Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (18 page)

The brandy was helping Ferdinand to relax, so I
poured him another drink.
He finally said, “It was the redhead.”
I handed him the glass. “It was - the redhead,” he
said again. As I got up and walked up to the wheelhouse,
Fiona was sat on the stowage locker talking to the girl.
I stretched some of the tension and stiffness out of my
body. George screamed as loud as he could over the force
four that was blowing, “It was the fucking redhead, do
you hear me?”
Both Fiona and the girl looked around sharply.
“OK,” I said.
“Listen, she’s one of the dance girls I dated when I
worked in London, I keep in touch with her because she
feeds me little snippets of info about her boss - who used
to be my boss. I like to know what he’s up to, especially
as we’re - were in the same line of business, so to speak.”
“Tell me about how you met Robert Flackyard?”
I asked him.
Ferdinand’s eyes flitted around like a butterfly in
flight, first in one direction and then another. He started
to talk quickly. “Flackyard was a big man at the Russian
Embassy in London, and a group of them used to come to
the titty bars in Soho, usually once or twice a month. They
spent money like it was going out of fashion, a thousand
sometimes two thousand at a time. On one occasion my
boss made a point of introducing the Russians to me.
The reason, very simple, I was to look after his esteemed
guests personally. They all liked to snort coke, just as they
liked to touch the girls who were dancing for them. Some
of Flackyard’s cronies paid extra to take the girls up to
a private room and have sex with them. But, the only
thing that Robert Flackyard was interested in was the setups with the clubs and of course a little cocaine now and
again, for recreational purposes only.”
“My break came about three months later.
Flackyard came into the bar on his own without his
minders, which was very rare because they followed
him everywhere. He talked around the houses for hours,
never getting to the point, always in riddles. Eventually,
he came clean and offered me an opportunity beyond my
wildest dreams.”
“What did he offer you,” I asked.
“He offered me the opportunity of a life time - to
get back at, and get equal, with the stuck up gits in the
army who had me kicked out. But most of all he offered
me Oliver Hawkworth on a plate. The man I most hated
and still hate to this very day.”
George poured himself another brandy from the
bottle I’d brought down from the saloon. He picked up
his drink and sipped at it. “You’re probably wondering
what the catch was with Flackyard. Well, there wasn’t
one, all he wanted from me was my help in setting up a
string of titty bars along the south coast.”
“Did you plant the bomb that killed my friend
Charlie McIntyre?” I asked.
“Kill him? I couldn’t have killed him.” He drank
some more. “You can’t imagine a mountaineer cutting
the rope of another mountaineer, could you?”
“Well, it’s like that. I had a lot of respect for
Charlie, he was undoubtedly the best explosives expert
on the open market as well as a damn good diver.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you George, but I had to
ask.”
“It was Rumple,” George said, ever so quietly that
I almost didn’t hear him say it.
He poured himself another brandy, shouted up to
the girl to cut the engine revs, and told me that we were
just wasting fuel. We sat in silence for some time, looking
out to sea. Somehow I knew what George had told me
was all true.

Ferdinand and I sat on the rear deck of the “Star
Dust” in silence for some time. When I finally said it, I
tried to make it sound as casual as you like. “So were you
given Constantine’s list by Flackyard at the very outset,
were you, George?”

“You must be joking; Flackyard would never give
anyone that list.”
“So how did you get the names from it?”
“You make me laugh,” said Ferdinand. I found
that difficult to believe.
“Don’t you realise even now, that we have all been
completely outsmarted by a man who is cleverer than all
of us put together?”
“Go on,” I said.
“One man and one man only has access to the
list, to the only copy that is in existence. One man went
to a lot of trouble to get it and even more to putting it
somewhere only he can get to it.” He paused, after a
long silence he said, “The list is stored on a CD inside a
watertight canister made to look like a lobster pot on the
sea bed. To retrieve the pot you have to know roughly
where it’s located, but because of the tidal currents it
moves around.”
“That equipment in the aluminium case over
there,” he pointed to the case laying on the lower deck,
“well, that underwater sonar ‘calls’ the lobster pot to the
surface by remotely detonating and inflating the pot’s tiny
onboard ballast tanks. But you have to be virtually on top
of it before the sonar can send a strong enough signal.”
“And that’s what you were trying to do just now.”
“I stole that equipment from Flackyard’s house.
It’s a portable unit designed for close range locating.
Flackyard has the real thing in his study.”
“He sits there every evening before dinner and
gloats because he knows exactly where the list is at all
times. All he has to do is bring up a local coastal chart
on his computer screen; the homing device he had fitted
to the pot interacts with the specially designed software,
and bingo the computer does the rest.” Ferdinand’s voice
went very quiet.
“He’d tricked me again.” He looked up at me
sharply. “It’s not there in that cove, it’s moved to another
location!”
I nodded. “Tell me about Hawkworth,” I said.
“Hawkworth was only one,” George went on,
“Flackyard forced a lot of people on the list to invest money
in his businesses or ensure that lucrative Government
development contracts were his for the taking.”
“But you soon got the idea,” I supplemented, “you
told Hawkworth to arrange a supply line of raw opium so
that your little partnership with Caplin would flourish.”
“It wasn’t hard to guess, I suppose.” Ferdinand
nodded.
I said, “What did Flackyard do with the money?”
There was no reply. I said, “Has it gone to finance
extreme right wing movements? Has it gone to finance
present-day fascist groups – is he part of an organisation
they call the New World Order?”
Ferdinand closed his eyes, “Yes,” he said. “I’m still
a believer in the cause.”
“Robert Flackyard is a great man, but like many
that are truly great he has some childish weaknesses that
will most certainly bring him down off that pedestal one
day. Of that you can be sure.” His eyes were still closed.
The girl’s voice from the wheelhouse sounded
above the beat of the sea.
We were rounding Old Harry Rocks.
“I’ll come up.” As I said it there was a thump like
a heavy hammer being swung against the hull.
“A piece of flotsam,” Ferdinand shouted up at
me. The girl had brought the throttle back to half speed.
Again there was a thump and a third immediately after.
The girl coughed and then slumped, falling sideways off
the stool. I caught her. She was limp as she slid to the
floor. The front of my shirt was soaked in blood.
Ferdinand, Fiona and I all stayed motionless;
Ferdinand still tied to the boat and the girl at my feet.
As we processed the possibilities through our
brains. I was thinking of Flackyard, but Ferdinand had a
more practical slant. He knew the person concerned.
“It’s Harry Caplin,” he said. The boat purred
gently towards the shore.
“Where?” I said.
“Firing his hunting rifle from the cliff-top if I know
him,” said Ferdinand.
There were two more thumps and now listening
for it, I heard the gun crack a long way away. The deck
was slippery with the girl’s blood.
Ferdinand had broken out in a sweat, and his eyes
were nervous, flitting around trying to see the invisible
sniper. “If we go up to the wheelhouse we get shot. If
we stay down here the boat heaves itself on to the rocks
around the point at Old Harry, and we will drown.” The
cruiser lurched against the swell.
“Can we get to the rudder control without going
across the deck?”
“It would take too long, in this sort of sea we have
to do something quick.”
Without the girl at the helm the boat was slopping
and slipping beam-on to the sea. It was a big fibreglass
and plywood craft. I imagined it hitting the rocks and
changing to shredded wheat at one swipe. The girl had
regained consciousness, crying out with the searing pain
from her punctured lung.
Fiona knelt down and took off her jacket. She
covered the girls upper body and then said to me.
“Jake, throw me over that life jacket. I want to
prop her head up into a more comfortable position.”
Ferdinand had clambered up the steps from the
dive platform and was screaming at me to untie him.
This done, he snaked his way towards the saloon
on his belly, reappearing a few seconds later with the oneinch thick; round aluminium tabletop from the main cabin
in his arms. How he had managed to lift it with so much
brandy inside him, I have no idea. But he had summoned
the strength to heave it up the four steps without getting
his head shot off, letting it thump heavily onto the floor
of wheelhouse and then staying low using it as a shield
to get onto the bridge. He rolled it forward and I heard
a great echoing clang as one of Harry Caplin’s bullets
glanced off the metal. Ferdinand was lying full-length
on the deck by now, with the lowest part of the boat’s
wheel in his hand. He spun it round and the boat began
to respond.
Through the port windscreen I could see the lethal
looking rocks. They were very close, and after each great
wave the water ran off the bared and jagged fangs in great
rivers that ended their journey back into the sea, creating
foaming spume everywhere.
The boat was well into the turn now. I shouted to
Ferdinand to come back down; but he yelled, “Do you
want to go round and round in a bloody circle?”
He stayed where he was. Again there was a slam of
metal hitting metal. The large piece of flat table top came
thumping down steps to where I was crouched.
As soon as we were round far enough Ferdinand
jammed a pole hook into the wheel. He began to crawl
back, but he had left it too late. The change of course that
had reprieved the cruiser, sentenced George to almost
certain death. With nothing left to protect or shield him,
Caplin pumped four rounds into him in quick succession;
but with those Zeiss x 8 telescopic sights, one would have
done the job.
Fiona shouted something from the other side of the
wheelhouse, but with the howling wind, and sea spray
now coming through the smashed windscreens, her words
were drowned out. All I got was her mouth moving and
her right arm waving frantically up and down.
In my crouched position, I had no way of knowing
if Harry Caplin was still up on the cliff top. But I soon got
my answer as I cautiously went to stand up.
Caplin fired two rounds in quick succession. Both
only just missed me, whizzing past my head and ending
their journey in the main control console.
The bastards trying to kill us all, I thought, as the
instruments disintegrated as the bullets smashed through
the flimsy plastic.
I flattened myself against the wet deck and crawled
towards Fiona and the unconscious girl. As I got nearer
to them, another round slammed into the bulkhead just
above me.
“He’s trying to disable the Star Dust and kill us
into the bargain.” Fiona shouted.
“I know, just stay down!” I replied.
Fiona came closer to where I was spread-eagled on
my stomach.
“Jake, have you got your mobile phone on you?”
“Yes, why?”
“Give it to me. Quickly.” Fiona said.
I handed the phone to her and she immediately
started to dial a number.
“Who are you calling?”
The local police. I’m going to ask them to put up
a helicopter. It’ll be the only chance we have of getting to
that psychopath Caplin up on the cliff top.
If they’re quick enough they’ll catch the bastard
red handed.
The next moment. We could hear the thrashing of
rotor blades almost above us.
“Surely the police can’t have got here that fast.” I
said.
“It’s not the police, look.” Fiona pointed to the
stern of the boat. It was Harry Caplin at the controls of
his own helicopter. He dropped down and hovered about
twenty feet above the ocean. Knowing that we could see
him, he looked straight toward Fiona and me. The boat’s
radio crackled, and then Harry’s voice came over the loud
speaker.
“You should’ve listened to the little lady, Ace.
Letting me go was a big mistake. Anyways, I’ve got to
go now, before the boys in blue arrive. Like I said before,
Ace. You have a nice life, now.”
He then mock-saluted us before banking the
helicopter to the right and rising up into the air. A minute
later the police helicopter arrived on the scene.
As we limped back to the shallow water of Studland
Bay, Fiona came and stood by my side, she put her hand
on my shoulder. Nothing needed to be said. But, we both
knew what I’d done by letting Caplin go.
“Your time will come, Harry. Make no mistake
about that.” I said quietly to myself.

A dozen spent 7mm-cartridge shells on the clifftop were the only trace of Harry Caplin by the time we
had anchored the Star Dust just off Studland beach. The
weather had dragged the cloud base and the barometer
reading well down.

I used my mobile phone to call an ambulance, and
LJ in London. The girl needed a paramedic quickly. LJ,
answered immediately, and I proceeded to give him a
brief update of the situation in Dorset. He told me to
stay put, and that he would arrange for a local contact to
pick me up within the hour. I broke the connection. This
would just give me enough time to make my way along
the coastal path to Old Harry. When I reached the top of
the slope that led up to the cliff-top, I looked back down
at the cruiser using my binoculars, the girl was still where
I’d laid her with eyes unseeing and her mind in neutral;
she was holding George Ferdinand’s hand very tightly.
She wouldn’t let go.

Fiona stayed on the boat and liased with the police.
She took the death of George Thomas Ferlind in her stride
and wrote it into her report smoothly enough to allow me
to escape entanglement and any awkward questions.

After what George had told me, a lot of the
unrelated ends began to tie themselves together. Not all
of them did, of course, but that was too much to expect.
There would always be those inexplicable actions by
unpredictable people, but the motives began to show. I
knew, for instance, what we would find up at Flackyard’s
house, but I went anyway.

I told the driver to drop me off around the corner,
entering through the old rusty gate at the side of the
house. Inside the furniture was shrouded and my footfalls
echoed and creaked round the bookless shelves. The big
chandeliers were also covered to protect them. I went
downstairs to the cellars, searching for the sort of room
that I knew must be there. At the far end of the wide
passageway I found what I was looking for. I studied the
square shaped panel on the wall for a moment; it had a
digital keypad in the centre and a credit card size slot at
the top. I knew from experience that only by entering
the correct entry number once and inserting a card that
matched would anyone be able to open such a heavy oak
door. It was just my bad luck that this type of locking
system invariably came with automatic lock-down steel
shutters that seal all windows and doors in a matter of
seconds.

I turned the polished brass handle anyway. It
moved easily in my hand.
Pushing gently, the heavy oak door moved silently
on its hinges. It was a cold room, painted white. From the
low ceilings hung long fluorescent lights on chains. Under
these were lines of stainless steel benches. Walking up and
down the lines of benches it soon became apparent that
this had been a very well equipped workshop and storage
area.
In their haste to leave, Flackyard’s people had not
only neglected to activate the alarm systems, but a lot of
equipment had been left behind also.
This wasn’t any make shift facility. It was a large
air-conditioned strong room of the type that organised
crime syndicates build instead of paying corporation tax.
I moved along the benches, looking at the machines
and array of electronic calibration equipment. I examined
the complex array of ammunition. Some of the bullets
looked like sophisticated hollow heads containing, I’d no
doubt, various volatile liquids. I didn’t, however, find Mr
Robert Flackyard, because he had been gone for some
time.

I called LJ from my mobile phone. I advised him
that Jasper Lockhart should be kept under surveillance.
Use Vince Sharp and his many gadgets, I suggested. LJ
protested that he wouldn’t make a very good watcher,
but I reminded him that Vince had asked many times
for fieldwork of this type and that he was the best in
the business at eavesdropping. Anyway, we all have to
learn at sometime. “Suppose Lockhart tries to leave the
country?” LJ said.

“I doubt if he will, but if he does try, simply call in
a favour and get the police to arrest him,” I said patiently.
“On what charge?” LJ asked.
“Try soliciting,” I said, and hung up irritably.