Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Read online

  “All right,” I said, “but you don’t have to be so bloody gloating about it.”

  LJ turned over the next paper on his desk. “Equipment.”

  He was looking at me over the tops of his glasses; I could see that a lecture was coming, so before he could read on, I interrupted.

  “Yes, the matter of equipment. Are you aware the Partners have insisted that I am to personally insure all special equipment on this assignment?”

  “Have they any idea how much that is going to cost me.”

  “You do have a reputation, old son. I’m fully aware of the insurance, of course, but unfortunately the accountants have reported back to the Partners.”

  “The fact is that last year alone, you destroyed and mislaid over two hundred thousand pounds worth of equipment. Admittedly, your assignments do tend to be, how shall we say, a little more arduous than those of the others. But you really must be more careful. Most of this kit is loaned to us by Her Majesty’s Government.”

  “That’s as it may be. But who the hell in there right mind would insure equipment of this nature?”

  LJ produced a document from a pile of papers, pushing it across the desk to me.

  “If you could read the declaration, sign and date it, I will take care of the rest for you. Cover will start as of midnight.”

  I signed and dated all the relevant boxes. “I suppose I should’ve known.”

  I said with a nod. “There’s one other thing, while we are on the subject of equipment. I really do feel I should have a weapon, say a handgun.”

  There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of LJ snapping his pencil.

  “Handgun?” he said. “Are you going out of your mind, old son?”

  “Just a thought, boys and their toys, you know,” I said.

  “Quite so, old son,” LJ said, “but they really are nasty, noisy, dangerous toys. How would you feel if you pinched your finger in the mechanism or something?”

  I picked up the copy of insurance along with the inventory of equipment to be used on the assignment and walked over to the door.

  “Mr and Mrs Rumple will expect you tomorrow at 7.30am sharp,” he said from behind his desk; “I would appreciate it if you would have the new European Network blueprint finished and emailed to me before you leave, and…”

  He removed his glasses and started to polish them very carefully. “That Glock 10mm automatic you have that I’m not supposed to know about. Please don’t take it with you, old son, we don’t want any accidents, now do we?”

  “As if I would,” I said over my shoulder, as I closed the door behind me.

  That day I completed my report for LJ on the new European Network. The idea was to have people in positions of usefulness feeding information back to the firm’s headquarters in London.

  All of them would be switchboard and computer operators, personal assistants or telecom repair technicians working in embassies, foreign government departments and stock exchanges. It meant setting up a recruitment consultancy abroad, which would specialise in this type of personnel. As well as describing the new idea, my report had to outline the operational side, i.e. planning, communications and procedures to ensure that anyone who was detected could not lead to anyone else. The structure for sending messages up and down the network had to ensure that no contact was made between sender and receiver. As far as the Partners were concerned the most important factor of the report was the balance sheet, how much was it going to cost and how much estimated extra revenue it would bring in.

  Tats finished typing the report by 6.30 p.m. I checked it through and then emailed it to LJ as well as taking two hard copies and backup disks, one to put in the firm’s strong room and the other for my safekeeping. I had only one other thing to do before we left, and that was to memorise my communications priority codes for my present assignment.

  The firm’s switchboard is manned twenty four hours a day. Our department however has an automated system, which can be entered only by using our mobile phones and a series of touch-tone codes. The link is made via a satellite and filters the call through a random route of countries to any person, department or overseas office that you wish to speak to within Ferran & Cardini International. The call is then monitored, scrambled, and recorded; anyone trying to intercept or bug the call has a digital impulse spike sent down the line to destroy the phone or equipment being used.

  We left discreetly by our own side entrance and walked quietly by the river.

  Tatiana told me which Partner had seen Robert Flackyard the previous week, but could ascertain no further information about why. I asked her not to copy the new Network report to the Partners just yet and suggested an excuse that she could give them. I knew LJ would not approach anyone with the report until he had spoken to me in person on my return from the assignment.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday: 7.15am As I approached my destination the early morning air pressed its damp nose against the Mercedes windscreen. Ocean sand and water were thrashing together in endless permutations, and three miles out in the depths beyond was the wreck of the Gin Fizz that had brought me here.

  For this assignment Rumple had thought of everything, including the other team member, Charlie McIntyre. LJ had relented and given in to his request to have him on board, on the grounds that as only the best would do, the minister could foot the bill. At twentynine years of age Charlie was a first rate wreck diver and extremely talented with a knife and explosives.

  Ten minutes after I had arrived at the rented house, an old beaten-up VW beetle camper came to a halt at the gates. Driving it was a youngish male, with unruly fairhair. He got out of the bright yellow Volkswagen, walked up to the intercom and pressed the button.

  Rumple answered almost immediately, his gruff voice booming. “Hello – state your name and business.” The voice at the other end was well educated and articulate. The monitor screen showed a tanned face with classic good looks, and an effervescent smile. Charlie McIntyre’s piercing blue eyes looked straight into the lens of the CCTV camera.

  “Good to have on board again, Charlie,” I said, as he stepped out of the old van into the brilliant sunshine.

  Charlie came over and gave me a big brotherly hug, we shook hands and I knew what was coming. His grip was solid, like a vice, and the pressure made my knuckles go white. But, as was customary, I returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm. His grip had strengthened since the last time we had worked together and I thought for a split second that I was going to have to give in. Which meant, that for the first time ever, I would have to buy him a very large drink at the local bar. Thankfully Charlie had never bested me.

  “One of these days, I’ll do for you, Jake Dillon.”

  “In your dreams, Charlie boy. But we really must get out of this dreadful custom of trying to crush each others’ fingers every time we meet.” Mr and Mrs Rumple just looked on in utter disbelief.

  “Anyway, how’s your shoulder after your last assignment?”

  “One hundred per cent now, thanks. Would you believe it though, I only finished the blasted physiotherapy about a month ago.” Lowering his voice conspiratorially, so that the Rumples couldn’t overhear, he went on. “But there was an up side to ripping my shoulder. As a bonus. This rather lovely therapist called Julia insists that I keep going back on a regular basis for what she calls a personal fitness assessment.”

  “Like I said, it’s good to have you on board for this one, Charlie.”

  After a spot of breakfast on the terrace we had coffee followed by Mrs Rumple going out and Rumple checking the Phantom and equipment down at the boathouse.

  Charlie and I went over the plan for the dive. The gate monitor showed a woman looking up at the camera.

  “Anyone else coming to play, Jake? Asked Charlie. “Only there is one very attractive female at the gate, just about to push the intercom.”

  “No, I’ve got all the team here. What does she look like?”

  “Well – let’s see now,
mid thirties, dark hair, tall, I’d say about five nine to five ten, full lips and curves where they should be. Oh, and an extremely well tailored linen suit, with not much underneath – perhaps?”

  “Very funny, let me see.” The buzzer from the intercom came alive.

  “Hello, can I help you?” I said in a clipped tone.

  “Yes, my name is Fiona Price and I’d like to see Mr Jake Dillon.”

  Her accent had the faintest of Scottish brogue.

  “There is no Mr Dillon here, are you quite sure you have the right address?”

  “Quite sure, thank you. Mr Levenson-Jones of Ferran & Cardini in London gave it to me personally. It’s very important that I speak to Mr Dillon and give him this message.”

  “Did Mr Levenson-Jones give you anything else to give to Mr Dillon?” I asked.

  “Mr Dillon, I will play your little game for as long as you wish. The word that you require apparently is Tomcat. Now can we carry on this conversation inside, please. Preferably before you dive this evening.”

  “OK, Miss Price, we have to be careful and there’s no need to use a loud hailer to tell everyone in the neighbourhood, why we are here.” The electric gates slid back silently, closing automatically a minute later.

  Fiona parked next to Charlie’s old VW. I let her into the coolness of the tiled hallway. Enough light filtered through the draped voile for me to take stock of Miss Fiona Price. Immediately I noticed that her skin was smooth with not a blemish to mar her beauty.

  “Miss Price, sorry about that cloak and dagger stuff just now. Let me introduce Myself. I am Jake Dillon and this is my associate Charlie McIntyre.”

  “Mr Dillon, I’ll come straight to the point. I work for the British Government and I have been seconded to Ferran & Cardini in a technical capacity just for this project. I have also been fully briefed about you and your assignment - the Gin Fizz.”

  “OK, Miss Price,” I said, “So you know all about me and the Gin Fizz.”

  “What’s your message? You can speak in front of Mr McIntyre.”

  She handed me an envelope with the firm’s official crest on it, and spoke very rapidly. “I’m a scuba-diver with wreck investigation experience and my brief is to retrieve the logbook from the boat, and to assist you and Mr McIntyre, as and where necessary. I have my own equipment in the car…”

  I slowed her to a standstill with my eyes. “I’m sure you do, Miss Price,” I said.

  I glanced over at Charlie, who was running his hand through his hair and smiling as usual. I said nothing; instead I turned and walked over to the window, ripping open the envelope. The message inside was simple. LJ’s instruction was to co-operate but be extremely wary of Miss Price. Looking over the bay, I took my time to turn and face her again.

  “Please sit down,” I said coldly, “and listen carefully. If you think you’re coming on a rip roaring little fun-jaunt, I’d think again.”

  “I’m a qualified open water diver, Mr Dillon, with experience in wreck diving.”

  “You’ll find my expert knowledge for this job invaluable.”

  “I will, will I?” I said. “Well, I don’t know what you call ‘expert’, but one of my men has spent several years as a royal naval diver. Let me tell you, Miss Price, he once saved the lives of an entire nuclear submarine crew by diving one hundred and fifty feet in sub zero temperatures to cut away a WW2 mine that had decided to hitch a lift. Not to mention the time when the Argentinian forces invaded the Falkland Islands. Along with two others, he managed to diffuse mines laid by the invaders while the Argentinian Navy threw every grenade they could find into the harbour. They only stopped after an hour because they calculated that no one could be alive down there after that much pounding. Then he and his fellow SBS team members swam up under one of their supply ships and fixed three large charges to it, that scattered corned beef all the way back to their mainland.”

  “By the way, he did this while you were still at university – Miss Price.” I walked over to the window. The view was magnificent and very calming.

  With my back to her, I said, “You’d better go and get your equipment. Please take it to Mr Rumple down at the boathouse.”

  Charlie made some quiet remarks about Miss Price’s bright-green wetsuit, but it was much more professional than I feared it might be. I made a mental note to call an old friend at Special Branch later that day.

  Rumple, Charlie, Miss Price and I had a conference. Rumple gave each one of us a file containing copies of various charts together with photographs and information showing us the position and way the Gin Fizz was lying.

  “When were these images taken Rumple?” I asked.

  “Yesterday morning, sir.”

  I carefully studied Rumple’s images. The Gin Fizz was lying on the sea floor at a forty-five degree angle.

  “According to Miss Price and LJ’s message, our Government Minister and the owner of that boat is keen to get the log from the Gin Fizz. That is – if the Captain didn’t dump it overboard before she went down,” I added casually.

  Before anyone could interrupt, I carried on, “I assume you have been told where to locate the log book when you get inside the craft. We can’t afford the luxury of you wasting time rummaging around down there.”

  “And if the captain did lob it over the side?” Charlie added.

  “In that case, finding it depends on how far the boat travelled between the log being thrown over and sinking and if my equipment will detect such a small flat object, which will likely be submerged in the silt.” The gold ring on Fiona’s finger flashed in the bright sunlight, “I suspect the underwater currents are strong as well.”

  Then Charlie asked Rumple about tidal movement at surface, absolute slack-water times and slack-water duration, and they discussed ways of setting out a diving timetable in order to use those facts to our advantage.

  Everything said and done, I told everyone to relax for the rest of the day and said we’d have another briefing that evening, before we dived.

  As the weather was unusually warm for the time of year, I decided to sit on the sand and think. The sea was kicking idly at the beach. Miss Price was nearly inside a black swimsuit, and Charlie was showing off with handstands, which were not impressing her one little bit. I asked Rumple to swim out to sea with the lovely lady from the ministry and let me know what sort of endurance she had.

  “Go out about, let’s say fifty metres, and come in again. Don’t hurry her, but let her know you’re watching her.”

  “Yes, I understand sir,” said Rumple, and went to tell Miss Price.

  I watched them run across the soft damp sand, lengthening the curved imprints to the water’s edge. Rumple, although in his early fifties was as fit as any man half his age.

  Charlie came up wanting to talk about the assignment. He paused, carefully designing a sentence that wouldn’t sound impertinent. “Why doesn’t this Minister go through official channels? Even if there is something dodgy about this boat, he could have used one of their spook departments to salvage and retrieve it for him, couldn‘t he?”

  “The whole thing stinks, Charlie. To tell you the truth, I have an awful feeling that we are sitting out here bleating like a goat in a tiger trap. That message Miss Price brought about the logbook. It just doesn’t ring true.” I told Charlie about me being followed by the two cars. How one of them had been traced back to a security firm that our ministerial friend had hired and how an international playboy, Robert Flackyard, owned the other car from Bournemouth and that I thought they were all connected. “And what about this Fiona Price character?” I finished. “Why is she here and what is her real brief?”

  As I said it, Rumple and Miss Price came out of the water. Rumple was tanned dark-brown and moving like he’d just stepped out of a shower. He wasn’t even out of breath. Miss Price had her mouth open and was gulping deep draughts of air, throwing her head back and running an open hand through her hair. They walked slowly up to where Charlie and I were sitting, Miss Pric
e waited for words of praise.

  “How do you feel, Miss Price?” I asked casually.

  She was still gulping for breath. “O.K, thank you Mr Dillon… absolutely first rate.”

  “Then I would like you to go out about twenty metres – but this time, please swim underwater there and back. Break surface only when you have to - I do not want to see a train of foam and bubbles. Should you experience any problems tell Rumple immediately. I’m not carrying dead heroes, I prefer live cowards. And Rumple stay close.”

  “What is the purpose of this, Mr Dillon?” she asked defiantly, standing with hands on hips in front of me.

  “The purpose – well now, Miss Price.” I kept my voice casual. “The purpose of this is to ascertain whether or not you are fit enough to dive with us tonight.” I got up and started back up the beach.

  “Charlie and I are going up to that café to watch you and count the number of times you come up for air. Oh, and another thing, Miss Price you’re not in London, you know, so please try and look like an English holiday maker…”

  I continued up the beach with my back to them… “That is to say, miserable.” Rumple knew me all too well, but Miss Price could not see the smile that was across my face as she stormed down the beach.

  “Do you think you’re being a little hard on Miss Price, Jake?” Charlie asked. We walked up the steps to the café.

  “Probably,” I said. “But I’ll give her credit, she’s got spirit and determination.” We sat and watched in silence and then Charlie said. “You may be worrying for nothing, you know. It might just be as easy and straight forward as it seems.”

  I didn’t think so.

  Chapter 5

  Sandbanks: 11.00pm Darkness brought its own welcome cloak to hide us with. The next green wave lapped at the boathouse, Charlie opened the heavy double doors, tied them back and then effortlessly leaped aboard onto the dive platform.