Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (13 page)

When I got to the office on Friday morning, Zara
was talking with one of the other personal assistants
from upstairs. Seeing me she broke off her conversation
and crooked a slender finger in my direction, beckoning
me to follow her into her office. It was as I expected,
immaculate, not a piece of paper or file out of place. She
sat down behind the curved beech desk, retrieving a file
from a stack in front of her.

“You’ll be pleased, I’ve no doubt, to hear that
Poseidon is to remain active. Unofficially that is, a memo
came down to LJ late yesterday from the Partners.”

“Don’t give me that ‘Oh really, that’s good’ stuff. I
know exactly what you’ve been up to, Jake Dillon.”
“Zara, as if I…”
“That’s all Jake.” It seemed a little odd that Zara
should ask me to step into her office just to tell me that.
As I turned to leave she said, “Please try to look just a
little bit surprised when LJ tells you. The poor man is
tragically deluded and certainly doesn’t know you as I
do.”
“Why thank you for those kind words, Zara,” I
said.
“Thank me for what, aiding and abetting his
pathetic delusions?”
“Yes of course,” I said, “but thanks anyway.” I
said as I closed the office door behind me.
Back in the department, I found Tats who had
put her hair into a single French plait looking positively
stunning. “You will find on your desk, twenty-two letters
to sign along with copies of various memos relating to
‘Poseidon’ that I thought you might like sight of.” Tats
said.
I signed the letters and stuffed the memos into
my briefcase. I stuck my head into LJ’s office. He was
straightening up a large oak framed picture of Winston
Churchill austerely standing by a desk, hand clutching the
lapel of his pin striped suit, British bulldog at his feet. The
small brass plate at the bottom had the words engraved;
Blood, Tears, Toil and Sweat 1874 – 1964.
Looking round LJ said, “Ah, Jake, what do you
think of this?”
“Very well painted,” I replied.
“Present from my son. He’s very much into Winston
Churchill. Each year on the great man’s birthday we have
a little family get together, and all guests have to have a
Winston anecdote or quotation ready.”
“How fascinating,” I said. “I do exactly the same
when I get given an assignment.”
LJ slid me a narrowed glance.
He took out a cigar and lit it to ease the tension.
“You intend to pursue Poseidon?”
“I want to know why Hawkworth recently sent
Harry Caplin a cheque for ten thousand pounds and why
he’s renting a luxury house for him by the sea?”
“You think that will explain everything?” asked
LJ, still admiring the painting.
“I really don’t know. Perhaps, but I’ll be able to tell
you that with more certainty after I’ve talked to a man I
know in the highlands of Scotland who has been looking
into Caplin’s private affairs for me. As well as his bank
account, all unofficially and very discreetly, of course.
But I now feel that Caplin is in some way involved and
possibly working for or with Hawkworth, not Flackyard
as I previously thought. If that proves to be the case, then
my gut feeling is that it was Caplin not Rumple whom
had the explosives put in your car. But the bit I’m at a
complete loss about is why, and in such a public way?”
LJ nodded. “Well, have a good trip to Scotland, I’ve
arranged for Phil Allerton to fly you up in the helicopter.”
He moved the painting just a little more to the right.
Outside the sun shone between white cottonwool clouds hanging across the sky like balloons. Traffic
wardens were issuing tickets and wheel clampers were
busy immobilising illegally parked motorists.

Through my headset, Phil updated me on our
position, pointing out landmarks along the way. In between
my thoughts were on Oliver Hawkworth. I had blocked
him for the time being, but I had done it at the expense
of making a very powerful enemy. It wasn’t something
one could do too frequently without uncomfortable
consequences. Perhaps it was something one couldn’t do
once without uncomfortable consequences.

I really was near the end of a thin plank over a
dark and very deep sea.
I wondered who of those involved with ‘Poseidon’
might be connected to Hawkworth and Flackyard.
Who had the pictures of the Gin Fizz and who would
benefit the most from obtaining them? What was George
Ferdinand’s real role in all of this?
After the warmth of the cockpit, the pure Highland
air was exhilaratingly refreshing. Phil had put us down
in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by trees.
Cows in a field nearby became curious after the rotors
had stopped and the noise from the engine had faded
away. They hovered together in the dells where odd trees
of twisted dead wood were spattered with black blots of
huddled birds.
From high up on the hill a Land Rover broke the
tranquillity by sounding its horn as it careered down the
narrow muddy track towards us. The driver could be
seen bouncing up and down in his seat. Barely missing
the gateposts on either side, the old battered green
vehicle shot through the opening of the field and slewed
precariously to a halt within ten feet of us.
The engine stalled and the driver’s door burst
open. Two large leather boots swung out onto the grass
followed by their owner Angus Macgrath, who was
roaring with laughter.
“Och, Jake Dillon you old rogue, it’s good to
see you again – alive that is,” said Angus, raising his
eyebrows and laughing loudly. I introduced Phil, but
forgot to mention to him that this enormous bald headed
Scotsman had a handshake like a grizzly bear.
“Now then, we’d better get going, we’ve got that
hill to negotiate before we get to my croft.”
Phil said that he’d stay with the helicopter, and that
we should be back in the air within a couple of hours.

Past the trees and on up the hill, the going was
treacherous as the Land Rover’s powerful diesel engine
turned all four wheels through the sticky mud of the
track. The higher we got the more barren the landscape;
the moor land was bleak and wind-scoured. Through the
mist Angus pointed a finger at a crooked castle, the ruins
of which had stunted trees growing inside, hunchbacked
against the wind.

It suited Angus to live alone like a hermit, but for
his computers, numerous gadgets and satellite dish all
powered by a large diesel generator. His small crofter’s
house had been greatly improved and was clean and tidy.
As we opened the heavy oak door of the stone building
the draught made the fire flare. There was an oil lamp on
a small round table, and its soft green light glowing up
onto the ceiling flickered with the sudden rush of cold
air. A soot-caked kettle hissed with boiling water. Angus
went over and carefully lifted the dented metal container
off its hook over the fire, filling a large china teapot to the
brim before replacing it.

Seated in front of the fire, we quietly let the heat
thaw us for a minute while we sipped the sweet dark
liquid. Angus rapidly sank his scalding tea and threw
another log on to the flames. Finally, he lit a filthy old
pipe and said, “You got my report by email okay then?”

“Picked it up this morning, it was fine,” I said, “but
I decided it was far safer to come up to this Godforsaken
place you call home and see you personally - if you know
what I mean. My problem, Angus is that I know very little
about the intricacies of manufacturing and distributing of
class A drugs.”

“Ah,” he said, “well, you’ve come to the right place
laddie, and as luck would have it, I’ve just finished a wee
job for the CIA. They had me, unofficially, delve into the
personal files and many bank accounts of a former KGB
enforcer, who is now residing in London of all places, is
no where sacred anymore? Anyway, I found the trail that
leads to his fortune, which I’ve no doubt was made from
the illicit profits of trafficking heroin all over the world.”

“And – did you?” I prompted him.
“Och, I have to live, Jake, you know me too well -
and there was so much money, just sitting there, it seemed
rude not to redistribute some of it in my direction.”
“Was, and redistribute in your direction?” I
repeated.
“Well - he won’t miss it and he certainly won’t be
able to trace where it went,” said Angus, laughing loudly.
“Och, but don’t you go worrying, now, the Swiss are still
very discreet, even by today’s standards.”

“So, Jake, you want to know about class A drugs,
do you,” said Angus. “Well now, as you already know
there are many different types of hard drugs out there.
But if I’m not mistaken, the kind that you’re interested in
grows naturally and can then be changed in a laboratory.
Opium or cocaine, both originate from plants – which is
it to be then.”

The kettle had been singing for two minutes and
he turned the wick of the oil lamp up a little to give
him more light to make the tea. I wielded the long brass
toasting fork and put the butter nearer to the fire to
soften it. Outside the wind howled and moaned around
the small windows, and I thought of Phil sitting in the
cold cockpit of the helicopter. “Opium,” said Angus as
he warmed the teapot.

“Difficult to grow, therefore sought after. The basis
of narcotic smuggling grows anywhere up to a latitude
of fifty-six degrees. The Oriental poppy or the common
poppy is of no interest to the drug cartels, because only
the P.S.L. (the Papaver Somniferum Linnaeus) gives
opium. They are sown in May for the August crop, and
in August for the April crop.”

“It’s like painting the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said.
“Oh yes, it’s definitely year round employment,”
said Angus, spearing another crumpet onto his fork and
holding it over the flames of the roaring fire. “To get it…
You want to know?”

“Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”
“Little incisions are cut into the green capsules or
pods of the poppy before the seeds ripen. White latex
appears and you wait ten to fifteen hours for the latex to
harden and turn brown. The evening they do this you can
smell the aroma for miles around.”

“So then what happens to the latex?”
“Well, then it’s either packed in its raw state or
shipped off to a lab for processing into heroin or “smack”
or whatever other name it’s being given these days.
This ends up as a brownish powder, which is then sold
on to dealers who usually dilute or “cut” it with other
substances, like sugar or quinine, to make it as white as
snow.”
“Angus, I’m a little confused about the various
strains of poppy?”
“Well, yes it is confusing, when you’ve got poppies
ranging from white to purple-black, but I really couldn’t
tell you at this point in time which strain is currently
the best.” Angus poured the tea and I buttered another
crumpet.
“Where is it grown? You haven’t said where.”
“Afghanistan is one of the world trading centres.
This year alone they’ve harvested more than 4000 tons
of opium, making them the world’s No 1 producer. I’ll
put that into perspective for you, laddie. That’s around
a US$1.4 billion gross income. The Taliban are not fussy
about who they sell it to, either, and both the Russian
and Sicilian Mafia take regular shipments, with most
of it ending up in the US. I believe that around 60% of
all heroin in America is imported and distributed by the
Sicilian Mafia and exported direct from Afghanistan.
Other areas heavily involved in opium production are
the Yunnan and Kwangsi areas in Taiwan, still definitely
hot, as are Thailand, Laos, and North Korea, to name
but a few. The Americans have a huge problem on their
hands because as their intelligence shows there are certain
governments in and around those regions who support the
trafficking to simply undermine the U.S. The cartels like
to move it that way, because that’s where it commands
the highest price. Mind you, this is a worldwide industry
and I’ve only been talking about illegal cultivation. Many
countries produce and process their own legal quantities
as well, you know.”
“For the medical industry, I presume.”
“Aye, that’s right. Pass me another crumpet will
you. See, the latex from the P.S.L. poppy isn’t much good
as it is. It has to be made into morphine base, and then
that has to be made into diacetyl-morphine. Which is
more commonly known as heroin or ‘H’ depending in
which circles you move in.”
“So, how big do these laboratories need to be?”
“The lab doesn’t need to be that big, but the
drainage is usually the problem. There is a tremendous
amount of acetic acid to get rid of. If you use the public
drainage system it’s likely to attract some rather unwanted
attention. However, if you could pump it straight out into
the sea – well that’s probably as good as it gets. You do
know what acetic acid is like?”
“It’s great on fish & chips?”
“Aye, that’s right. Vinegar - salt - fish and chips -
och, you’re torturing me, you wee Sassenach, the nearest
chip shop is about seventy miles away from here.”
We talked a while longer, eating more crumpets
and drinking strong black tea.
By the time we stepped outside the sky was awash
with orange, scarlet and crimson hues as the old red eye
stepped over the edge of the horizon.
The damp highland mist was starting to drop its
cloak around us as we careered back down the hill to an
impatient Phil Allerton and his helicopter.
On the flight back down to London, I thought
about my talk with Angus and about the information
he’d managed to get for me on Harry Caplin and Oliver
Hawkworth, now safely tucked away inside my briefcase.
So, the waxy packages that we found on board
of the Gin Fizz were on their way to a laboratory for
processing. When I’d handed over the logbook, I had also
given LJ one of the packages to be analysed; he’d put it
straight into a specially adapted secure compartment in
his car. Now I was beginning to understand why so many
explosives had been placed throughout the Range Rover.
Someone was determined to destroy the evidence
that was inside the glove box. I should have remembered
that he’d told me he was going to the lab personally on
his return from New York. Whoever was responsible for
detonating that bomb not only wanted to destroy the
evidence but also wanted the driver dead.
Everything seemed to point back to Dorset and
‘Poseidon’.

Tatiana met me at the heliport. She was driving a
Mercedes SLK convertible from the firm’s car pool.
“What is it you do to the car fleet director, that he
loans you a car reserved for Partners’ use only?”
“You have a disgusting mind.” She gave me a
girlish smile.
“No kidding, how do you get him to trust you
with one of these? I’ve never managed to get into one of
these cars when it’s parked, let alone moving.”
“When he sees me enter the car park he sends one
of the security guards to make sure I don’t get too near to
any of his precious toys.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I compliment him about the
efficiency of his department and how all of the cars look
amazingly clean, always. It’s something you’ve never
heard about, but among cultured people compliments are
all the rage, you should try them sometime.”
“Ouch, your talons are sharp today, but point
taken,” I said.