Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Read online

  On the Saturday morning, after breakfast Rumple took me down to the boathouse to take a look at the craft that was going to take the team to the Gin Fizz. “Well, I’m very impressed, Rumple. But how did you manage to get hold of a Phantom at such short notice?”

  Rumple, as I knew, was an expert in anything nautical. That was one of the reasons LJ had specifically chosen him for this assignment. “Oh, is that what it is, sir?” He said giving me a sideways glance. “This craft was already in here. The fax that we received shortly after we arrived just said to tell you that it’s fitted with the same bit of kit as the other boat; I presume you know what that means sir?”

  “Yes, I do know what that means, Rumple. Who sent the fax, by the way?”

  “I believe it was Mr Levenson-Jones, sir.”

  It was our good fortune that the boathouse had been built with sufficient room down one side to enable indoor loading and unloading of equipment comfortably, without anyone being able to watch from land or sea. Doors had been fitted at both ends making entry and exit very easy, which for us was a good thing as we were going to be using it at night. The next two hours were taken up cruising along the coast to get my bearings. I did, with a scornful glare from Rumple, indulge myself a little and put the forty six foot cruiser through her paces. I familiarised myself with the array of hi-tech navigation and communications equipment on board. I discreetly checked out the radar-jamming device, while Rumple was at the helm on our way out to look at the area over the dive site.

  We refuelled and, on arriving back at the boathouse, carefully checked and stowed all of the diving equipment.

  “Any problem obtaining that other piece of equipment?” I asked Rumple.

  “No sir, although Mr Levenson-Jones did say that the owners would like it back undamaged, if that was at all possible sir. I’ve stowed it safely in the forward rack, as you requested.”

  “Thank you, Rumple, just checking.”

  Saturday afternoon and most of the evening was spent calculating times, tides, distances and speed of all the various stages. As with all successful assignments sound planning is crucial, and due to the potentially hazardous nature of this one, particular care was being taken. The fact was that when the other member of my team arrived at the house on Tuesday, everything had to be in place and ready to go. We’d finished up by midnight and I said goodnight to Rumple, informing him that I had to be back in London by Sunday lunchtime.

  * * *

  Sandbanks: 10.00am - Sunday There were blue skies and sunshine in Dorset, a sharp thunderstorm on the M3 and then bright sunshine again as I came off the motorway. I glanced in my mirror, then switched on the radio. Up towards and over Putney Bridge, onto the New Kings Road just as another thunderstorm clattered above. Students walking and talking on their mobile phones, girls showing off the latest fashion in tattoos and belly button piercing. Right towards the Thames and then first on the left into Studdridge Street. Just before the end, left again and back towards the New Kings Road.

  Now I was sure. The black Ford Mondeo was following me. I turned left back onto the New Kings Road and then right, accelerating the Mercedes past Parsons Green Underground to the junction, and then right onto the Fulham Road. I pulled up by the entrance to the Fulham Broadway underground. The Mondeo came past me slowly as I searched the glove compartment for a nonexistent pad and pen. I watched out of the corner of my eye until it stopped perhaps twenty metres up the road, then I quickly cut across the road and headed towards the Kings Road. This left the black Mondeo facing the wrong way up the Fulham Road. Now to see how good they really were.

  I drove on past fashionable Victorian terraces behind which designer homes crouched, pretending to be traditional English houses. I stopped. I reached over to the passenger seat for my holdall, locked the car and walked back up the road I had just driven down to Tatiana’s house. Number 14 had wooden slatted blinds at the front windows and a narrow hallway that seemed never to end. I let myself in.

  Music playing provided a soft background sound while Tats floated around the kitchen fixing a large pot of freshly ground coffee. I stood and watched her from the kitchen doorway. She was wearing tight-fitting stonewashed jeans and a revealing top; her tan had not faded and the hair that hung across her forehead was still golden from the St Barts sunshine. She looked up. She was calm, her eyes as bright as sapphires.

  She said, “So, did you straighten out the Rumples?” “You make me sound like some sort of analyst,” I said, smiling.

  She moved across to me. Her kiss was sweet and lingering and through my shirt, I could feel her breasts lightly brushing against me.

  I said in barely a whisper, “Hello, stranger.”

  She poured the coffee into colourful art-pottery mugs. “You were followed here, you know.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said casually.

  “Why do you always do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know exactly what. You go all nonchalant and macho.”

  “OK relax. I know I was followed by a black Ford Mondeo, possibly all the way back from Bournemouth, certainly from the M3. I’ve no idea who it could be, perhaps it’s my tailor.”

  “Pay him,” said Tats. She stood well back from the window still looking down at the street. “He could be from the finance company; he has a base ball bat in his hand.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You are popular today, aren’t you? There are two more men across the road in a Porsche Boxster. Um, that car is rather gorgeous.”

  “You are joking, of course.”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  I walked over to the window. There it was, a Porsche of brilliant metallic blue, suitably grimy enough to have done a fast trip up the motorway. It was parked at an awkward angle behind a BMW estate about twenty metres up the road. On the pavement two aggressive looking men in dark suits were smoking cigarettes and one was talking on a mobile phone. I found my sport binoculars in the bottom of my holdall and focused on them and the car carefully.

  I said, “Well, they certainly aren’t working for any Government department we know of, judging from the cut of their suits and the car they’re driving.”

  Taking the binoculars from me, Tats went over to one of the tall narrow windows.

  “They appear to be getting back into the Porsche.” She turned back to me.

  “And they look like professionals, whoever they are.”

  “I was just thinking the same, but what are they doing following me around London on a Sunday afternoon?”

  Tats put down the binoculars and poured out the coffee in silence.

  “Go on,” I said, “Why I am I being chaperoned do you think, or could there be a connection between those two outside and this Gin Fizz project we are just about to start working on?”

  Tats handed me the mug of black coffee. I took a sip. “Umm – Colombian blend.”

  “You like the Colombian blend, don’t you?”

  “Depends on what mood I’m in,” I said.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’m in the mood, so I’m going to drink it, of course.”

  “No, silly, about those men outside.”

  “I’m going to find out who the hell they are.”

  “And how exactly are you going to do that?” Tats asked.

  “Well, I thought I would go out of the back door, run down the alley and around the block, I’ll then come at them from the other side of the road. As I approach them on the passenger side I’ll pull my automatic from its holster and smash the side window with the butt. At the same time I’ll shout instructions at them to get out of the car with their hands high in the air. Got it?”

  Tats looked at me wide eyed. “It’s really not had a good effect on you, that trip to the seaside, has it?”

  “Or perhaps I’ll try Vince Sharp, he’s bound to be in this weekend.” I used my mobile phone to ring the firm’s switchboard. The number I was using didn’t officially ex
ist, courtesy of a favour called in by the Partners from one of their pals at the Home Office. While waiting to connect I asked Tats what my pass code was for the current project.

  “Why is it that you can’t remember a simple word?” she said tersely, continuing to look out of the window.

  But before I could even comment, she answered for me.

  “No, don’t say it. It’s because you have much more important things on your mind and it all seems a bit trivial to you, doesn’t it? But, due to the very clandestine nature of the department that you occasionally work for, the firm has to have that added security; you know that as well as I do. The word that you’re racking your brain for, by the way is Tomcat”. She said. “Most appropriate, if you ask me,” she added with a smile.

  “Tomcat,” I said quickly to the voice at the other end, and was immediately connected to the special operations co-ordinator, Vince Sharp.

  “Vince,” I said, “it’s Jake.”

  “What an unexpected pleasure, and on a Sunday? It must be important.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  By this point in the conversation, voice recognition had been completed, with the recorder and scrambler running as standard procedure.

  “I’ve gone and grown two tails, Vince.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that old chap?” I could hear Vince tapping away furiously at his keyboard.

  “According to our data, we have no known reason for your current problem, but I’ll check with a specialist down the road; give me a description of both, will you.”

  I gave Vince the two car registration numbers along with details of make and colour just in case the plates were fake. I waited while he typed in the information and then read it all back to me.

  “Thanks, Vince, ring me back will you, I’m at Tats’ place here in London.”

  “Give me ten minutes, I need to make a phone call and more importantly make myself a nice cup of tea,” he said jovially.

  Tats poured me a second cup of coffee and produced a large fruitcake.

  “What is that?” I said in mock horror.

  “Don’t be cruel, you know that mummy likes to bake, anyway it’s your duty to eat a slice and say how nice it was next time you see her. I must say, you are careless sometimes, telling Vince where you are, you don’t know, someone could have been eavesdropping.”

  I said, “True - but highly unlikely. The software that we use for telephone scrambling is the most sophisticated on the market and with a chap like Vince sitting there well, need I say more?”

  The phone rang; it was Vince, asking me for the pass word. “Tomcat, what have you got for me?” I asked.

  “OK, you really do have a couple of tails, don’t you? The black one I’ve traced back to a security company in Hertfordshire. It’s a regular, used on the whole by the Government, my guess is that I’ll find that this one has cropped up a few times before. I’ll have to ferret around a little deeper tomorrow morning though.”

  I said quickly. “Try this Minister in particular, along with any dubious acquaintances he may have.” I gave Vince the name and left it at that.

  “What about the Porsche, why has that one appeared?”

  “Well, I’ve drawn a blank at present with that one, but I reckon it’s connected to the assignment that you’re about to start. I’ll have to come back to you when I know more, but why do you think the Mondeo is connected to this job?”

  “Call it a gut feeling. Anyway, thanks for checking these out for me, especially on a Sunday; I really appreciate it Vince.” I hung up.

  “What did he say?” Tats asked.

  “He confirmed what I thought. That maybe, just maybe, the reason those cars are following me is because of the Gin Fizz. Any movement outside while I’ve been on the phone?”

  “No, nothing, but hang on, the guy in the black Mondeo is walking up to the two in the Porsche and is now talking to them.”

  I walked over to the window. Peering through my binoculars, I could see that the two men in the Porsche were both speaking on their phones. The chap from the black Ford was standing with his hands deep in the pockets of his shabby check jacket. The men got out of the car and all three were talking on the pavement. Soon the two got back into the Porsche and drove away, but the black Ford remained outside.

  Tats and I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon waiting for Vince to call back.

  In between, she washed her hair and I read the Sunday Times from front to back. The TV was on, but I wasn’t watching; some sort of fly on the wall programme was coming to an end when my mobile phone rang.

  “The Porsche belongs to an acquaintance of our Minister, Oliver Hawkworth.” I said into the phone before he could speak.

  “Uncanny,” said Vince. “How did you know?”

  “Well I’ve been sitting here pondering;” I said. “I should have thought of it before. Friend Hawkworth has obviously got into bed with whoever really owns the contents of his safe on board the ‘Gin Fizz’. Whoever that is, owns the blue Porsche, I’d guess.”

  Vince said. “Good thinking chap. My source has come back with a confirmed owner for that blue Porsche. It belongs to a Robert Flackyard from Dorset.”

  “What else have you managed to find out about him, anything or nothing?”

  “What, at such short notice, give me a chance.” Vince said congenially.

  “But according to the tabloid info that I’ve been able to locate on the Internet, Flackyard likes to live life right on the edge, shall we say. At fifty-eight years of age, he owns a string of night clubs on the South Coast, as well as being a successful property developer. The only other thing that I can tell you from these articles is that there has been some speculation about how he conducts his business dealings. But, one thing’s for sure, he most definitely enjoys a playboy lifestyle around the globe. There is also a definite link between him and our ministerial friend. They have been photographed together at various functions on more than one occasion, but I’ll have to speak to someone tomorrow morning and request a detailed file on him. I’ll mark it urgent shall I?”

  “Urgent is definitely good, Vince. We have to know who we are really dealing with and why the interest in me. See what official information you can dig up; use the Partners to encourage the process. In the meantime, can you make sure that L.J. is brought up to speed when he arrives first thing in the morning. Oh and Vince, well done.” I hung up just as Tats walked into the room swathed in a large white towel, having showered.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “It’s as I thought, the black Ford belongs to a firm who are almost certainly working for our Minister, but Vince has to dig a bit deeper tomorrow. As for the Porsche, well I must admit that one is a surprise. It’s registered to a Robert Flackyard from Bournemouth, a wealthy entrepreneur and playboy. I think that firstly, he is almost certainly linked with Hawkworth; and secondly, if that is the case, then he is the owner of the counterfeiting plates and cocaine on board the Gin Fizz, but that’s only a guess.”

  “You say Robert Flackyard, that name rings a bell. I’m sure that a Mr R. Flackyard came to see one of the Partners last week.”

  “Do you know who he saw?” I asked.

  “No, it was an appointment that one of them made and then posted on the electronic diary. They sometimes do that when they’re working late, but there’s nothing unusual about it. They do it all the time.”

  “I want you to check both Partners’ personal diaries for last week the minute you get in tomorrow. I want to know which one of them saw this character and why.”

  Tats made a face at me and continued to paint a fingernail deep red. I put down my coffee cup, and walked over to where she was stood.

  “My nails are still wet,” she said, feigning protest and holding her arms high above her head, adding. “Jake, you mustn’t.”

  The towel slid easily to the floor ending up in a heap around her feet.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday eventually returned to somet
hing resembling normality. As evening approached the skies opened up for another thunderstorm, the man in the shabby check jacket and black Ford Mondeo decided enough was enough and left. Tatiana and I decided to eat out at a new Thai restaurant that had recently opened locally.

  Monday: 7.30am Monday was a clear bright morning at the end of May that warned you summer was set to pounce. I logged on to the firm’s secure server to receive my emails. A letter from the Rumples had been re-routed to me with confirmation that everything was in place and waiting for my arrival on the Tuesday. The only other in my mailbox was from LJ, instructing me to report at the office 9.30am sharp for his usual pep talk prior to an assignment. I nicked my chin while shaving and bled like I’d sprung a leak. I changed into another shirt. Arriving at the firm’s wharf side offices, I found LJ in a quiet rage because I had made him late for the Partners’ operational assignments meeting that takes place in that rather strange glass pyramid shaped room on the roof of the building the second Monday of each month.

  It was a terrible day and it hadn’t even begun yet. LJ went through all the rigmarole of my new assignment: code words and priorities for communicating with him as well as the other members of the team based in London.

  “I don’t know how she did it? But Tatiana has worked her charm on the Partners, and actually got them to agree to give you extra funding on this assignment. So please don’t let her, or them, down. I’ve suggested to all parties concerned, that it might be useful if you deal with Tatiana at all times.”

  “After all, she does have the Partners’ authority, should you have to go outside of your brief. You’ll remember, that after South America last year they said they would never indulge you again with extra funding.”

  “Big deal,” I said, eyeing the papers on his desk. “I had no options left open to me on that assignment, as you well know. Had I not paid off the local Police Commissioner I would probably still be rotting in a cell over there.”

  “Anyway, they’re saving a bundle this time by reducing the size of my team to four people, including myself.”

  “The nature of this assignment, old son, is such that the fewer people are involved, the better. Anyway, don’t be so touchy about that unfortunate incident, it could have happened to any of us.” To inflict extra pain LJ always gave a little smirk when referring to the South American incident.