Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (6 page)

Levenson-Jones picked one up and held it under
the banker’s lamp on his desk. The note was as perfect a
forgery as you’re likely to get anywhere.

“Just gave you a bundle of these, did he?” said LJ.
He opened a fresh packet of cigars and lit one. “Very good,
he obviously took what I had to say to him seriously. This
really is an excellent piece of work,” he continued still
holding the note to the light.

The phone rang. Zara said she’d run out of ground
coffee and would instant do. It was gone midnight and LJ
told her to go home and get some sleep, but she brought
up the coffee for us, and her smile was like a shaft of
summer sunshine. LJ handed her the forged Euro note.
The paper was crisp and rustled as she turned it over in
her elegant hands.

Zara studied each side of the note carefully, and
looked up at me and then at LJ.
“Isn’t it just as I said, Mr Levenson-Jones?”
“Yes, you were right, Zara,” said LJ. “A quite
exceptional forgery.”
“But didn’t I tell you that it would be? When that
Mr Flackyard visited the Partners that time, he had a wad
of these with him. I knew I was right.”
So the Partners had already seen the quality of
the counterfeit notes before we had even started the
assignment. No wonder they were so keen to get involved.
Zara trotted off home at 1.30am and over our
coffee LJ and I sat down and talked about the situation
in Dorset and how the budget was going and how many
days to his family holiday in Tuscany. That it all seemed a
lot of expense for two weeks away, but his wife and kids
liked it; then LJ suddenly said, “You never relax, Jake; it’s
getting you down, this job?”
It wasn’t that he’d change it, if it was, he just liked
to know it all.
“I can’t make it fit together,” I said, “and some
things are too convenient.”
“Convenience, dear boy, is just a state of mind,”
said LJ.
“It’s understanding that’s important. Understanding
the symptoms you encounter will refer you to just one
disease. You find a man with a pain in the foot and the
hand and you wonder what he could possibly be suffering
from with two such disparate symptoms.”
“Then you find that while hitting a nail with a
hammer one day he slips and whacks his hand, dropping
the hammer which lands on top of his foot.”
“OK,” I said, “so much for ER. Now listen to
my problems. First of all, why are we even talking to
these nutty old retired Italian generals? Do they really
think that they could possibly take over the Mafia in
Sicily, and why are the Partners getting involved with
such a foolhardy enterprise anyway? Because of this, I’m
ordered to dive into a sunken boat that belongs to a coke
sniffing member of Parliament, and who just happens to
be involved with a south coast gangster, to retrieve his
plates that will produce counterfeit money.”
“Why? To give to the generals, and which will
ultimately save the firm millions.”
“So far so good, but while I am returning from
Bournemouth two cars follow me up the motorway.
The first, we discover is owned by a Private Investigator
working for our Minister, and the other’s owned by
Flackyard and driven by two of his suited goons. When I
ask for files to be pulled on both, what do you know they
never appear…”
“They will,” said LJ patiently, “It’s only that Special
Branch are involved on both counts. That’s hampered my
progress in obtaining them, that’s all.”
I gave him the curly lip treatment. “OK, so what
about Fiona Price. Is she just a lowly employee of HMG?
Or is she in reality something quite different? After all,
she does sleep with a silenced pistol under her pillow?”
“I must admit I’ve run another check on her and
she appears to have an exemplary career record; in fact it’s
totally without blemishes. I’d say it was almost certainly
fictitious.” LJ offered.
“Yes, perhaps it’s too perfect, but I’m at a complete
loss as to who she is working for and why she has been
landed on my assignment. Oh, and I agree, her work
record is completely false without a doubt, but her ability
and expertise is real enough.”
LJ took out a monogrammed handkerchief and
lowered his nose into it, like he was going from the eighth
storey window into something held by six firemen. He
blew his nose loudly. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, she arrives unannounced telling us that
she comes with your blessing on behalf of HMG. Her
instructions are to retrieve the logbook from the Gin Fizz
and not to go back to London without it. But when it can’t
be found, she creates a song and dance about the trouble
that she will be in for not locating it, but quite frankly
her performance was very weak and I for one found her
unconvincing. Unfortunately for her and luckily for us, I
got to it before she did.”
I handed LJ the logbook. “You might find this
interesting bedtime reading. Another thing that was odd,
when we discovered the opium,” I put one of the waxy
brown parcels down onto LJ’s desk, “her reaction was
a little too relaxed. Especially as we all thought it was
explosives we were dealing with. Finally, both Charlie
and I agree that she had the opportunity on a number of
occasions to take the photographs of the Gin Fizz. But
why? We haven’t figured that one out, yet.”
“Are you sure you’re not blowing this all out of
proportion, Jake?” LJ’s tone was patronising.
“No I am not, “I said loudly. “From the very start
of this assignment the elusive Oliver Hawkworth has, I
feel, been manipulating all of us. Flackyard is far more
devious and powerful than we’ve given him credit for,
and I for one will be watching my back from now on.”
“Ah…” LJ hesitated “… you think it’s a frame up,
don’t you,” he said thoughtfully.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” I asked.
“It’s an American expression that…” then he saw
me grinning and he frowned.
I went on, “Then there’s is this American, Harry
Caplin, I can’t be sure but my guts tell me that he’s involved
up to his fat little neck with those opium packages. But,
I don’t think it’s with Flackyard…” My thoughts went
back to the photograph of the hunting party at his house
in Sandbanks. “He’s got more of an international flavour
this one, of that I am sure.”
“So what do you conclude?” asked LJ.
“I don’t conclude anything,” I said, “but if I see a
man waving the Stars and Stripes above his head I wonder
if he’s trying to tell me something about his national
characteristics, and I wonder why.”
“What about these photos of the boat that have
gone missing?” LJ asked.
“Stolen. Whoever took them, wasted their time.
They’re of little consequence now, especially as the Gin
Fizz no longer exists, and the photos are only general
shots anyway.”
“I hope for your sake that you’re certain of that
old son,” said LJ sardonically, as he tried to touch his
nose with his tongue.
“Yes, absolutely certain,” I said.
“Well, that’s OK then, but you must understand
the Partners’ point of view; they don’t want to upset the
status quo. There’s far to much at stake. You must look
at the bigger picture as they do Jake. Take off the blinkers
sometimes.”
“Oh, I do,” I said seriously. “Well now, that’s the
Partners’ position as a rule, isn’t it? Not to upset anyone,
don’t upset all the good work we’re doing – all that
crap. Now doesn’t it strike you as odd that the Partners
encourage us into this set-up and tell us, mark you, not
to let anyone know what we’re doing off the coast of
Dorset? But they are all bright smiles and winking eyes
about it? They send down, this very attractive young
woman, simply to help us?”
“Well, what do you want me to do about Miss
Price?” LJ Said tapping his pen on the rim of his coffee
cup.
“Give her back to whoever she belongs to.” I
replied.
“Now then, Jake,” said LJ, “please be reasonable. I
know that should be what we do, but it’s not that simple.
The Partners and even the police want her left in place for
the time being, just watch what you do and say around
her. What else do you want me to do?”
“Just one thing,” I asked, “keep the wraps on that
logbook from the Gin Fizz. Just don’t say a word about it
to anyone. Let’s keep it between Charlie, you and me for
the time being. You’ll see why when you’ve had a chance
to read it through.”
“And Robert Flackyard,” LJ said, just so that I
knew he was agreeing to do so. (He would never promise
to go against company policy in so many words.) He
continued as though I hadn’t mentioned the book. “The
Price woman,” he said, “you might as well use her talents,
and we’ll let whichever department she works for worry
about what to do with her when this affair is over and
done with. As you say, she’s capable and quick thinking.
You never know. You may even grow to like her.”
I suppose I must have snorted as I closed the office
door behind me.

My converted loft apartment overlooks the river
Thames in a fashionable part of town; I got back there at
7.30am after the all-night discussions with LJ. I paid the
cab driver and climbed the spiral staircase to the top of
the building.

I flicked on the heating control to constant,
went into the kitchen and boiled a kettle. While I was
waiting for the coffee to filter through I phoned Charlie,
his mobile was switched off and his voice mail on. The
message was simply for him to collect me at about four
o’clock this afternoon. LJ had asked me to collect his car
from the airport as we were going past it on the way to
see a man who dealt in snippets of information that could
be relevant to the Dorset assignment. LJ had left it there
on his return from New York the previous day; as usual
he’d had too much Champagne in business class.

I poured a generous measure of whisky into the
black coffee and sipped it slowly. A night without sleep
was beginning to pound my temples gently and tighten
the muscles in the back of my neck. It was 8.15am I went
to bed, then somewhere in the building a vacuum cleaner
began its fiendish flagellation. I closed my eyes.

I looked at my watch in the darkness. The doorbell
was ringing. I had slept nine hours, and now Charlie
McIntyre was at the door, eager to get to grips with his
evening of freedom in the big city. He had a brand new
Audi TT from the firm’s car pool. Only senior executives
who had to go out of the city to visit clients used these.
But on this occasion, as we were doing LJ an immense
favour, he had authorised the vehicle for our use.

I had a shower, shaved and threw on the nearest
smart casual clothes that came to hand. Charlie was
eager to get back in the Audi and give it a blast down
the motorway to the airport. It was a pleasure to see him
handle the powerful car; his nimble hands stroked the
controls as we slipped through the traffic with effortless
ease and a skill he never otherwise showed. “Nowhere,”
said Charlie quietly as we approached another
intersection, “do the English show a greater enthusiasm
to queue than on motorways.” He used the horn with
Italian enthusiasm, indicated and moved the Audi over
and out into the fast lane, accelerating with such speed
that my whole body was pushed back into the leather
seat and held there momentarily. Charlie moved past the
queuing traffic with ice cool skill until we had left them
in the rear view mirror.

When we arrived at Heathrow Airport he parked
on double yellow lines just behind the taxi rank, and
left the engine running. We drew matchsticks to see who
would drive the Range Rover back to the office. Charlie
won, so I would follow in the Audi.

It was 6.30pm, the sky had grown dark and
menacing again and I felt fingers of rain tapping me on
the shoulder. I gave Charlie the keys to LJ’s car pointing
to where he always parked; we could see the dark green
Range Rover Vogue from where we were standing. I
went over to the newspaper vendor at the entrance to
the terminal. The headline on the board read; BUSH
TO CONTINUE WAR ON TERRORISM. I bought the
Times and walked back out into the drizzle.

The lights of the car park created an almost surreal
scene. I could see Charlie at the far end; he opened the
door of the four wheel drive vehicle got in and started
the powerful 4.6 litre petrol engine, switched on the head
lights and drove around the one way system to the exit.
As he emerged the rain tore little gashes through the long
beams.

At the top of the ramp he stopped to let the exit
barrier rise. From inside the car came an intense light;
each window was a white rectangle, and the driver’s door
opened very quickly. It was then that the blast sent me
across the wet pavement like a paper cup. The explosion
lifted the heavy vehicle off the ground and flipped it over
like a tiddly wink.

“Get back in the car,” I thought. Getting to my
feet, I unconsciously rubbed my cut and bleeding hands
down the front of my shirt. A current of cold air told
me of a two-inch gash in my right leg. People ran past
towards the burning car. The explosion had sent flames
everywhere and a siren had began to sound close by. I
heard one of the security guards shouting.

“Quickly, get the fire crew and medics here!” I got
back into the Audi, eased it into first gear and inched out
slowly from behind the row of taxis. From the car park I
heard another “boom” and saw a flash as the petrol tank
exploded.

I drove around the roundabout. “Other way,
mate,” said one of the cabbies.
The grazed palms of my hands were throbbing and
the steering wheel was wet with blood and sweat. I took
out my mobile phone and pressed the speed dial for the
firm’s unofficial number.
An armed policeman, machine gun in hand waved
me on to the main road away from the airport. I made
sure that I was well on my way before I made the call to
the office. They answered almost immediately, asking for
my personal code name.
“Go ahead Jake.”
“I regret to inform you that; the dark green Range
Rover we were collecting for our colleague had developed
a serious wiring fault while in the car park. Neither the
car or the driver survived the shock.”
“That is very sad news, Jake. How are you
proceeding, please?”
“M25, I should be back indoors within an hour.”
“Thank you, Jake, we will monitor the situation.”
When LJ phoned me he was touchingly concerned
for my safety, but remembered that he had to contact his
insurance company. He said, “We can’t afford to have
them getting curious about how it happened before the
firm has had a chance to call in a favour or two with the
police.”
As I drove, I remembered Charlie’s effervescent
smile.