Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Read online

“Good point, Jake. But, unfortunately, it’s not that simple. You see, he’s extremely well-connected in certain quarters of the city, as well as in India and Pakistan, and the trade that he generates for the UK is vast. The Home Secretary would rather we avoided any form of high-handed approach or official enquiry.”

  Dillon leant back in his chair, looked at Issy, who smiled reticently back at him, and said, “It’s beyond my remit, I’m afraid. Dunstan lost me about five minutes ago, and now I’m as confused as you are.”

  “So what makes you so sure that I’d find out anything more?”

  Havelock sipped his Champagne and eventually said, “Your dumb-wittedness will not put me off, Jake. You’ve got contacts from all walks of life, and they’re dotted around all over the place. And I know from old that you can call them to arms when required to.”

  “What you mean, Dunstan, is that I know numerous people with dubious talents, and some of those just happen to be villains and fences, is that it?”

  “You make your world sound so seedy, Jake. And no, it’s not just because of your acquaintance with those individuals of a criminal persuasion. It’s much more than that.”

  “I’m not happy about the Americans being involved, Dunstan.”

  “Oh come now, Jake. They’re not really involved and they’ve promised not to interfere. You’ve simply got to look at the broader picture – if we turn them down and don’t help out, they’ll simply send in their own people covertly. But if we do, it will bank a large number of brownie points with them and that’s always a positive thing, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve slipped back into that politico speak, Dunstan. Cut the crap.”

  “I’m sorry. But try and look at it this way: suppose it’s not HM Government, but the person who benefits the most from our help? At the very least it’ll take away any suspicion that he may have been involved in one of the largest art heists of the twentieth century. And he’s British, which in itself is enough for us to get involved.”

  “Is this painting valuable? I mean, is it really worth all the aggravation that it’s without doubt going to cause?”

  “Priceless at today’s valuation. But it’s not just the phenomenal value that matters, but who stole it and how it got to the UK in the first place.”

  Issy sat back, resigned. She already knew what was going to happen. And it had nothing to do with Dunstan Havelock, the Americans, a stolen Vermeer painting, any amount of money or any of these things. Dillon always had to think his way through the risk factors and the odds of achieving the objective.

  Dunstan knew this, as she did, and that it would be Dillon’s own assessment of both of these factors, along with his insatiable curiosity that would make his mind up. It would merely be a question of how much he wanted to get involved. And, knowing that Dillon was always searching for his next rush of excitement, the answer was a foregone conclusion. The job sounded like it would be a walk in the park for Dillon, and something that could be cleared up quickly. She only hoped that the sudden sense of apprehension she was feeling, indicated the same.

  “Why is it that you even bother to ask for my opinion when you’ve already made up your mind about something? Don’t get me wrong, Jake. I love the fact that you want my opinion, but you’re so annoying when you do that,” she said, and glanced sideward at Dillon. They were sitting in the back of a cab returning to Dillon’s converted warehouse loft apartment on the banks of the Thames.

  “I love you.” The words sort of tumbled out of Dillon’s mouth, and were completely spontaneous.

  “What?”

  “I said I love you.”

  “Are you drunk, or feeling unwell or something?”

  “No. It’s just that I wanted you to know, that’s all.”

  Issy’s arms went around Dillon’s neck, burning lips brushed lightly against his with impatient passion. And then, as quickly, she broke the embrace, gently caressing his face for a moment, before saying, “I wouldn’t want to lose you, Jake. Not for anything.”

  “I know. And you don’t have to worry; I promise to be careful.”

  “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Understandably, I do worry, and it’s because the work you do is likely to get you killed one of these days. But hay ho; you’re the only one who can do anything about that.”

  Dillon knew what was about to come and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I promise that I’ll have a quiet chat with Sir Lucius after this assignment. Perhaps he’ll take pity on me and give me one of those nice safe desks to sit behind.”

  Before Issy could reply, the taxi pulled up outside the apartment building.

  Dillon walked across the open plan living area, pulled back one of the large glass panels, went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a single malt whisky before going out onto the terrace. He stood for a moment, listening to the sound of the city in the background and staring down at the river, six floors below him. Sitting on a lounger, he opened the file that Havelock had handed him after dinner and started to read the first page of a typed document. Since he’d got to know, and like, Dunstan Havelock, he had dropped a lot of the hard-man façade, and had over the years even started to trust him. More importantly, he trusted the man’s integrity.

  After ten minutes of reading, he closed the file, finished his drink, stood up and went back inside, pulling the glass panel closed behind him. As he walked past a large oak-framed mirror, he stopped and took a good look at himself. His dark hair, once shoulder length, was now shorter but still as unruly as it had ever been. There was little he could do with the laughter lines that had started to appear in the corner of his eyes and around the mouth.

  And the scaring over his body would always be there as a reminder of his rough past and, to some extent, his present lifestyle.

  Dillon used his exceptional intelligence gathering talents; freelancing for Ferran & Cardini International, and the British Government, when it suited them. He charged a flat fee of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds per assignment, which fuelled an expensive lifestyle. Anything left over was shrewdly invested for a rainy day. The small, run-down West End theatre that he’d invested a large sum of money into a year ago was an indulgence he could afford. It not only appealed to his theatrical alter ego, but also gave him immense satisfaction to be involved with the renovation, when time allowed, in bringing back the building to its former glory. This was an extravagant project which Dillon immediately found an effective stress buster and a million light years away from the violent world that he moved in on a day to day basis. After looking at himself for a second or two, he rubbed an imaginary itch on his chin and then went off to bed.

  * * *

  It was still quite early the next morning, although Issy had already gone off to her office in Chelsea. He got out of bed to make coffee, took it back to the sofa where he had left Havelock’s folder and went through it again.

  It was obvious that the man who at present had the Vermeer painting was extremely wealthy. Anyone who lived where he did had to be. The Vermeer was apparently part of a magnificent collection. Dillon didn’t need to go and check out the place to accept that it would have a state-of-the art alarm system, and possibly more than one. Breaking in would be a non-starter on his own, but he knew someone who might be persuaded to help him.

  Charlie Hart had started life in New Delhi, India. He was born there in 1951. His father had been promoted and posted there to manage the British Imperial Import & Export Company office, and had subsequently made a comfortable living for the family. By the time Charlie was thinking about coming to live in England, he’d already made a fortune by trading in a variety of things, but it was property development in the UK that had made his wealth grow. So the dossier proclaimed. He still had strong trading links with India and Pakistan, and traded quite a lot in Northern Europe. Dillon pondered, Northern Europe; now that was
an interesting area. What would he be trading there that was profitable? Background information had been checked and verified at the time when Hart came to the UK. Immigration had seen no problems with allowing him permanent residency, as he was already a British subject.

  Hart hadn’t wasted any time and had soon established himself as a major player within city property development circles. Before leaving India, Hart’s parents had been kidnapped. He had paid the first ransom with no hesitation, but when the company that his father had loyally served for more than twenty years refused to pay the second ransom, they were both murdered, their bodies dumped outside of the gates of the British Embassy. It was on record, as was Hart’s birth certificate. He had been born in New Delhi. Had grown up quickly, learning every trick in the book, and some more. But most of all, Hart had learnt about survival, making many mistakes along the way only made him more streetwise. It was not until Hart was in his early twenties that he began to emerge as a financial success in the high-density, high population marketplace that was on his doorstep. Some very wealthy people lived in New Delhi and by his late twenties Hart had become one of them.

  Hart however, kept a low profile. He didn’t mix a lot outside of business and this still appeared to be the case. He was a loner, it would seem. Unlike his son, who appeared to be the absolute opposite. There was a report from the university, mostly showing the boy’s progress, and it didn’t go into much detail about the relationship that he had with his father. Although one remark jumped out: that the son had shown concern about his father.

  Dillon found it strange that Daniel Hart was concerned for a father who was clearly more than capable of coping on his own with whatever was thrown at him. Daniel’s mother was not mentioned, except for on his birth certificate. There was no other information and no mention of marriage. It looked as if it had been a brief affair, with Hart taking on the sole responsibility of bringing up Daniel. And that seemed to be what the authorities had thought at the time.

  Dillon put everything back into the folder and was not particularly impressed by anything he’d read. The only certainty was that Charlie Hart was immensely wealthy and had the luxurious trappings to prove it. As for the background information, that was something different. Dillon and Havelock had once before gone down a similar road with a man called Farrant, now dead, who had an unbelievably sketchy background. The main difference was that Farrant hadn’t gone under the microscope of immigration until it was too late, whereas Hart had been thoroughly checked because he’d wanted to reside in the UK permanently.

  Dillon took a sip of his coffee and sprawled out on the sofa, thinking about the situation he was getting himself into. He wasn’t completely convinced that it was the right sort of job for him or the firm. But because it was Dunstan Havelock asking, he’d found it extremely difficult to refuse. Although he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to spend too much time on it. Havelock would be absolutely furious with what he had in mind, but if this mystery was going to be solved quickly, it would need to be approached head-on. And should have been in the first place.

  His first call was to Vince Sharp at Ferran & Cardini, who immediately found Hart’s ex-directory number using one of his little software programmes that he kept for such occasions. The second call he made was to Charlie Hart. A man answered the phone and Dillon was somewhat taken by surprise with the softly spoken voice at the other end.

  “Mr. Hart?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Bateman, sir. I’m a senior investigator with Worldwide Art Underwriters of London.”

  “How can I help you, Mr. Bateman? I’ve heard of your firm, of course.”

  “Most likely, you’ll not be able to help at all, sir. This is about something that has been passed on to us by the Art and Antiques Unit at New Scotland Yard. I’m simply following up this line of enquiry as it may coincide with another investigation that we’re involved with. Like I say, it’s probably nothing at all, sir. I understand that you have a valuable collection of paintings and that one of them...” Dillon quickly scanned the sheet of paper Havelock had given him in the file, “... is a painting by Vermeer, titled The Concert, dated 1665-66.”

  “This is correct. However, I actually have three Vermeer paintings in my collection.”

  “Quite so, sir. But this particular painting may be stolen.”

  “My dear Mr. Bateman, that would surprise me. You know as well as I do that collecting priceless art is a hazardous business. But I do my very best to verify the background of every piece I purchase. It’s not always easy, but I’ve been very careful in my selection of suppliers. However, please tell me what the specific details are.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re fully aware of the details, sir.”

  Dillon left the words hanging for a moment, before going on.

  “I mean to say that anyone who is into serious art collecting would know that it was Vermeer’s The Concert that was stolen along with others on March 18, 1990. From a private museum in Boston.”

  “The Gardner Museum, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That comes as something of a shock. You see my painting, I’m reliably informed, is an extremely good copy which I purchased in 1997. So how can you possibly be sure it is the original painting?”

  “We can’t, sir. But like I said, we do have to follow our lines of enquiry as a matter of course. We would have to call in an expert to be certain; someone from Boston who knows the painting intimately would have to fly over. I must admit, sir, that I was hoping that it wouldn’t come to that. By the way, where did you buy it?”

  “Not in America, Mr. Bateman.”

  Hart’s voice had taken on a hard edge.

  “And I can assure you that all of the documentation is in order and that it came through customs without any problems. All the way from Italy.”

  “Well if that’s the case, sir, I don’t see the need for any further questions at present. Oh, but there is just one more thing, sir. Did you purchase any other paintings from this source in Italy around the same time as the Vermeer?”

  “No, the dealer was only offering the copy of The Concert, Mr. Bateman. Cost me around one and a half million pounds, as a matter of fact. Quite a large sum of money for a copy, as I’m sure you’d agree. But it’s the only one that I’ve ever seen that could be mistaken with ease for the original.”

  “Well, thank you for your time, sir. I think we’ll leave it there for the moment.”

  “If we need to take it further I’ll come back to you. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “I would like to make it perfectly clear that this painting is a copy. It is something that makes very little difference to me financially and is not something I would take any kind of risk in order to possess. You do understand that, don’t you? The transaction is fully documented and open to any scrutiny whatsoever.”

  “I’m sure it is, sir. Even a painting as notorious as this Vermeer wouldn’t be the first one stolen to then be sold on as a copy. Don’t worry about it. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you. But if I can be of any further help, do feel free to contact me. May I have your name again?”

  “Bateman. Goodbye, sir.”

  Dillon closed his mobile phone and thought he had not really found anything out, and was no further forward. But at least Hart wasn’t being evasive and in fact had been extremely forthcoming with information. Dillon smiled. I wonder how you knew.

  He got up and crossed to the wall of glass on the other side of the room, went out onto the balcony and took in the view across the rooftops of London. This was exactly what Dillon had paid for and he wasn’t ever disappointed by it. He stood gazing at the city spectacle for a few moments, glanced at the Omega Seamaster on his wrist, and then went back inside.

  Havelock was going to throw one of
his wobblers when he found out about Dillon’s phone call to Hart. But no matter. Dillon was used to taking chances, pushing his luck when others around him wouldn’t, for fear of upsetting the status quo. He quickly showered, picked out a dark blue pin-stripe suit from his wardrobe, a white shirt and his old regiment tie. Thirty minutes later, he was sitting in the rear of a London cab on his way to a meeting with his boss, Edward Levenson-Jones.

  That evening, when Issy returned and whilst Dillon prepared and cooked a meal for them both, he told her about his phone call to Hart that morning.

  She listened in shocked disbelief.

  “You’re supposed to be a highly trained intelligence officer. The work you chose to do requires you to be invisible to the rest of the world. And yet you decide to break every rule in your own rulebook. Jake, what were you thinking? All you’ve achieved is to warn Hart and insult his intelligence with one reckless telephone call. Dunstan will be pleased. Have you told him yet?”

  “I’ll get to Havelock later.”

  “Jake, I love you to bits. But I really think you’ve blown this one. I have to deal with the likes of Charlie Hart every day of the week, and he’ll check you out and discover that you don’t exist anywhere in the records of that insurance company you sometimes use as a cover.”

  “Oh, I do exist there. My details are on the company’s personnel database, thanks to Vince Sharp. But hopefully I will have stirred him up a bit, and if there is anything to stir up, he’ll soon want to find out what’s going on. I don’t need to tell you, Issy, that people like Hart genuinely believe they’re above all the common laws. So let’s not pass judgement just yet and see what happens.”

  “You’re positively mad. It could have been anyone phoning him.”

  “But anyone didn’t. He believed that it was a senior investigator with Worldwide Art Underwriters of London and acted accordingly. Had it been Jake Dillon he’d have told me to sod off and would have threatened me with the police. Come and eat this, I’ve been wanting to try this for a while. By the way, the pasta was freshly made this afternoon. So enjoy.”