranged in the second garage awaiting my inspection. All that remained was for me to see the boat and to take a look at the general area the next day.