Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (19 page)

The Solitaire had cost Hugo Malakoff 1.1 million
pounds, and was definitely one his favourite playthings.
He spent as much time as his busy schedule would allow
him to, on board the sixty-five foot luxury boat. Frequently
entertaining friends and associates as well as the occasional
female companion along the way.

The vessel’s outward appearance was that of any
other and had every conceivable luxury needed for her size,
a captain and four crew members to man her. The Solitaire
however, was no ordinary craft. She was fitted with the latest
computer hardware and intelligent software that not only
controlled every system above and below water, but could
also adjust and recalibrate them according to demand.

Malakoff sat at a table in the main salon enjoying a
fine Cuban cigar, and a cup of strong black espresso coffee;
Kurt sat at his side. And, sitting opposite was the power
cruisers captain, Paul Armand. A stocky, grey haired man
in a crisp white uniform, and like Kurt, he had been with
Malakoff for many years, had frequently taken part in
activities of a highly dubious and illegal nature.

“And that is our dilemma, Armand. This man, Dillon
poses a very real problem to us, he’s cunning, extremely
resourceful, and could jeopardise our success in finding
the U-boat first. He will most definitely approach this
archaeologist, and diver, Rob Chapman. If he hasn’t already
done so. Our contact on Jersey tells me that Dillon, and one
other person arrived this morning by private helicopter.”

“A notoriously bad place, Monsieur,” Armand said,
using a remote control to expose a large plasma screen on
the wall. A map of Jersey was shown on the screen, which
he enlarged to show the northern coastline more clearly.
“I know this island, Monsieur. Even the most experienced
divers would find it almost impossible to dive in this area. As
for finding a concealed tunnel entrance, well it’s not going
to be easy, Monsieur. Even with all of our sophisticated
equipment onboard. Not easy at all.”

“I agree, Captain,” Malakoff leaned back in his
chair, and laced his fingers together, before adding, “But,
I still think that Commander Cunningham must have
confided to his daughter about the location. Unfortunately
she has a guard with her twenty-four hours a day, so our
opportunities to get close are none existent. No matter
though, we will keep Mr Dillon company instead. Let him
know that the chase is on, I think.” He smiled across at the
big German. “What do you think, Kurt?”

“It will be my personal pleasure, Mien Herr. To look
after Mr Dillon.” Kurt replied.
“That’s good.” Malakoff looked at, Armand. “Pierre
is OK, but what about the other two crew members?”
“I have personally chosen the other crew, Monsieur.
For their special talents. Mazzarin and Zola, are both
experienced and very able divers. They’re also extremely
competent with weapons and explosives. As well as having
seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq as hired mercenaries.”
“Can they be trusted, Armand?”
“Without a doubt, Monsieur.”
“And what arrangements have you made for our
arrival in Jersey?”
“We can drop anchor in St Brelade’s Bay this evening.
I hope that this meets with your approval, Monsieur?”
“No, I don’t think so Captain. Take the Solitaire to
the northern side of the island, and drop anchor in Gifford
Bay. This will be a most suitable anchorage for our purposes,
and it’s next door to Bonne Nuit.” Malakoff finished his
coffee and stood up.
“Now Gentlemen, I have telephone calls to make, so
I’ll bid you both a good afternoon. Captain Armand, let’s
get this boat moving.”

Dillon took his time walking the short distance up
the road to the rented lodge. He was seeing for himself, the
reason why Nathan Cunningham had moved from London
to the natural beauty of the island. The picture postcard
scenery that surrounded the few luxury properties perched
above him on the hillside, had spectacular views overlooking
the small bay below and was breathtaking.

He rounded a corner, and came to a narrow gravel
track that led him to the front gate of the former Fisherman’s
Lodge which would be his home for the foreseeable future.
Five minutes later the Range Rover pulled up in the
driveway. Dillon unlocked the front door, spoke briefly to
Vince, and then walked off around the outside of the single
storey building leaving his team mate to settle in.

On the seaward side, the vegetation in the garden
was extremely lush, protected by willowy trees that gently
swayed with the light breeze coming off the English Channel.
He paused at the cliff’s edge, taking in the uninterrupted
view over the harbour, and decided that was far better than
he could have wished for. Looking down he noticed that
although overgrown, steps had been cut into the rocks, and
appeared to lead all the way to the water’s edge below. More
importantly, Rob Chapman’s place, could be seen, sitting
sentry like on top of a rocky outcrop with easy access to it
along the pebble beach.

Taking a pair of binoculars from his holdall he took
a closer look at the unusual round building. As he would
have expected, there were bright blue diving suits hanging
over the safety railings of an upper terrace. A black double
cab pick up truck with air bottles lined up in the back was
parked at the front, and the only real indicator that there
was someone at home. Otherwise the place looked empty
and desolate.

At the other end of the bay, he could see that the
harbour was now bustling with holidaymakers milling
around and taking photographs. Along the high sea wall,
and protected behind a high concrete walkway running its
entire length, a dozen or so tiny wooden fishermen’s huts
stood huddled like stationary railway carriages. The shutters
of a few were thrown open, and some of the local fishermen
were sitting on small wooden stools outside evidently
enjoying the fine weather while methodically checking and
repairing their nets, in readiness for the next day.

Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost three-thirty,
he started to turn away to go inside when he saw movement
over at Rob Chapman’s place. Through the binoculars he
could see a man lifting the air bottles out of the back of
the black pickup truck. It was Chapman in shorts and tee
shirt very tanned with spiky blond hair. Dillon recognised
the man instantly from a photograph that Annabelle had
shown him, just before he left London. After a few minutes
he walked through a gateway in the wall, and disappeared
from view.

Unzipping the holdall, Dillon replaced the binoculars,
and stood for a brief moment at the cliff edge staring out to
sea, deep in thought. The spell was only broken when there
was a knock and the next moment Vince came ambling
through the French doors with a large gin and tonic in his
hand. Kate Jackson came through just behind him, complete
with a wicker picnic basket under her arm. Dillon turned to
greet her.

“I hope you don’t mind Mr Dillon? But Annabelle
asked me to drop by with this.” She placed the basket onto
the small circular patio table. “It’s only a few items of food
that you might find useful until you get to a shop.”

Dillon walked across the garden, and lifted the lid
with one hand and peered inside. “That girl’s got good taste,
Miss Jackson.” He picked up the bottle of Bollinger, and
handed it to Vince. “Go, and put this on ice, Mr Sharp.”

Vince automatically assumed his role of the dutiful
employee, and sloped off inside with the Champagne. Kate
Jackson walked to the end of the garden, and stood watching
the waves roll gently over the jagged rocks in mesmerising
relays. The sandy beach below, becoming a maelstrom of
churning sand and foam as each one in turn tripped over
itself in the rush to be dragged back out to sea.

“In times of old, this bay like many others was used
by smugglers, Mr Dillon,” She said looking straight at him.
“There are hidden caves all along this side of the
island, you know?”
“I’ve not really seen much of the island yet, Miss
Jackson. But I’m very pleased to hear you say that.
Especially as I intend to dive quite a lot while I’m here,” he
commented casually.
“Well in that case you must take a look at Wolf’s
Caves. They’re just around the headland towards St. John’s
Bay. Oh, and don’t forget Devil’s hole at Les Reuses. But I
assume that you’re an experienced diver, Mr Dillon? Because
the waters hereabouts are some of the most dangerous in
the world.”
“Oh, I’ve been diving for many years. And, I’m fully
aware of just how dangerous these waters can be. that’s why
I’m going to have a chat with Rob Chapman. Annabelle,
told me that he was one of the best divers on the island, and
knows these waters like the back of his hand. Is that true,
Miss Jackson?”
Dillon felt her eyes scrutinising him in an odd sort
of way. He didn’t like it, and yet she had aroused his
curiosity, and an uncertainty about her. A nagging question
as to why she was making small talk, especially after her
earlier outburst toward him. Also, her body language had
stiffened, and had become almost wooden at the mention of
Rob Chapman’s name.
“Well I’m sure that if Annabelle has said that about
Mr Chapman, then it must be correct. But no matter how
experienced you may be Mr Dillon, many divers have lost
their lives in these waters. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really
must be getting along. The café reopens shortly for the
evening trade.”
Dillon showed her out through a gate at the side of
the lodge, watching her as she walked away up the gravel
lane. Wondering why she should be so concerned for his
safety.
Rounding the corner at the back of the building,
Dillon found Vince sat on the terrace in a robust looking
wooden steamer chair. Resplendent under the dangling
corks of his Australian bush hat. He was now in a state
of languor, sipping his second or possibly third gin and
tonic of the day. Looking up briefly, he sipped his drink
before settling back in the chair to resume his lethargy, and
worship of the sunshine that was filtering through the trees.
Dillon laughed aloud, knocking the old leather bush hat
off his friend’s head with a flick of his hand, as he went by
on his way to the kitchen. Returning a moment later with
the bottle of chilled Bollinger in one hand, and two slender
glasses in the other.
They sat outside until it was dark, drinking the
Champagne, discussing the assignment. By the time they’d
emptied the bottle, and finished off most of the food from
the hamper, millions of tiny stars were clearly visible in the
clear night sky. But they didn’t see the Solitaire as she came
around the headland at Belle Hougue, and dropped anchor
about five hundred metres away in Gifford Bay.
Malakoff stood on the bridge of the luxury yacht
with, Captain Armand beside him.
“So, they’ve rented one of the properties on the hill,
Monsieur?”
“So it would seem, Armand. That in itself is very
interesting.” He thought about it, stroking his chin between
forefinger and thumb, and then made a decision. A moment
later, Malakoff entered the salon where, Kurt was leaning
over the long oak dining table, a detailed map of Jersey was
laid out on the polished surface in front of him.
As his employer walked into the room he immediately
stood up and snapped to attention, Malakoff breezed past
him and sat down heavily in one of the leather easy chairs.
The former German special forces sergeant poured
out a large brandy, and took it to where Malakoff was
sitting. Placing it on the arm of his chair, he withdrew back
to the table without saying a word.
Malakoff looked up at his bodyguard, and said. “I
would like you to go ashore tonight. Take one of the others
with you.”
“What is it you require of me, Mien Herr?”
“Firstly, I want you to take a little look at Dillon’s
boat. See what equipment is on board. Then go and find out
where he and this other fellow Sharp are staying. Should
Mr Dillon go out then follow him. The same applies to his
oversized friend of course, and do not underestimate him,
Kurt. Don’t forget, he is with Dillon for a reason.”
“Should I introduce myself to Dillon, Mien Herr?”
Kurt asked optimistically.
“Only if the opportunity arises, Kurt,” Malakoff
smiled. “Oh, and if it does, please ensure to make a lasting
impression.”
“It will be my pleasure, Mien Herr.” Kurt said
pouring himself a mineral water.
Dillon felt restless as he always did at the start of an
assignment. Had showered, and slipped into a pair of casual
linen trousers and a soft blue cotton shirt. He’d walked the
short distance down the hill to the harbour, went up the
steps, glanced quickly around the room full of people as he
entered and was now sitting at the bar of Annabelle’s Café
and Bistro.
The atmosphere inside had completely changed since
his earlier visit. With the evening darkness came intimate
lighting, and tables that now had red and white chequer
covers upon them. He’d never cared for the usual beer or
lager so he settled for a vodka, lime and soda which the
genial Portuguese bartender promptly mixed and placed on
a small round wooden mat in front of him.
A small group of men and women were finishing
their meal at one of the tables overlooking the bay, and
way out to sea he could see the lights of passing ships on
the horizon. It always made him feel good inside, almost to
the point of forgetting why he had been sent to Jersey, and
the job that he had to do. As he finished his drink, Vince
walked in and ordered two more.
“Thought I’d come and keep you company, chap.
Shall we eat?”
“But we’ve already eaten.”
“What? That was merely a snack, and a man must
have sustenance, Jake. Just smell that garlic, and the lobster
looks exquisite.”
Dillon had to admit, the food did smell and look
delicious and eventually gave in to Vince’s persistence.
They ordered the lobster, no Champagne but a fine bottle
of Italian Pinot Grigio white completed the experience.
Kurt waited patiently on the sea wall, concealed by
one of the small wooden huts While Pierre took a closer
look around the outside of the café. Five minutes later he
reappeared out of the darkness.
“Well, did you see him?”
“He’s inside with the other one, and from the look of
it they’ve just finished eating.”
“Sounds like they may be leaving soon, Frenchman.
Perhaps we should introduce ourselves as they come out?”
Kurt said with a malicious smirk.
They started to make their way along the sea wall
towards the beach. Kurt suddenly halted, putting an
outstretched arm across Pierre’s chest, and pushed him
sideways into the shadows of a nearby hut.
“Wait, that man going up the steps of the café,
it’s Chapman the diver. What is he doing here?” The tall
German peered around the corner of the hut, Rob Chapman
had gone inside, and was now sitting at the bar.
“This changes things completely, Dillon could be in
there for hours if he starts talking to him. Herr Malakoff
will not be at all pleased with this development.”
“How do you know that it’s Chapman?” Pierre
asked.
“Never mind how I know, Frenchman. Just do as I
say, and stop asking stupid questions, you asshole. Now
follow me, we’re going inside for a drink.”
Dillon noticed Rob Chapman walk in, and go
straight to a vacant stool at the end of the bar and wait
until the bartender was free to serve him.
“I’ll have my usual please, Afonso.”
“No problem, Senor Chapman. One Jack Daniel’s
on ice, coming up.”
The barman placed the drink in front of him, and
then went and served another customer. Chapman shifted
slightly on his stool, looked around the busy bar, and then
as he turned back to reach for his drink, became aware of
Dillon staring in his direction and frowned.
Dillon walked over to the bar, and ordered two
brandies, turning to the man sat on the stool, he said.
“You’re, Rob Chapman, right?”
The other man looked wary. “And you are?”
“Jake Dillon. I’m renting the old Fisherman’s Lodge
up on the hill. Annabelle told me to look you up, and to say
hello.”
“Annabelle?” Chapman frowned. “When did you
see, Annabelle?” He asked, with more than a little surprise
in his voice.
“This morning in London. In fact it was just before
my friend,” Dillon pointed across the room at Vince, who
was still sitting at the table, “and I left to come down here.”
“I see, known Annabelle long, have you?”
“Long enough.” Dillon said, and then changed the
subject. “You’ve heard about her father’s accident?”
“Yes of course, very unfortunate Nathan being run
over like that. Annabelle phoned me a couple of days back,
and told me all about it. So how is he?”
“Still in a coma, I’m afraid. But the doctors seem
to think that he’s going to be just fine. I believe you taught
him to dive as well as introducing him to the mysteries of
archaeology?”
“Nathan could already dive, long before he came
down to Jersey. All I did, was help him to rediscover how
enjoyable it can be.”
“And how did you manage to get him interested in
scratching around in dirt?”
“By that, I take it you mean, archaeology. Well that
just happened. I was looking for help on the excavation
that I’m working on, over at St. Lawrence. Nathan and I
had got to know each other pretty well, and he was bored
doing nothing. So, he came along with me one day, and that
was well over a year ago. Anyway, that’s enough about me.
So what brings you to Jersey, Mr Dillon?”
“Diving, Mr Chapman, lots of diving.” Dillon
savoured his brandy, and looked around the room. Kurt
and Pierre were drinking beer at a small round table by a
window. They were not looking directly at him, apparently
engaged in conversation. Dillon’s eyes barely paused, moved
on and yet something registered in his mind about them,
perhaps it was the cropped hair or the hard battle scarred
faces that they both sported.
“And what are you two up to?” Dillon murmured,
for he had seen trouble many times before during his time in
army intelligence, and never believed in coincidence.
Chapman finished his drink in one gulp, and put the
glass down onto the bar, ready to order another. His eyes
flashed bright blue in the tanned face as he grabbed the
attention of the Portuguese bartender.
“I’ll have a refill when you’re ready please Afonso,
and another of whatever Mr Dillon is drinking.”
“Coming up, Senor Chapman.”
Afonso brought the Jack Daniel’s and the brandy,
and Chapman said, “So you’re here for the diving are you?”
“That’s right. My friend and I arrived here this
morning.”
“Would that be your twenty-six footer parked in the
harbour?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well it’s not your run of the mill sport fisherman,
now is it?”
“Point taken.” Dillon said wryly.
“Is it the wrecks you’re looking for?”
“Something like that.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “The
thing, is I’m interested in doing a little diving, and Annabelle
suggested that I spoke to you. Said you were the best, and
that you know where all of the best sites are located.”
“That’s Annabelle, always saying nice things about
people.”
“She also said that you’re the only diver on the island
who her father would ever trust to dive with.”
“Is that so?” Chapman took a swig of his drink.
“Nathan is certainly a good diver, foolhardy, but still a
good diver.”
“Why do you say foolhardy?”
“Diving alone is a dangerous and sometimes fatal
pastime, and not to be recommended. Nathan is one of the
worst offenders. I’ve known him to get up in the morning
get on board the Nautical Lady, and just go. That’s his boat
over there.” Chapman pointed towards the middle of the
harbour. “The problem is that accidents can happen no
matter how well you plan a dive. The waters around here
are treacherous in the best of conditions, what with the
tidal movements and the strong currents.” Chapman drank
some more of his Jack Daniel’s, and looked Dillon in the
eye. “But, then I’d say you’re the sort of man who already
knows this, Mr Dillon.”
He had the easily likeable personality of someone
who accepted life as it was, and not as it should be. There
was no hurry in either his voice or his movements, and
everything he said was carefully considered.
Dillon said, “It’s ironic isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“That in all the time that Nathan dived alone in a
potentially lethal environment, he should then be run over
on a pedestrian crossing in London. Doesn’t seem right
somehow.”
Chapman said calmly, “You’re right, it’s a bit of a
raw deal. But, do you know what? Nathan has a favourite
saying. Treat each day as your last, because one day you’ll
be right. You see, Nathan Cunningham is a pragmatic man,
Mr Dillon, he knows exactly what risk he runs when he
dives alone, and that’s the reason he does it.”
“And you, Mr Chapman is that how you view life?”
Chapman smiled. “So, you want to do some diving?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you any good?”
“Oh, I manage,” Dillon told him, “but I’m always
willing to learn from a good teacher.”
“Good, then I’ll meet you at the St. Helier marina at
seven-thirty in the morning.”
“Okay.” Dillon swallowed his brandy. “I’ll see you
then.” He hesitated before turning to leave.
“Tell me, have you ever seen those two men sitting
over in the corner before?”
“Never, they’re not holiday makers, that’s for sure.
They could be off of that big power yacht that moored up
in Gifford Bay earlier this evening.”
“Gifford Bay?” Dillon’s ears instantly pricked up.
“Why not anchor in Bonne Nuit?”
“Not deep enough for this beauty, she must be sixtyfive to seventy feet long. By the look of the flags being flown,
whoever owns it is French. Also, Gifford is a lot quieter, and
there’s room to manoeuvre something of that size without
fear of snagging on the bottom or colliding with another
boat.”
“I suppose you see these luxury cruisers coming and
going all the time from your place?”
“Yes, and I’ve got a clear view across both bays
from my piece of rock, but I’ve never seen this one moor up
before though.”