Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (14 page)

Under the porch of the elegant Georgian building
hung an old lantern, its brass work burnished to an
illegible sheen. Inside the entrance a vast fireplace, the
coals long gone out, now had a magnificent display of
white and yellow lilies set in a tall vase of blue glass.
Behind a circular reception desk sat a uniformed security
guard, who checked our names off against his list and
issued us both with visitor identity passes. There were two
senior officers from Special Branch, a face from MI6, and
one from Interpol there when we arrived; we all shook
hands after a Constable on the door was persuaded to
allow us in.

The large square room overlooking the walled
garden at the rear, had been set up for conference use.
There was a large wall mounted plasma screen and an
array of equipment required for giving a presentation
using computer technology. Vince Sharp was along for
the ride, busy plugging cables into the back of his silver
multi-media notebook.

The first minute was satire at its best. The young
Italian police officer wearing plain clothes had put the
camera down on a large rock and inadvertently left it
recording while he took a leak behind a large tree, and
then to his dismay grappled with the zipper of his fly,
which had got stuck.

But the serious stuff was very well done. The sleek
black Mercedes threaded its way over the cobblestone
road, stopped and an older man in his late fifties climbed
out. The tall upright figure walked up a flight of steps and
disappeared into the darkness of the mausoleum.

Another shot, same man, medium close-up
moving across camera. He turned towards the camera.
Our photographer had probably complained that he was
blocking the view, for Robert Flackyard walked a little
more quickly out of frame. There were fifteen minutes of
film centred on Flackyard. He was the same imperious
figure of a man who had given me an envelope full of
counterfeit currency on a night that seemed so long ago.
Without warning the screen went blank.

The two policemen got to their feet, but Tatiana
asked them to stay a moment longer to see something
else. A still picture flashed on the screen. It was a black
and white snapshot. A group of men all dressed in city
suits were sat and standing face on to the camera, heads
erect, arms folded.

Tats said, “This photograph was taken at a formal
function inside Whitehall in 1979. Chief Superintendent
Craven sorted it out for us.” I nodded to the policeman
across the room. Tatiana went on, “Chief Superintendent
Craven is second from the right, back row. He was an
inspector at the time this photograph was taken. At the
end of the front row there is a young man, who at the time
was working at the Russian Embassy, here in London.”

Vince enlarged part of the picture showing the
young man, so that the big close up filled the screen. Tats
went over and pulled down a clear over-screen and with
a special marker pen drew in a new hairline, added a pair
of glasses and darkened the eye sockets.

“OK,” I said. It was Robert Flackyard as a young
man. The man sitting next to him was unmistakably
Oliver Hawkworth in full military uniform.

* * *
DECORATED SOLDIER
FACES COURT MARSHALL
FOR ACTS OF DISHONORABLE CONDUCT

The 1981 press cuttings that Tats had copied from
the firm’s extensive tabloid archive database were neatly
laid out on my desk. The cuttings accompanied a file on
a certain individual whose personal details I wanted to
look at more closely. Out of all the information contained
in the medical, psychiatric and career records, here it was,
the clincher:

• Male - White - Dark straight hair
• Complexion - Facial scarring due to chronic
teenage acne
• Distinguishing marks - Small scar around left

ear
• Eyes - Blue. Height - 6’ 0”
• Weight - 12 stone 10lb
• Temperament - Excitable
• IQ - Very high

This was the sinister George Ferdinand. Tats had
used her contact at the Ministry of Defence to search
for soldiers with a rank of sergeant or above who were
serving in the same regiment as Oliver Hawkworth
around the years 1979-1982 with names sounding like
George Ferdinand. The database had come across one
name similar to that of George Ferdinand – George
Thomas Ferlind.

So Georgie boy was trained in explosives and was
a qualified open water diver, had served in the Falklands,
and was accused of and dishonourably discharged for
bringing his regiment in to disrepute. So how had he
escaped going to prison and a very long sentence? I
remembered the story that Rumple had told that evening
at the rented house in Dorset, of his exploits in the
Falklands and how he was used to handling explosives.

To wake up to the sound of the sea rolling
lethargically onto the beach and the sun streaming
through the window is to be in heaven. I lay in that misty
half-way place between sleep and consciousness, pulling
the cover up to my chin not wanting to advance into the
reality of wide-awake. The sound of passing boats and
distant voices trickled into my awareness; I heard cars
passing on the road outside, the birds singing in the trees
and the squawk of cats exchanging blows and fur. I got
out of bed, stretching as I walked across the room to
throw open the French windows.

The sun beat down onto the wooden balcony.
As I stepped outside the seagulls slid down the offshore
wind, disappearing momentarily into the water for their
breakfast.

Fiona was fixing coffee and toast, holding the
front of her loose-fitting silk pyjama top closed. I was
particularly pleased that a large proportion of the coffee
making was a two handed job. She was five feet ten
inches tall and every inch a woman, as the light from the
window showed off so effectively.

The death of Charlie McIntyre had put a completely
different perspective on the whole assignment. Each day
I’d had Fiona take the boat out and dive in a different spot
around the local coastline and in completely the opposite
direction to where we’d hidden the opium sacks. The sole
purpose was to mislead Flackyard, or whoever else might
be watching us, as to where the real site might be.

After breakfast, Fiona told me that the air bottles
needed recharging but that she would be only a couple of
hours, unless she decided to go shopping for a new outfit,
of course. “Take as long as you need to,” I said. Miss
Price was very pleased.

I walked along the beach, trying to reconcile the
facts I had access to with the guesswork I’d made. As I
look back on it I had enough information then to tell me
what I wanted to know. But at that time I didn’t know
what I wanted to know. I was just letting my sense of
direction guide me through the maze of motives.

It was quite clear to me that the charismatic Oliver
Hawkworth was connected with Flackyard right up to
his double chin.

But what was his involvement? George Ferdinand
alias George Thomas Ferlind, was a very dangerous
individual as well as a highly competent explosive expert
and qualified diver. But the strangest thing was that he had
served in Hawkworth’s regiment. Who was he working
for? Flackyard, as it appeared, or Hawkworth? Harry
Caplin had received a ten thousand pound payment from
Hawkworth, but why? A house by the water’s edge, Harry
Caplin had said, and living in Sandbanks were absolutely
perfect for him. I wonder why?

Oliver Hawkworth originally denied all knowledge
of the opium packages aboard his boat the Gin Fizz, but
that now seemed likely to have been merely a ruse to take
the attention off him. Flackyard was quick to tell me
about his past, but left out that he had been a diplomatic
attaché at the Russian Embassy in London for two years.
Was his brief really to study the European markets and
report back to Moscow, or had he been involved in more
clandestine activities connected to Hawkworth?

Did Hawkworth give the order to bomb LJ’s
Range Rover? Had Hawkworth’s past caught up with
him? Perhaps he was being blackmailed by Flackyard to
participate in his illegal ventures. But why? Every road
pointed to Hawkworth, and it was his motives I wanted
to take a much closer look at - but time was running out.

I met Fiona at a smart bistro bar in the fashionable
part of town.
The main bar area with high ceilings, and
contemporary décor, gave this former bank building an
air of cool sophistication. The late morning sun cascaded
through the long windows, and men and women
dressed for the office were standing at the bar chatting
over a lunchtime drink, and taking in the easy-relaxed
atmosphere.
We sat for a while longer drinking coffee, discussing
the developments of my trip back to London and up to
the Scottish Highlands to see Angus. Over a sandwich
Fiona informed me that on at least two occasions while
diving, she had spotted the same powerboat stalking her.
It was always the same person watching, but far enough
away for Fiona not get sight of who it could be.
Outside the air was warm compared to the coolness
of the solid stone building that we had just left. Fiona was
going to see if she could dig up any further information
on George Ferdinand. She was meeting the young girl
who had been so talkative before, when she was working
as a hostess in one of Flackyard’s seedy clubs. Shortly
after her last chat with Fiona, she had been dismissed for
talking too much, and was now between jobs. Keen to
tell all about Georgie boy - for the right price?
That evening, the thought of another takeaway
meal was too much, so we went to a popular restaurant
in Lilliput for dinner. The small intimate dining room was
full to capacity with people enjoying light conversation,
locally caught fish dishes and excellent house wines.
The meal was cooked to perfection and the drink had
a relaxing quality. So by 11.30 p.m. I was starting to
feel sleepy with the effect of the wine. But then Fiona
suggested a swim in the heated salt-water pool back at
the house.
The water was kept at a constant temperature and
moonlight shone through the clear glass roof, trickling
across the water like cream in black coffee. Jazz music
scalded the soft night air; Fiona’s hair shone in the light
and her body was phosphorescent in the clear black
water. She swam near to where I was sitting on the side,
and playfully splashed me before swimming off again.
“Do you ever wish that things could be different?”
Fiona asked thoughtfully.
“Sometimes. Why, have you got man problems?”
I replied.
“How intuitive of you. Would you believe that
even in the 21st century, women still want love affairs to
go on forever and ever. Why aren’t we clever enough just
to enjoy it on a day-to-day basis?”
“Love is merely a state of mind,” I said using one
of LJ’s little sayings.
There was a note of cynicism in Fiona’s voice.
“What absolute male rubbish, it has to be more than
that,” she said. “Sometimes two people see each other
just for an instant, perhaps walking along a pavement,
and there’s a rapport. It’s not sex, it’s not love, it’s a sort of
unexplainable magical fourth dimension of living. You’ve
never seen this person before, you’ll never see them again;
you don’t even intend to try because it doesn’t really
matter.”
“Everything that is good, I mean, that is profound
and understanding in the two of you, becomes reality at
that precise moment.”
“My grandmother gave me two pieces of advice
when I was a boy,” I said.
“Don’t ever jump off a high building without a
parachute or go out with a woman who keeps a diary.
You are definitely starting to sound like a diary-keeper.
It’s time I went to bed.” I said, getting up and pulling on
a towelling robe around me.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” said Fiona.
My Omega watch showed two o’clock. “Why are
you really so interested in Robert Flackyard - is it the
opium?” Fiona asked. I must have stopped in my tracks,
for she added, “If it’s one of those big boy’s secret, and
I’m not allowed to know. well then, you really don’t have
to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I didn’t rise to her baiting, but went and sat down
on one of the wicker chairs at the poolside.
“What is it that you’re supposed to be doing down
here now? Why are you still here, Jake? You know as
well as I do that if Oliver Hawkworth is found to be
involved with Flackyard there will be a cover up by the
Government.”
“Especially if it were likely to bring any adverse
publicity or disgrace on them.”
“Who is it that you are so interested in, Jake? Why
do get the feeling that you’ve got a hidden agenda”
“You sound like you have a theory,” I said. “What
do you think?”
“I think you’re lost, I think you’re pursuing
yourself,” she said.
She waited for a comment, but I made none.
“Are you Jake?” she persisted.
I said, “Things have happened during this
assignment that have made me take a very close look at
myself and what I do. The first rule in this game is to
always look at the facts as laid out before you. But, for
this assignment, I’m going to make an exception to that
rule. I’m going to go with my gut instincts, they’re usually
right and have saved my life numerous times.”
“Well you’d better count me in on that, Jake Dillon,
because I’m not going to let you have all the fun alone.”
“Look,” I said. “Can’t you see it, haven’t you
grasped it yet, that everyone is alone? We’re born alone,
live alone, die alone, do every fucking thing alone.”
“Forgive me, but even making love is simply a
way for two people to pretend they aren’t alone. But they
are. People in this business are even more so alone, and
aching with a whole perverse bundle of insecurities and
un-tellable truths turning over and over in their heads.
You’re groping around in the dark trying to find your
way through the bureaucratic maze with a hundred
people shouting different directions at you. So you grope
on; grabbing handfuls of whatever comes within reach
and occasionally you actually get your hands dirty. You
are alone and so am I. You’ve got to get used to it or
you’ll wind up telling people that your husband doesn’t
understand you.”
“I’m still single – remember,” said Fiona. “I can
tell you, darling, there will be a whole lot of men very
miserable on the day that I get married.”
“Really, you’re so modest,” I said. “Exactly how
many men are you going to marry?” She glared up at
me and then immediately changed the subject to Harry
Caplin and his youthful spirit and wonderful larger then
life personality.
“Did you know that Harry has an enormous cellar
under his house?” Fiona said, as she stepped out of the
pool picked up a large white towel and wrapped it around
herself. “It was the other day while you were in London,
he’d asked me over for drinks and was definitely trying to
get me drunk.”
“Anyway, after we’d polished off the second bottle
of bubbly he excused himself to go and get another from
the cellar. Call it curiosity or perhaps professional interest,
but I decided to have a snoop around. Do you remember
the oak panelling in the hallway?”
“Vaguely,” I said.
“Well, there’s a secret door that leads down to the
cellar. Harry had left it slightly ajar. I’d got half way down
the stone steps, when he turned the corner at the bottom
and spotted me. He was furious when he found me there,
he made a real fuss about the steps being slippery and
how dangerous they were and that the cellar was off
limits to everyone including Sofia his housekeeper.”
Fiona ran her long fingers through her hair in an
attempt to untangle it, and while she was doing this, I
contemplated what she had just told me; on the beach the
sea kicked the shore in delinquent spite.
“So did you get a look at this cellar, was it well
stocked?” I said.
“To be honest, Jake, from where I was standing
on the steps, I couldn’t really see much, except for a
small window and arched doorway at the end of the
room. If my sense of direction is correct, though, this was
almost certainly on the seaward side of the house. But
the weirdest thing though was the overwhelming smell
of vinegar down there. It was so strong it almost choked
me.”
‘The problem is the vast quantities of acetic acid
that you have to get rid of…’
I thought about it momentarily. Then I said, “Get
dressed; we’re going to take a look at Harry’s enormous
cellar right now.”
Fiona wasn’t keen to go but we went.