Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (20 page)

Dillon said goodnight, and walked out through the
main door of the café. The bartender came up to where
Chapman was sitting.
“Would you like another drink, Senor Chapman?”
“No thank you, Afonso. But I could murder a beef
sandwich. That is, if it’s not too late for chef?”
“For you, Senor. This is no problem.”
Chapman reached for his glass and at the same time
noticed the two rough looking characters from the corner
table get up and leave.
“Those two men that have just left, have you ever
seen them before, Afonso?”
“Only once before, Senor. When I worked at the
marina in St. Helier. They are in the employ of a wealthy
Frenchman, I believe his yacht the Solitaire is moored in
Gifford Bay, Senor. The smaller one, I think he’s the first
mate. The other is the Frenchman’s personal bodyguard,
and please excuse my language, Senor. But he is a real mean
bastard.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he’s a cold blooded killer, that’s why. He
stabbed a man outside one of the bars in St. Helier about
six months ago. The man bled to death in the gutter because
no one had the courage to help him. The police couldn’t
press charges because there were apparently no witnesses,
so he walked away a free man. I would say that he’s the
kind of animal to keep well clear of, Senor.”
“I’d certainly agree with you, Afonso. And, I do
remember reading about that.” Chapman almost got up to
go after them, but remained seated. After all it was nothing
to do with him, and anyway they hadn’t caused any trouble.
Dillon was more than capable of looking after himself in
any event. Of that he was in no doubt, whatsoever.
Dillon walked away from the harbour, and started
the climb up the steep hill towards the Fisherman’s Lodge,
thinking about his impromptu meeting with Chapman.
He’d liked him straightaway, a charming man with a
sharp mind and tenacious character, but then remembering
what young, Roberts had discovered about his background.
And, with this in mind, he was in no doubt that he would
have to keep his guard up around him.
Keeping tight into the verge, Dillon made his way
steadily up the unlit road, which was made more hazardous
by having no pavement to walk on, and numerous potholes
to dodge along the way. Rounding the bend he became
suddenly aware of footsteps coming up the hill behind him.
There were at least two people he thought, possibly other
diners from the café who were walking to the car park.
He reached the entrance to the narrow gravel lane,
and stood for a brief moment, waiting for whoever had
been coming up the hill behind him, to walk straight past.
They didn’t, and as he stepped out from the shadows to
confront them, was knocked expertly to the ground with
one heavy blow in the middle of his shoulder blades, and he
knew immediately that he was in trouble.
Rolling over, he looked up and caught a brief glimpse
of Kurt’s triumphant face, illuminated by the light of a full
moon. As Dillon attempted to get up the steel toecap of the
big German’s boot made contact with his ribs. Instinctively
he recoiled, rolling over towards the edge of the lane.
Cursing the Englishman, he took a pace forward,
and tried to kick Dillon in the side of the head. Missing
his skull by a hair’s width, but clipping his right ear in the
process. Dazed from the kicking that he was receiving,
Dillon tried to crawl to safety over the grass bank, but felt
himself being roughly manhandled, and then lifted up off
the ground by two hands around his ankles and another
pair tightly grasping his wrists. Silently, he cursed himself
for being so sloppy. Seconds later, and in a daze, he had the
strangest feeling that he was flying, as they threw him over
the bank and down the grassy slope towards the cliff top
below. He landed heavily on his side, rolling over and over
into dense brush, bounced down into a shallow ditch, and
came to an abrupt halt on his back.
Gasping for breath, and with a searing pain down
his left side, and ringing in his ear he lay perfectly still in
the grave-like hollow. From the roadside above he heard
laughter and then a heavily accented voice called out,
“Welcome to Jersey, Mr Dillon.”
A moment later, they started to shoot at him with
silenced machine pistols set on fully automatic. Bullets
scythed through the dense brush, whizzing a few inches
over his head. Only to eventually end their lethal journey
by thudding harmlessly into the trunks of the surrounding
trees.
After they’d used up all of their ammunition, Kurt
and Pierre strolled off back down the hill to the harbour.
Dillon remained motionless for another fifteen minutes
before struggling to his feet. After making sure that they’d
left, he very slowly made his way back along the cliff top
path to the Fisherman’s Lodge.
It was just past two o’clock, when the phone at
the side of Edward Levenson-Jones bed in his London flat
started to ring. He came awake instantly, and picked up the
receiver.
“Levenson-Jones.”
Dillon was sat in the sitting room of the Fisherman’s
Lodge with a large brandy in one hand, and his mobile
phone in the other. “It’s Dillon” he said, “Down here in
sleepy Jersey.”
“Good God man, do you know what time it is?”
“About two in the morning, if my Omega is still
telling the correct time. I thought you’d like to know that
I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting two of Malakoff’s
hired goons.”
“What?”
“Yes you heard me; they tried to play football with
my head.”
LJ was fully alert, and sitting up he tossed the
bedclothes aside. “Are you absolutely certain that they
work for Malakoff? After all they could have simply been
drunken yobs after your wallet?”
“Without a doubt, and definitely not.” Dillon
grimaced with the pain running down his left side. “Listen,
they knew me by name, and they knew exactly what they
were doing. Even down to how far to go without actually
killing me. I’d say they’d been tipped off that Vince and I
were staying here. But how do you suppose that could have
happened? It’s time for you to start filling me in on those
little details that you like to hold back, don’t you think?”
“I really don’t know, old son,” LJ told him. “That’s
all I can say at this point in time. How’s Vince, has he settled
in?”
“LJ, if my ribs weren’t hurting quite so much, I’d
laugh. But yes, Vince is settling in, and I’m sure he’d be
touched by your concern for his well being. The lodge is
fine, and I’m supposed to be diving with Rob Chapman first
thing this morning.”
“In which case, I’d say that you’ve already made
excellent progress, old son. Now, if you don’t mind, I would
rather like to get back to my slumber. You should do the
same, and from now on watch yourself.”
“Is that it, is that the best you can do?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dillon. Stop whinging,” LJ
snapped at him. “It’s because you’re more than capable
of looking after yourself that you were chosen for this
assignment. No bones broken, are there?”
“No.”
“Well then, what’s your problem? Malakoff is simply
trying to intimidate you, that’s all there is to it. You’ve
encountered far worse than the beating his two thugs gave
you this evening, I’m sure. Treat it as the warning it is, and
don’t go doing anything rash. Oh yes, and try not to get
caught off guard again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“I’ll look into things at this end first thing in the
morning. Goodnight Jake.” LJ put the phone down, and
switched off the bedside light. He lay there mulling it all
over. After a while he drifted into sleep again.
Dillon walked across the sitting room to the low
drink cabinet, and poured himself another large brandy.
Over the granite mantel of the open fireplace hung a picture
in watercolours of Bonne Nuit Bay dated 1871. Standing in
front of it, his thoughts drifted as he studied the detail of
the calm scene before him.
There was much more to this whole affair than he’d
been told, of that he was sure. The silenced machine pistols
confirmed that, and he was furious with himself for having
been taken down so easily on the road earlier. But that
would be the one and only chance they would ever get.
He finished his drink in one gulp, put the glass down
on the table, and went into his bedroom, gently closing the
door behind him. Going over to the bed he reached into his
holdall, and pulled out the Glock automatic pistol, still in
its leather shoulder holster. He stood there for a moment,
listening to the sound of the ocean waves coming through
the open window as they crashed onto the rocks below, and
from the adjacent room the sound of Vince snoring loudly.
Sliding the weapon out, he held it up in the darkness,
running the palm of his hand slowly over the barrel and
caressing the cold steel. The game had commenced, and he
was on guard, but now the odds were even he thought.
* * *

In Gifford Bay, Kurt and Pierre climbed the sea
ladder that was situated at the stern of the Solitaire. Once
aboard the big German went straight to Malakoff in the
main salon to report on the evening activities. When he had
finished Malakoff said, “You did well Kurt. But, I hope that
you were discreet in your ministrations?”

Kurt said, “Naturally, Mien Herr. But there is one
concern, should he go running to the authorities?”
“I can assure you that he won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I am. It will interfere with his quest to find
the U-boat, and that is the last thing that he or his boss
would want right now.” Malakoff had suddenly grown
very tired, dismissed his bodyguard, and before retiring to
his quarters went out onto the main deck for some fresh air.
Raising his glass towards the Fisherman’s Lodge, he said,
“Good luck Mr Dillon. Because you’re going to need it,”
then threw the empty glass over the side, turned and went
back inside.

It was seven-thirty the following morning, when
Edward Levenson-Jones arrived at the home of Sir Lucius
Stagg. He was immediately taken upstairs and shown into
the study, where the former Prime Minister was seated at
his desk, surveying a large bound document.

He said, looking up.
“You asked to see me, Sir Lucius?”
“Yes, and I’ll come straight to the point. I have been

reliably informed, that this French fellow Hugo Malakoff is
now moored in Gifford Bay. Not only is this news disturbing,
to say the least, but he could jeopardise the whole project
down in the Channel Islands just by being there. Between
you and me, I’m still trying to fathom out how he appears
to be so well informed. Is Malakoff a problem, Edward?”

“I’m afraid he is, Sir Lucius, and it certainly does
seem as if he’s there to stir up trouble. In fact, Dillon has
already had a little run in with two of his hired help, late
last evening.”

“Nothing he couldn’t handle, I hope?” Stagg said,
pushing the heavy looking document to one side.
“I think his pride took more of a battering than he
did, Sir Lucius. Apparently they jumped him on his way
back to the rented house.”
“Well, the point is Edward, a man like Malakoff, is
not someone you want around when you’re trying to find a
World War Two German U-boat. Especially given his high
profile. Hell, some snap happy photojournalist has only
got to spot him, or that large boat of his, and before you
know it we’ve got a hoard of them down there. That sort
of attention is something, we most definitely do not want.”
“I can pull Dillon and Sharp out, if that’s what you
wish...”
“...but what would that achieve?”
“I personally think that we have the best man for
this particular job. To be quite frank, Sir Lucius. It’s a dirty
one, and it’s already become apparent since we last spoke
that there are people he will have to deal with, who play
very dirty indeed.”
“I’m in total agreement Edward, and your comments
have been duly noted. I’ll of course leave it to your own
good judgement, but watch your back. Remember, this
Frenchman is infamous for being ruthless and playing
dirty.”
“I will, Sir Lucius,” LJ said, and withdrew.
Guy Roberts was waiting in the Mercedes. As it drove
away he glanced up into the rear view mirror, and said,
“Did your meeting with Sir Lucius go well, Mr LevensonJones?”
LJ told him. “He’s got a point, of course. But, what
do you think, Roberts?”
“Sir Lucius is a wise and well informed man, Mr
Levenson-Jones. I’d say that he’d not be concerned unless
there was something to be concerned about. Personally
speaking, from what I’ve read about Hugo Malakoff, I’d
not trust him an inch.”
“Um, you may be right, Roberts, and please call me
LJ. I think you’ve been with the department long enough,
don’t you?”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Interesting thing though, is that Malakoff’s not
at all bothered about concealing his presence in Jersey. In
fact, quite the reverse, and now Dillon’s guard is up. Well,
it makes me wonder what his game is?” LJ said, extracting
a mobile phone out of his briefcase. He then dialled Oliver
Asquith’s office at the British Museum. He wasn’t there; he
was at the House of Lords.
“Could you please, pass on a message to him,” LJ
instructed Asquith’s assistant. “Tell him I need to see him
urgently, and that I’ll meet him in the bar of the House,
at nine o’clock.” He hung up. “You can come with me,
Roberts, you’ve never been to the House of Lords, have
you?”
“No, but what’s going on, Sir?”
“Wait and see, Roberts, wait and see.”
On the Thames, pleasure boats passed by the House.
Eager sightseers could be seen on the decks, jockeying for
the best position from which to get a decent photograph
of the imposing building. LJ and Roberts stood at the bar,
coffee in hand.
“Doesn’t it make you proud to be British, Roberts?
Just the majesty of this place is simply awe inspiring,
wouldn’t you say?”
Before Guy Roberts could answer. Oliver Asquith
came into the room, and immediately headed towards
them. Roberts craned his head around his boss, and LJ
automatically turned around to see what was so interesting.
“Ah, there you are, Oliver.” LJ said.
“Got your message, LJ. But, I’ve got to say that I’m
struggling with time. What with this lot here, and then I’ve
got another day’s work back at the museum to contend
with. Hell of a day, I say.” Asquith caught the attention of
the waiter.
“Let me get you a strong black coffee, Oliver. Good
for the system, so I’m told.” LJ ordered a double espresso
coffee for Asquith, and then all three men went to a quiet
corner table.
“Look, LJ. I don’t mean to be rude, but can we make
this quick. I really don’t have the time for a cosy chat right
now, you know.”
“As you wish, Oliver. I had a meeting with Sir Lucius
Stagg earlier this morning, and I’m extremely concerned
about the Jersey project.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” Asquith asked, concern in his
voice.
LJ paused long enough to allow the tension to rise
sufficiently. “Well, it’s like this, old son. There appears to be
someone leaking information.”
Asquith’s eyes flickered like a butterfly, and he’d
broken out into a sweat across his forehead and upper lip.
“What do you mean, a leak?” His voice had become
edgy, and it was quite evident that he was fighting to
control himself as he glanced at Roberts. “I’m really not in
the mood for your little games, LJ.” Asquith said, adding,
“Who’s this?”
“Let me introduce you to Guy Roberts, Oliver.
He’s on loan to Ferran & Cardini, and in particular my
department, courtesy of MI5.”
“Bit irregular, isn’t it?”
“No, not really, Oliver. Why do you say that?”
“Oh, it just strikes me as odd, that’s all. Anyway, can
we press on? As I say, I’ve got a million and one things to
do, and very little time to do them in.”
“Of course, Oliver. Dillon discreetly arrived in Jersey
yesterday, and was attacked late last evening by two crew
members of Hugo Malakoff’s boat, the Solitaire. They
weren’t content with simply duffing him up, and running
off. No, these two were very thorough. After they’d knocked
him unconscious, they pushed him over an embankment
that led down to the cliff tops, and then opened fire with
silenced machine pistols. In fact, had it not been for him
landing in a ditch. He would almost certainly be dead.”
“My God!” Asquith said in genuine horror. “Is he
alright?”
“Oh, yes, Dillon is as tough as old boots. Personally
I think they were trying it on, hassling him. Of course the
interesting thing is how come they actually knew that he
was there?”
“Now look here,” Asquith began, “I hope that
you’re not suggesting any lack of discretion on my part?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Oliver. All I’m saying
is that someone who is in the know, is most definitely
feeding Hugo Malakoff information. The question is, who
and why?”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to take a short holiday,” LJ told him.
“You know, a little rest and relaxation? They say that Jersey
is at its most lovely at this time of the year.”
Asquith nodded. “You’ll keep me posted?”
“Of course, old son.” LJ smiled, and turned to
Roberts. “We must be going, we’ve lots to do.”
On the way back to Ferran & Cardini, LJ told
Roberts to pull the Mercedes into the side of the road.
Down by the Thames, and creating a spectacular backdrop,
the London Eye loomed up high into the air.
“Come on, Roberts. I’m going to show you where
you can get the best cup of coffee in London.”
The two men walked a short distance up the road
towards a small brightly-lit café. As they entered the owner
looked up, and greeted LJ as an old friend.
“Beautiful day out there, Mr LJ.”
“It could be worse, Jim. How’s the wife, and family?”
LJ enquired, as he walked with his cup of coffee to a tiny
round table in the corner.
“My boy has just been accepted into Sandhurst,”
Jim said with pride.
“That’s excellent news, Jim. And how’s your other
half, well I hope?”
“My wife is very well, thank you, Mr LJ. She’s still
a peacock in everything but beauty. But I love her to bits
and wouldn’t be without her.” Jim said with a mischievous
smile.
Roberts, who was sitting opposite LJ asked in a quiet
voice, “Is he always so rude about his wife?”
“Don’t worry, old son. He only makes the joke
about her, because she was once a beauty queen, and is still
an extremely good-looking woman at the age of sixty.” LJ
looked up at the counter, adding. “In fact, Jim is a totally
devoted husband. Like nothing I’ve ever seen, and most
refreshing in this day, and age, if you ask me.”
“And why didn’t he charge us for the coffee?”
“Ah well, Jim and I go back a long way, Roberts. We
worked together for many years at MI5. I was Jim’s handler,
and he was an extremely good field operative. Until, that
is, one wet November night about twenty years ago. You
see, he’d been captured and held for four days by an IRA
hit team who were working out of a safe house, down in
Kent. He’d been tortured of course, and beaten badly. But
he’d not given in. What they wanted was my name, and he
never told them. I’m afraid he lost his nerve after that, and
resigned. But, I still make sure that he and his family are
taken care of financially. Jim occasionally gives me the odd
snippet of worthwhile information that I’m able to use or
pass on for a favour or two, and so the trading goes on.”
“So did you help his son get into Sandhurst?”
“Absolutely not. He got in on his own merit and
ability. Unthinkable, Roberts.” LJ said, with only a hint of
indignation.
Roberts leaned back on his chair, impressed. “So
why have we come here today?” he asked.
“No reason, other than to say hello to Jim, and to
get one of his splendid coffees. Oh, and to discuss with you,
my trip to Jersey. It’s much safer to talk somewhere like
this, off the beaten track so to speak. And of course, this
way only you and I will know the exact arrangements.”
“Well, I’ve checked with Phil Allerton, and as luck
would have it, he’s available this afternoon.”
“There you are then.” LJ glanced at his watch. “I
want him fully fuelled and ready to leave just after three
o’clock. With a tail wind, that means I’ll be in Jersey around
four-fifteen.”
“Do you want me to come with you, Sir?”
“No, Roberts, I want you to stay here in London.
That way, you’ll be able to look after things while I’m gone.”
“Would you like me to book you into a hotel?”
LJ shook his head. “No, I’ll be staying with Dillon
and Vince Sharp at the rented lodge, after all it does have
three bedrooms.”
“Almost sounds like you anticipated having to go
there yourself?”
“Something like that.”
“Look, Sir,” said Roberts in exasperation, “what
exactly is going on?”
“Roberts when you find out, tell me!” LJ emptied his
cup, and went and put it on the counter. “Thanks, Jim.” He
turned to Roberts. “Come on, we’ve got lots to do before I
leave,” and he walked off out of the café and got back into
the rear of the Mercedes.
* * *

Malakoff had remained in his study aboard the
Solitaire. He’d been on the telephone since five-thirty that
morning, and had even had time to work out for an hour
in his private gym. Having showered, he was now sitting
at the table on the stern sun terrace, enjoying his breakfast
in the early morning sunshine filtering through the canopy
overhead, when Kurt brought him the telephone.

“It’s Lord Asquith,” he said, handing Malakoff the
receiver.
“A beautiful morning here,” Malakoff said cheerily.
“How’s London?”
“Full of fumes, as always. I’m just about to grab a
sandwich, and then spend the rest of the morning inside a
lecture theatre with a group of snotty nosed students, who
all think that Indiana Jones is a real archaeologist. Look,
Hugo, Edward Levenson-Jones has been to see me again
this morning and, this time I’m positive that he suspects me
of leaking information to you.”
“Please don’t be so melodramatic, Oliver.”
“I’m not, but it’s worrying all the same. Apparently,
Dillon was attacked last night in Bonne Nuit, and almost
killed. What on earth was that about?”
“My people were just softening him up a little,
Oliver. That’s all, and as you said before, he knows of my
existence.”
“Yes, but what Levenson-Jones is now interested in is
how you knew who Dillon was, and that he was arriving in
Jersey, and so on. He said you were far too well informed.”
“Did he make any suggestion as to how he thought I
was getting my information?”
“No, only that he was sure that someone in the know
was feeding you with information. However, he did say that
he’d be joining Dillon and Sharp in Jersey for a few days.”
“Did he now? That should prove extremely
interesting. I look forward to meeting him.”
Asquith said, genuine despair in his words, “Bloody
hell Hugo, they know about your involvement. How long
before they know about mine?”
“You’re not involved on paper Oliver, and neither
was your father. No mention of the name Asquith anywhere,
and the great thing about this whole affair is that it is now
a personal matter between Levenson-Jones and myself.
As I’ve already told you, Levenson-Jones won’t want the
authorities in on this. We’re rather like two wolves fighting
over the same carcass.”
“I’m still worried,” Asquith told him. “Is there
anything else I can do?”
“Simply keep your head, Oliver, and ensure that I’m
kept informed of any developments. Nothing else you can
do.”
Malakoff put the phone down, and Kurt said, “More
Champagne, Mien Herr?”
Malakoff nodded. “Edward Levenson-Jones is
coming to join in the fun.”
“Here in Bonne Nuit?” Kurt smiled, adding. “What
would you like me to do about him, Mien Herr?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something suitable,”
Malakoff said, and drank his Champagne. “In the meantime,
let’s find out what our friend Dillon is up to this morning.”

Kurt went around the island to St. Helier in an
inflatable taking one of the divers with him, a young man
called Zola Charon. They wore swimming shorts, T-shirts
and dark glasses, and looked like any other tourists enjoying
the sunshine. They pulled in amongst the small craft at the
dock, Kurt killed the outboard motor, and Charon tied up.
At that moment Dillon appeared at the end of the dock.
He wore a pair of jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt and
carried a large kit bag with a couple of towels draped over
his shoulder.