Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (2 page)

Friday afternoon and the drive down to Dorset
started frustratingly slowly.
The roads around the city were at bursting point;
people dashing frenetically in all directions to start their
weekends. But once the M25 was in the Mercedes’ rear
view mirror, I relaxed a little, increasing the volume of
the music beating out as I flew down the M3, onto the
M27 and west towards Bournemouth. Penetrating drizzle
had been escaping from the low cloud since I joined the
motorway at Southampton; the glow from the dash clock
showed 5.30pm. Half an hour later I was on the outskirts
of Bournemouth, nearing my destination - a rented house
situated on the Sandbanks peninsula near to Poole.
This exclusive and enchanting area of Dorset is
surrounded by ocean with only one road in and out.
There are far reaching views out to sea and along the
white sand beaches in either direction. The house that the
firm had taken on a short lease had direct water frontage
with its own mooring and boathouse. The property itself
was large enough to accommodate four to five people
comfortably. A private drive was entered via high security
electric gates, under the watchful eye of a CCTV camera.
I pulled up and pushed the intercom button. A
man’s voice almost immediately boomed at me through
the speaker, gruffly asking me to identify myself. Looking
up and smiling at the camera, I said; “Really, Rumple, we
only spoke ten minutes ago, do we have to go through
this every time we work together?”
“You know the procedure sir. For all I know you
could be an impostor. The rules are there for a reason.”
After the week I’d just been through, I gave in
easily. “Oh, very well, Mr Rumple, you win.”
Rumple eventually opened the gates and let me
into the drive. I could see two of the firm’s very special
field operatives standing at the front door, waiting to greet
me. We had worked together on numerous occasions
over the years; their talent and expertise was invaluable
as they had a knack for blending in virtually anywhere
without attracting attention. In reality they were both
highly trained and well organised professionals, who for
many years had been employed by the Government on
various deep cover surveillance assignments. I parked
the Mercedes inside one of the double garages. Greeted
them both, and was immediately shown up to my room. I
always travel light, so unpacking took all of a few minutes.
After a refreshing shower and a change of clothes I went
downstairs, where Mrs Rumple had prepared a culinary
feast as was customary whenever we worked together
and there was an excellent full-bodied red wine to wash
it down.
After dinner, I had a look around and was briefed
on the progress that they had made since arriving at the
house on the Thursday morning. As I expected, every
detail was being attended to, all of the equipment that I
had requested was already neatly arranged in the second
garage awaiting my inspection. All that remained was for
me to see the boat and to take a look at the general area
the next day.
On the Saturday morning, after breakfast Rumple
took me down to the boathouse to take a look at the craft
that was going to take the team to the Gin Fizz. “Well,
I’m very impressed, Rumple. But how did you manage to
get hold of a Phantom at such short notice?”
Rumple, as I knew, was an expert in anything
nautical. That was one of the reasons LJ had specifically
chosen him for this assignment. “Oh, is that what it is,
sir?” He said giving me a sideways glance. “This craft
was already in here. The fax that we received shortly
after we arrived just said to tell you that it’s fitted with
the same bit of kit as the other boat; I presume you know
what that means sir?”
“Yes, I do know what that means, Rumple. Who
sent the fax, by the way?”
“I believe it was Mr Levenson-Jones, sir.”
It was our good fortune that the boathouse had
been built with sufficient room down one side to enable
indoor loading and unloading of equipment comfortably,
without anyone being able to watch from land or sea.
Doors had been fitted at both ends making entry and
exit very easy, which for us was a good thing as we were
going to be using it at night. The next two hours were
taken up cruising along the coast to get my bearings. I
did, with a scornful glare from Rumple, indulge myself a
little and put the forty six foot cruiser through her paces.
I familiarised myself with the array of hi-tech navigation
and communications equipment on board. I discreetly
checked out the radar-jamming device, while Rumple
was at the helm on our way out to look at the area over
the dive site.
We refuelled and, on arriving back at the boathouse,
carefully checked and stowed all of the diving equipment.
“Any problem obtaining that other piece of
equipment?” I asked Rumple.
“No sir, although Mr Levenson-Jones did say that
the owners would like it back undamaged, if that was at
all possible sir. I’ve stowed it safely in the forward rack,
as you requested.”
“Thank you, Rumple, just checking.”
Saturday afternoon and most of the evening was
spent calculating times, tides, distances and speed of all
the various stages. As with all successful assignments
sound planning is crucial, and due to the potentially
hazardous nature of this one, particular care was being
taken. The fact was that when the other member of my
team arrived at the house on Tuesday, everything had to
be in place and ready to go. We’d finished up by midnight
and I said goodnight to Rumple, informing him that I had
to be back in London by Sunday lunchtime.

There were blue skies and sunshine in Dorset, a
sharp thunderstorm on the M3 and then bright sunshine
again as I came off the motorway. I glanced in my
mirror, then switched on the radio. Up towards and
over Putney Bridge, onto the New Kings Road just as
another thunderstorm clattered above. Students walking
and talking on their mobile phones, girls showing off
the latest fashion in tattoos and belly button piercing.
Right towards the Thames and then first on the left into
Studdridge Street. Just before the end, left again and back
towards the New Kings Road.

Now I was sure. The black Ford Mondeo was
following me. I turned left back onto the New Kings Road
and then right, accelerating the Mercedes past Parsons
Green Underground to the junction, and then right onto
the Fulham Road. I pulled up by the entrance to the
Fulham Broadway underground. The Mondeo came past
me slowly as I searched the glove compartment for a nonexistent pad and pen. I watched out of the corner of my
eye until it stopped perhaps twenty metres up the road,
then I quickly cut across the road and headed towards
the Kings Road. This left the black Mondeo facing the
wrong way up the Fulham Road. Now to see how good
they really were.

I drove on past fashionable Victorian terraces
behind which designer homes crouched, pretending to be
traditional English houses. I stopped. I reached over to the
passenger seat for my holdall, locked the car and walked
back up the road I had just driven down to Tatiana’s
house. Number 14 had wooden slatted blinds at the front
windows and a narrow hallway that seemed never to end.
I let myself in.

Music playing provided a soft background sound
while Tats floated around the kitchen fixing a large pot
of freshly ground coffee. I stood and watched her from
the kitchen doorway. She was wearing tight-fitting stonewashed jeans and a revealing top; her tan had not faded
and the hair that hung across her forehead was still golden
from the St Barts sunshine. She looked up. She was calm,
her eyes as bright as sapphires.

“You make me sound like some sort of analyst,” I
said, smiling.
She moved across to me. Her kiss was sweet and
lingering and through my shirt, I could feel her breasts
lightly brushing against me.
I said in barely a whisper, “Hello, stranger.”
She poured the coffee into colourful art-pottery
mugs. “You were followed here, you know.”
“I don’t think so,” I said casually.
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“You know exactly what. You go all nonchalant
and macho.”
“OK relax. I know I was followed by a black Ford
Mondeo, possibly all the way back from Bournemouth,
certainly from the M3. I’ve no idea who it could be,
perhaps it’s my tailor.”
“Pay him,” said Tats. She stood well back from
the window still looking down at the street. “He could
be from the finance company; he has a base ball bat in
his hand.”
“Very funny.”
“You are popular today, aren’t you? There are two
more men across the road in a Porsche Boxster. Um, that
car is rather gorgeous.”
“You are joking, of course.”
“Come and see for yourself.”
I walked over to the window. There it was, a
Porsche of brilliant metallic blue, suitably grimy enough
to have done a fast trip up the motorway. It was parked
at an awkward angle behind a BMW estate about twenty
metres up the road. On the pavement two aggressive
looking men in dark suits were smoking cigarettes and
one was talking on a mobile phone. I found my sport
binoculars in the bottom of my holdall and focused on
them and the car carefully.
I said, “Well, they certainly aren’t working for any
Government department we know of, judging from the
cut of their suits and the car they’re driving.”
Taking the binoculars from me, Tats went over to
one of the tall narrow windows.
“They appear to be getting back into the Porsche.”
She turned back to me.
“And they look like professionals, whoever they
are.”
“I was just thinking the same, but what are
they doing following me around London on a Sunday
afternoon?”
Tats put down the binoculars and poured out the
coffee in silence.
“Go on,” I said, “Why I am I being chaperoned do
you think, or could there be a connection between those
two outside and this Gin Fizz project we are just about to
start working on?”
Tats handed me the mug of black coffee. I took a
sip. “Umm – Colombian blend.”
“You like the Colombian blend, don’t you?”
“Depends on what mood I’m in,” I said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m in the mood, so I’m going to drink it,
of course.”
“No, silly, about those men outside.”
“I’m going to find out who the hell they are.”
“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Tats
asked.
“Well, I thought I would go out of the back door,
run down the alley and around the block, I’ll then come
at them from the other side of the road. As I approach
them on the passenger side I’ll pull my automatic from its
holster and smash the side window with the butt. At the
same time I’ll shout instructions at them to get out of the
car with their hands high in the air. Got it?”
Tats looked at me wide eyed. “It’s really not had a
good effect on you, that trip to the seaside, has it?”
“Or perhaps I’ll try Vince Sharp, he’s bound to
be in this weekend.” I used my mobile phone to ring
the firm’s switchboard. The number I was using didn’t
officially exist, courtesy of a favour called in by the
Partners from one of their pals at the Home Office. While
waiting to connect I asked Tats what my pass code was
for the current project.
“Why is it that you can’t remember a simple
word?” she said tersely, continuing to look out of the
window.
But before I could even comment, she answered
for me.
“No, don’t say it. It’s because you have much more
important things on your mind and it all seems a bit
trivial to you, doesn’t it? But, due to the very clandestine
nature of the department that you occasionally work for,
the firm has to have that added security; you know that
as well as I do. The word that you’re racking your brain
for, by the way is Tomcat”. She said. “Most appropriate,
if you ask me,” she added with a smile.
“Tomcat,” I said quickly to the voice at the other
end, and was immediately connected to the special
operations co-ordinator, Vince Sharp.
“Vince,” I said, “it’s Jake.”
“What an unexpected pleasure, and on a Sunday?
It must be important.”
“What can I do for you?”
By this point in the conversation, voice recognition
had been completed, with the recorder and scrambler
running as standard procedure.
“I’ve gone and grown two tails, Vince.”
“I’m sorry to hear that old chap?” I could hear
Vince tapping away furiously at his keyboard.
“According to our data, we have no known reason
for your current problem, but I’ll check with a specialist
down the road; give me a description of both, will you.”
I gave Vince the two car registration numbers along
with details of make and colour just in case the plates
were fake. I waited while he typed in the information and
then read it all back to me.
“Thanks, Vince, ring me back will you, I’m at Tats’
place here in London.”
“Give me ten minutes, I need to make a phone call
and more importantly make myself a nice cup of tea,” he
said jovially.
Tats poured me a second cup of coffee and
produced a large fruitcake.
“What is that?” I said in mock horror.
“Don’t be cruel, you know that mummy likes to
bake, anyway it’s your duty to eat a slice and say how nice
it was next time you see her. I must say, you are careless
sometimes, telling Vince where you are, you don’t know,
someone could have been eavesdropping.”
I said, “True - but highly unlikely. The software that
we use for telephone scrambling is the most sophisticated
on the market and with a chap like Vince sitting there
well, need I say more?”
The phone rang; it was Vince, asking me for the
pass word. “Tomcat, what have you got for me?” I asked.
“OK, you really do have a couple of tails, don’t
you? The black one I’ve traced back to a security company
in Hertfordshire. It’s a regular, used on the whole by the
Government, my guess is that I’ll find that this one has
cropped up a few times before. I’ll have to ferret around
a little deeper tomorrow morning though.”
I said quickly. “Try this Minister in particular,
along with any dubious acquaintances he may have.” I
gave Vince the name and left it at that.
“What about the Porsche, why has that one
appeared?”
“Well, I’ve drawn a blank at present with that one,
but I reckon it’s connected to the assignment that you’re
about to start. I’ll have to come back to you when I know
more, but why do you think the Mondeo is connected to
this job?”
“Call it a gut feeling. Anyway, thanks for checking
these out for me, especially on a Sunday; I really appreciate
it Vince.” I hung up.
“What did he say?” Tats asked.
“He confirmed what I thought. That maybe, just
maybe, the reason those cars are following me is because
of the Gin Fizz. Any movement outside while I’ve been
on the phone?”
“No, nothing, but hang on, the guy in the black
Mondeo is walking up to the two in the Porsche and is
now talking to them.”
I walked over to the window. Peering through my
binoculars, I could see that the two men in the Porsche
were both speaking on their phones. The chap from
the black Ford was standing with his hands deep in the
pockets of his shabby check jacket. The men got out of
the car and all three were talking on the pavement. Soon
the two got back into the Porsche and drove away, but
the black Ford remained outside.
Tats and I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon
waiting for Vince to call back.
In between, she washed her hair and I read the
Sunday Times from front to back. The TV was on, but I
wasn’t watching; some sort of fly on the wall programme
was coming to an end when my mobile phone rang.
“The Porsche belongs to an acquaintance of our
Minister, Oliver Hawkworth.” I said into the phone
before he could speak.
“Uncanny,” said Vince. “How did you know?”
“Well I’ve been sitting here pondering;” I said.
“I should have thought of it before. Friend Hawkworth
has obviously got into bed with whoever really owns the
contents of his safe on board the ‘Gin Fizz’. Whoever that
is, owns the blue Porsche, I’d guess.”
Vince said. “Good thinking chap. My source has
come back with a confirmed owner for that blue Porsche.
It belongs to a Robert Flackyard from Dorset.”
“What else have you managed to find out about
him, anything or nothing?”
“What, at such short notice, give me a chance.”
Vince said congenially.
“But according to the tabloid info that I’ve been
able to locate on the Internet, Flackyard likes to live life
right on the edge, shall we say. At fifty-eight years of
age, he owns a string of night clubs on the South Coast,
as well as being a successful property developer. The
only other thing that I can tell you from these articles
is that there has been some speculation about how he
conducts his business dealings. But, one thing’s for sure,
he most definitely enjoys a playboy lifestyle around the
globe. There is also a definite link between him and our
ministerial friend. They have been photographed together
at various functions on more than one occasion, but I’ll
have to speak to someone tomorrow morning and request
a detailed file on him. I’ll mark it urgent shall I?”
“Urgent is definitely good, Vince. We have to know
who we are really dealing with and why the interest in
me. See what official information you can dig up; use
the Partners to encourage the process. In the meantime,
can you make sure that L.J. is brought up to speed when
he arrives first thing in the morning. Oh and Vince, well
done.” I hung up just as Tats walked into the room
swathed in a large white towel, having showered.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“It’s as I thought, the black Ford belongs to a
firm who are almost certainly working for our Minister,
but Vince has to dig a bit deeper tomorrow. As for the
Porsche, well I must admit that one is a surprise. It’s
registered to a Robert Flackyard from Bournemouth, a
wealthy entrepreneur and playboy. I think that firstly, he is
almost certainly linked with Hawkworth; and secondly, if
that is the case, then he is the owner of the counterfeiting
plates and cocaine on board the Gin Fizz, but that’s only
a guess.”
“You say Robert Flackyard, that name rings a bell.
I’m sure that a Mr R. Flackyard came to see one of the
Partners last week.”
“Do you know who he saw?” I asked.
“No, it was an appointment that one of them made
and then posted on the electronic diary. They sometimes
do that when they’re working late, but there’s nothing
unusual about it. They do it all the time.”
“I want you to check both Partners’ personal
diaries for last week the minute you get in tomorrow. I
want to know which one of them saw this character and
why.”
Tats made a face at me and continued to paint a
fingernail deep red. I put down my coffee cup, and walked
over to where she was stood.
“My nails are still wet,” she said, feigning protest
and holding her arms high above her head, adding. “Jake,
you mustn’t.”
The towel slid easily to the floor ending up in a
heap around her feet.