Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (20 page)

As a king watches over his kingdom, the stunning
Boquer mountain range overlords the port of Pollensa at
the northernmost tip of the island of Mallorca.

Along the streets, which lie between pastel coloured
buildings, a shabby old mongrel, its muzzle grey with age,
yawns scratching behind its ear while it lies in the shade
of a doorway, taking pleasure from the cool sea breeze.

Tourists of all ages casually stroll along the
waterside pine walk; the aroma of mouth-watering local
fish dishes waft out from the many fine restaurants along
the tree-lined natural harbour. People sit, laughing and
drinking, letting the burden of modern life float away
while they absorb the mellow atmosphere. Children play
tirelessly on the beach and splash around in the crystal
clear water of the bay.

Café Maritimo is a bright, vibrant, espresso
temple. Cups clatter, machines hiss and the young waiters
move with ease across the white marble floor. A young
English couple with a baby, argue about why he stayed
out all night partying. The large television screen inside is
showing a football match, young men and women stand
around drinking, suddenly jumping up excitedly and
cheering when a goal is scored. From the supermercado
along the street there is a continual flash of red neon and
an advertisement for San Miguel beer floats in mid air
above the door.

I sat near the front of the café, outside, where I
could see the street and the harbour. I ordered some hot
chocolate, and watched a tall African man in his late
twenties, dressed in a shabby dinner suit, perform magic
tricks for the passers-by. I sipped the sweet cinnamon
chocolate for which the café is famous. The magician
man’s box of props had stickers all over it from many
different countries; presumably places he had performed
in.

He delved amongst the silk scarves and playing
cards and offered the crowd that had gathered one last
trick, which was to conjure up half a dozen white doves
from apparently nowhere. The children who were sat in
a small half circle at the front of the crowd clapped with
zealous amazement, and sheer joy as the birds appeared
and fluttered above their heads. At the end of the show,
their parents were press-ganged into digging deep into
their pockets for some coins to throw into the magician’s
top hat.

A young officer of the Spanish Navy wearing an
immaculate white uniform, got up from his table to the
side of me, and went over to the magician. After some
haggling, payment was given in advance and then the tall
slim African sauntered over to where the officer and his
girlfriend were sitting. He started to perform card tricks,
much to the amusement of the officer, and somewhat to
the embarrassment of the young raven-haired woman. It
was 7.30pm. I looked at the menu. I was worried in case
something might have gone wrong. With the stakes this
high, it would be a disaster if anything went astray.

After their private show, the magician bowed to
the young couple and left them and moved amongst the
other people in the Café, showing off his talent.

And then came to sit opposite me at my table.
Smiling, he politely asked, in perfect English, if I’d like to
see a trick or two.

He sifted through his box again, pulling out three
plain brown envelopes.
He placed them on the shiny metallic surface in
front of me. “What you’ve got to do is simply pick the
correct envelope. Inside one of them is a ten Euro note,”
he said in a deep, cultured voice, gesturing with a sweep
of his up turned palm over the envelopes.
“How do I know which is the correct one?” I
asked.
“You don’t,” he replied. “But if you choose wisely
you will be a richer man,” he added.
I could easily have said no to this childish challenge,
but instead I said, “OK,” and after a moment tapped the
middle envelope with my forefinger.
The magician put the other two envelopes back
into his box.
I picked up the envelope and tore it open. Inside
was a ten Euro note and with it a small piece of paper
folded in two. I left the paper inside and pulled out the
money.
“You have chosen wisely, my friend, use your new
found wealth carefully,” he said, beaming a dazzling
white smile at me. He closed his box of tricks, and was
gone, as quickly as he had arrived. I went to the toilet
and read the note. On the small folded piece of paper
it simply read, “Calle de Jaime and Avenida del Pinar.
Corner 8.20pm.” Both the arguing couple and the navy
officer and his girlfriend were gone by the time I returned
to my table.
The on shore wind coming off the bay whistled
down the Avenida del Pinar and the night was suddenly
cold, the way it sometimes goes in the Balearics.
A new Toyota land cruiser 4x4 rolled down on me
like the day of judgement, all headlights and chrome bull
bars. I got in and sank into the black leather upholstery;
the seat wrapped around me as the large vehicle wound
its way south through small streets towards the residential
area overlooking the harbour and the Bay of Pollensa.
Cats sat around with nothing to do and stared
insolently back into the headlight beams. The driver
parked the 4x4 with meticulous care and killed the lights.
He opened a wrought iron gate for me and took me up
to a first floor room overlooking the front of the villa.
Someone was already in the room, silhouetted in the
narrow rectangle of window studying the harbour berths
opposite with an enormous pair of binoculars fixed onto
a tripod. The black clothed-figure moved to one side.
On the far side of the marina a party was in full
flow on board a large yacht.
Men in swim shorts and girls in bikini bottoms
were lounging around on the top and rear decks drinking
and laughing, while others were diving and jumping
into the water. A small group of men were singing lewd
rugby songs, smoking, drinking and then singing loudly
again. I applied my eyes to the soft rubber eyepieces of
the binoculars. They were trained on the main cabin
windows of a seventy five-foot luxury cruiser berthed
next to the party boat.
The small Armourlite logo in the bottom left hand
corner of each window, denoting that one-inch thick blast
proof glass surrounded the main cabin area, was just
discernible with the powerful lenses. The scene beyond
was bright and clear. The 4x4 had been parked carefully
with good reason. The Toyota had more spotlights, fog
lights and lens work than a fly’s eye.
Now I realised that the three large spotlights on
the chrome bull bar at the front were still switched on.
Through the night sight infrared binoculars I saw three
men opening a number of wooden crates and taking out
what looked like aluminium boxes about the size of a
suitcase. Polyfoam packing littered the floor. Into my ear
a feminine and familiar voice said, “They must be nearly
finished. They’ve been at it for nearly an hour.” It was
Fiona Price. Working with the crime squad on the island.
“They’re not going to leave those in there,” I said.
It wasn’t feasible on board the cruiser, or was it? I moved
aside for Fiona to resume her observation.
“What brings you to Mallorca, stud, I thought you
had been warned off big time?”
“I have, and between you and me, I’ll probably
get the sack when the Partners find out. But what the
hell, this son of a bitch Flackyard has got to be stopped.
Otherwise he’s going to walk away, and start up all over
again somewhere else,” I replied. “So tell me, who does
this villa belong to?” I asked.
“A friend of my father owns it; he’s in Australia for
six months.”
“When did you get here,” I asked her casually.
“About ten hours ago I was sent out here after
Interpol emailed my boss with a positive identity match for
Robert Flackyard. Would you believe it, he was caught on
a CCTV when he arrogantly went into a bank to change
some traveller’s cheques? We liased with the local police
department in Palma who sent out an internal bulletin
to local officers all over the Island with Flackyard and
Caplin’s photographs on the front page. The next thing
we get is another email, this time from the police here in
Pollensa, giving us the address of Flackyard’s private villa.
Like your Vince Sharp, we’ve been tracking Flackyard’s
yacht all the way from England until it docked in the
early hours of yesterday morning right over there.”
“Who are the hired help?” I asked.
“Two along for the ride, Jason Stewart, he’s a DC
with the Met and an absolute genius with the surveillance
stuff. As well as Antonio Carreras he’s with the local
plain clothes squad here on the island…” She nodded
her head towards the boat, which held Flackyard and his
aluminium suitcases.
“Perhaps your young DC would like to make us all
some strong coffee,” I suggested.
“Sure,” said Fiona.
“I have a feeling that we’re in for a long wait,” I
said.
After a lifetime of travelling around, one tries to
be prepared for transient discomfort. A good quality
jacket will always keep you warm on the coldest of
nights, and a pair of soft nubuck shoes always go into the
hand luggage, as they can be worn for either comfort or
running, should the need arise. I had both of these things
- at my apartment in London.
Fiona and I took one hour each at the binoculars
and Stewart took the Toyota to the other end of the
marina to cover the side door. I don’t know what he was
expected to do if they went out that way, but there he
was.
At 3.30am in the morning, or what I call night,
Fiona woke me.
“Jake, wake up. A big white van has just pulled
up at the entrance gates to the marina berths,” she said.
By the time I had got to the binoculars they were moving
the aluminium boxes off of Flackyard’s boat, down the
pontoon towards the van.
“Do you have a gun with you?” I asked Fiona.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I hadn’t considered the
need for one, or the possibility that Flackyard would
move the merchandise elsewhere.”
Half an hour later and with the van sagging on its
rear springs, the two burly looking men locked the back
doors and drove away. We stayed a safe distance behind
them as we followed the two men through the Mallorcan
countryside, daylight fast approaching over our shoulder.
It wasn’t a long drive to the small airfield.

As another Mallorcan dawn rose across the horizon,
the tired night sky faded into the hazy pink watercolour
of early morning. In the distance the twin engines of a
Cessna aeroplane turned its nose south southwest, making
its way unhindered towards the horizon.

“A Cessna.” I thought of Flackyard’s personal
profile; it had to be a Cessna. The three of us watched
from the grass runway because none of the four charter
planes were available at this early hour. Jason Stewart
beat on the door of the padlocked offices, using the ‘f’
word three or four times, but it got us no nearer to what
was in side those cases that were now at three thousand
feet and still climbing. It was 5.24am, June 2nd.

“This is an outrage against civilised behaviour,
have you any idea what time it is?” I was asked in true
Castilian Spanish.

A rather rotund and stout balding man in a brown
habit barred my way.
“Step aside, fatty,” I said; “I haven’t got time for
niceties.”
Fiona and Stewart followed me into the cold empty,
echoing hallway.
“Go and get your boss out of bed,” I said, “and
tell him that his presence is required downstairs urgently,
and that doesn’t mean in half an hour’s time.”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?” said the stuffy
little man in the brown habit, aggressive, but doubting.
I wrote on the back of an envelope, ‘Jake Dillon.
Minutes are vital.’ And waited while he took it upstairs.
My treatment of a brother of the monastery of
San Sebastian was causing Fiona Price and Jason Stewart
physical pain and the sight of the good father in pyjamas
was almost too much for them both.
We were shown into a bright airy room, quite the
opposite of the hallway.
Floor to ceiling bookcases made from seasoned
oak surrounded us on three sides. Every shelf was filled
with books, some rare, some first editions, but all were
in alphabetical order. The room was warm from the
sunlight streaming through the tall elegant French doors
and windows that ran along an entire elevation. Stepping
out onto the wooden balcony, the cold early morning air
along with a stiff breeze took my breath away. At around
400 metres above sea level the view from this magical
place really is magnificent, and the mountain air even in
the summer is crisp and fresh.
“Jake Dillon, what are on earth are you doing here
on Mallorca?”
“Now, Father, you know that if I told you that I’d
have to kill you, and I most certainly have no wish to do
that to one of my oldest friends.” Father Pedro Ramon
Sancho came across the room and gave me a tight hug as
two people who have not seen each other for some time
do.
Introductions done, the tall bookcase on the far
wall slid back to reveal a hidden panel with an array of
colour monitors, keyboards and electronic displays full of
listening and recording equipment. These are the eyes and
ears of Ferran & Cardini in Europe and can watch and
listen virtually anywhere and at anytime using satellites
that happen to be in the right place at the right time. This
has been particularly useful to the firm over the years,
especially with some of the more covert activities of the
department. But also when negotiating deals of a more
delicate nature or avoiding international currency and
stock market fluctuations, Father Pedro Ramon Sancho
and his many guiding stars have shown us time and time
again the true path to tread.
An American satellite was just coming into range
of the coast of Spain and the Balearic Islands. “When
did the plane leave the airstrip?” asked Father Pedro as
he positioned himself in front of one of the flat screen
monitors.
“It was 5.15am. No more the twenty minutes
ago,” I replied quickly. “If we assume it has an airspeed
of 150m.p.h. and stays on that south-south-west heading,
we’d expect it to be half way between here and Morocco.
Wouldn’t you say, Father?”
There was a long silence while Father Pedro,
looking intently at the monitor watched the satellite
rotate its onboard spy camera and give us a bird’s eye
view of the Spanish coast line from Barcelona right down
to Gibraltar. The North African coast showed clearly at
the bottom of the screen. Father Pedro typed in a number
of command sequences. An overlay of all the light aircraft
flight plans for the region now covered the screen, and
one of these thin lines showed darker than the rest.
“The dark line is presumably our Cessna?” I said
over his shoulder.
“Possibly, but at this stage it’s difficult to be positive,
Jake. I have given the computer all of the information to
hand. That is to say, the airstrip where it took off from,
the time that it departed and of course the heading that
it left on. Now, what we have here is the official history
overlay of all light aircraft movement in the area for
around that time. Even if your man hadn’t filed a flight
path, it would still show up here, as this shows everything
that has been and is in the air up to this point in time.
Give me a moment and I will have the real time imaging
direct from the mainframe of air traffic control at Palma
International Airport. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course, father,” I agreed, nodding soberly
The lines moved around the screen. Some altered
to new headings while some disappeared completely as
they left the Palma control zone.
“The line that is still showing darker than the
others, I would say, is most likely to be our Cessna. It
fits the profile almost exactly. But wait a minute, it’s
changing course.” The small blip was turning, the Father
typed more commands, and this time most of the lines
disappeared, leaving just half a dozen all heading in
roughly the same direction.
“Look here Jake, this is very interesting. Our
Cessna has changed course towards the Spanish
mainland. It looks like they’re heading into the Seville air
traffic control zone. This may get tricky if they keep on
this heading. We may even lose them in the thick of all the
commercial air traffic in that area.”
“Sorry Father, but that’s not one of the options.
Get the satellite image enlarged over that region,” I said
patiently.
“Now, merge the flight path of the Cessna on your
screen with the satellite image on this screen.” He quickly
typed in the command. The dark line now showed on the
live satellite image.
“So we should be able to pinpoint the Cessna’s
position just as long as the satellite stays within range.”
“That is correct Jake, but I can do better than that.
Watch, learn and be amazed, my old friend.”
The good Father tapped away at his keyboard,
until the image that filled the screen was that of a solitary
twin engine aircraft, high above the cloud level and
travelling along the dark superimposed flight path. “The
satellite will track the plane for as long as it is in range,”
he said. “I’d say that we have thirty minutes, maximum,”
he added.
We were brought freshly baked croissants and
coffee. The manner of the rotund monk who had let us in
hadn’t changed, he was still aggressive and doubting. We
all waited in silence as the Father did his stuff; the small
plane eventually changed course. The Cessna was one of
the larger twin engine planes, with a forty-foot wingspan.
It was apparent that it was ‘coasting’ on a pre-determined
course, away from the main commercial routes.
“I would say, Jake, that given the flight path, the
aircraft is on auto-pilot,” said Father Pedro.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” I asked.
It was Jason Stewart who answered. “I’d say that
he’s probably ‘coasting’, he’ll continue on that bearing
until he reaches the coast. Then he’ll drift along the coast
until he recognises Marbella. Then the pilot will set
himself a new course, using wind direction and velocity
according to how far he’s off his original course. That is
quite an old plane by today’s standards and he probably
has only very basic navigational aids, you see.”
“Will he cross the coast at Marbella?”
“No, he’ll go for maximum cover. It will more
than likely be a little bit east of Malaga.”
“Jake, we’re just about to lose the satellite, it will
be out of range in two minutes. But we’ll still be able
to track the Cessna by using the link with the air traffic
control system,”
“OK, Father. You’ve been more than helpful and
I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed, but your job isn’t
quite finished yet. I must know where that plane lands.
Let the computer continue to plot its course and call me
on my mobile phone immediately it touches down with
the location. We’re going back to that airstrip to question
anyone who can or will tell us where Flackyard is heading
and to find a plane fast enough to get us to wherever that
Cessna is going.”
In the meantime Fiona had slipped out and
had brought the 4x4 round to the side entrance of the
monastery.