Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (22 page)

Dillon followed through a deep ravine that seemed
to go on and on, checked his computer and was surprised to
find that they’d been down for twenty minutes. They moved
away from the rock face, staying just above the forest of the
seabed and came to an anchor line. Chapman looked up
and gave the thumbs down sign, before moving on another
forty metres to the right, and finally arriving at the Wave
Dancer’s anchor line. They went up slowly, leaving the line
at twenty feet and swimming under the keel to the other
side of the boat to surface at the stern.

Chapman reached down to take Dillon’s tank; he’d
already got a foot on the narrow ladder, and was pulling
himself up and over onto the dive platform. Dillon stood
up, still feeling exhilarated and completely relaxed from the
dive as he unzipped his wetsuit and pulled it off. Chapman
busied around, stowing the air tanks, and generally clearing
the deck of any loose equipment.

Chapman smiled, “Not bad is it? That one, always
delivers.”
He turned and looked across the bay at the inflatable
rib. It was still anchored over on the starboard side, bobbing
around on its anchor chain in the heavy swell.
“I wonder if those two divers ever did get through
the tunnel to the other side?” Dillon said.
“I very much doubt it, that opening takes some
negotiating as you found out. And, they wouldn’t have
expected that fierce current down there either.” The
inflatable swung round exposing the stern. “Well look at
that, they’re from that Frenchman’s boat the Solitaire,”
Chapman added.
“Is that so?”
Dillon finished towelling himself dry and stood at the
rail looking through a pair of binoculars. He immediately
recognised Kurt, standing in the stern with Pierre, and then
Malakoff stood up.
“Who’s the chap with the silver hair and blue
blazer?” Dillon asked.
Chapman took the binoculars. “I’m pretty sure that’s
Hugo Malakoff, the French billionaire. I’ve seen him once
or twice at the marina in St. Helier.”
Malakoff stared back at them across the choppy
water, a moment later Mazzarin and Zola surfaced by the
anchor chain.
“We’d better get going, if we’re to make it back to
Bonne Nuit before this weather closes in,” Chapman said
as he engaged the anchor winch and started the engine.
Chapman pushed the throttle forward and the Wave
Dancer’s propeller bit into the foaming water. He made
a wide arc around the Solitaire’s inflatable, and as they
passed, Malakoff held up his arm and waved at them.
“Cheeky bastard.” Dillon muttered, and then said,
“Is that the Solitaire up ahead?”
“Looks like it,” Chapman said over his shoulder.
“I’d like to take a closer look at her, if you don’t
mind?”
“Why not, after all you’re paying for the fuel.”
Dillon remained sitting on one of the cushioned
bench seats situated in the stern of the boat, drinking a
coffee from the thermos flask. Chapman looked straight
ahead as the Wave Dancer raced through the water.
“You’re as you said, Jake. An experienced diver.”
“I’ve been diving since I was a teenager.” Dillon said.
They were close to where the Solitaire was at anchor;
Chapman throttled back the engine allowing the Wave
Dancer to pass slowly by the sleek white power cruiser on
her port side. Dillon peered through the binoculars in an
attempt to pick out anything extraordinary about the craft,
and as they reached the stern Chapman swept around in
a wide arc, and then back along the starboard side to the
bow.
Captain Armand was standing on the upper deck
looking down at the small craft circling around his vessel,
binoculars in one hand, and a two-way radio in the other.
“Seen enough, or do you want me to take her around
for another look?”
“No, let’s get going before Malakoff returns. I’ve
seen enough, thank you.” Dillon said.
“Okay.” Chapman pushed the throttle to full power
and the Wave Dancer raced on towards Bonne Nuit Bay.
Dillon leaned against the bulkhead of the wheelhouse.
“Do you get many interesting wrecks on the northern
side of the island?”
“There are a few,” Chapman said. “Mostly merchant
ships, and of course there are many fishing boats that have
run onto the rocks.”
“I’m sure there are. But, I was thinking of something
a little more interesting, say military?” Dillon said. “After
all, Annabelle did mention that you know these waters like
no other diver.”
Chapman remained impassive, allowing Dillon to
continue, “For instance, would it be possible for there to
be a wreck on the northern coast that you’d never come
across. Say, if it were concealed somewhere?”
Chapman throttled back and slowly entered the bay.
“On the northern coast, you say. Well anything is possible,
Jake.”
“So you’re saying that there’s a possibility of finding
an uncharted wreck?”
The Wave Dancer came alongside the seawall. Dillon
took the stern line, jumped down onto the wet concrete
ledge, and tied up. He did the same at the bow as Chapman
gave a quick reverse thrust to steady the boat, and then cut
the engine. Dillon jumped back on board and started to
collect up his diving gear.
Chapman came down from the wheelhouse deep in
thought.
“Anything wrong?” Dillon inquired casually.
“Well perhaps you can tell me, Jake? You see there’s
something not quite right here. I don’t know what it is
you’ve come to Jersey for - and quite frankly - I’m not
interested. All I know is that you’re a well-trained diver
who doesn’t mind taking risks. Now, I’ve not got a problem
with that. But when someone starts on about uncharted
wrecks, it usually means trouble, if you know what I mean?
And all that stuff back there about wanting to take a closer
look at the Solitaire?”
“What about it?” Dillon said, continuing to put his
equipment into the large canvas kit bag.
“It could be bad for your health. By all accounts
Malakoff is not only one of the richest men in France, but
he’s also evil with it. And as for his bodyguard, well he’s
nothing more than a psychopath, who literally gets away
with murder. There are plenty of people on this island who
could tell you the same about the big German. But what the
hell, I’m sure you already know this?”
“I’ve not got the faintest idea what you’re talking
about Rob, but I’ll certainly keep your advice in mind about
Malakoff, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I’ve got to be going I’m
working over at the war tunnels this afternoon. Would you
like to dive with me again?”
“That would be great, Rob.” Dillon went up the
steps, got to the top and paused, “Perhaps my friend Vince
and I could buy you a drink this evening. Will you be at
Annabelle’s place?”
“I’m there every night, Jake,” Chapman said,
“otherwise I’d starve.”
“That’s settled then, I’ll see you later.” Dillon said,
turned and walked along the top of the sea wall towards
the road.
* * *

When he arrived back at the Fisherman’s Lodge,
Dillon found Vince sitting in the small living room with
a Sony Vaio on his lap and a printer on the table that
was spewing out paper, one sheet after another. He’d
connected via the Internet to the local record’s archive, and
was downloading everything he could find out about old
Malakoff’s company.

After telling Vince about his dive with Chapman,
Dillon went through to the kitchen and made himself
a black coffee, which he took out into the garden. As he
walked across the lawn to the cliff edge, he lifted the collar
of his jacket against the wind. The grey sky above looked
thunderous and foreboding, a storm was definitely brewing,
he thought, and then turned his attention towards Gifford
Bay, where the Solitaire was once again at anchor. He stood
there thinking about the way things had gone since he’d
arrived in Jersey. About the beating he’d been given by Kurt
and his mate, Hugo Malakoff and the Solitaire.

He’d known about Malakoff, but how did Malakoff
know about him, that was the question still unanswered.
Dillon had been aware of some sort of strange connection
with the Frenchman taking place back in Saie Harbour.
Malakoff had looked straight at him through his binoculars,
and had caught Dillon peering back through his own. He’d
actually lifted his arm and waved back as if he were just
like any other friendly seafarer. Chapman he really liked. In
fact, everything he’d learnt so far about the archaeologist
he liked, and he certainly knew how to dive. The part that
he wasn’t able to gauge, was how far Chapman could be
pushed before he showed the real man behind the quiet
intelligent mask.

It started to rain, sending Dillon back inside. He
went straight to a cupboard in his bedroom and took one
of the canvas kit bags out. This one was black and much
bigger than the rest that he’d brought along, and was one of
those that can be opened up in two complete halves. Dillon
pulled the zip from one end to the other in one swift action,
and threw one of the sides over to reveal its contents.

There were knives of varying length, handguns with
and without silencers; including the Glock 20 automatic, a
particular favourite of Dillons. Two Heckler & Koch MP5
carbines, a weapon favoured by the SAS, and a sawn off
shotgun. Dillon knew he could take apart and reassemble
any of these weapons with a blindfold on, and was as
proficient and accurate as any professional marksman.
He unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a cheap looking
imitation leather holster with the butt of a pistol sticking
out of it, Dillon’s ace in the hole. The .22 calibre gun was
small and light, and accurate at short range. The holster
had a magnetic strip running along the back, allowing it to
be stuck to the underside of anything, and as long as it was
metal it would stay in place.

Dillon unzipped another pocket, and pulled out a
long flat oblong container full of Semtex, along with another
much smaller box that held the underwater detonators. LJ
had relented, allowing Dillon to have the explosive, just
in case he had to blast his way into the tunnel. After he’d
inspected the weapons, and was satisfied that everything
was working as it should be. He zipped the bag up and put
it back in the cupboard.

He went back into the small living room, Vince was
still sitting in front of his Sony Vaio.
“Found anything interesting?” Dillon asked.
“No, nothing out of the ordinary, but I’m really only
scratching the surface at present, most of this stuff is the
same as Guy Roberts came up with. But, I’m going to carry
on with it, because there’s one thing that’s a bit odd.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, there appears to have been some changes
made to the information held on these digital files.”
“How do you know it’s been changed?”
“There are certain words that are too modern, and
some of the phrases used, well to be honest Jake, the syntax
for the time is all wrong.”
“And?”
“Well, I think that if I dig around under the surface,
I’ll find that something has been taken out of a number of
documents, and it’s more than likely that it’s a name of a
person or persons, and that this has been done to protect
somebody now. Of course that’s only speculation on my
part, you understand?”
“I understand, but keep with it Vince, you never
know it may prove to be a link to the U-boat.”
A taxi pulled up in the drive of the Fisherman’s
Lodge, a single passenger inside. The driver got out and
lifted the tailgate to the estate car, and pulled out a solid
heavy looking black suitcase. He opened the rear door, a
tall willowy man in his late fifties got out and stood for a
moment looking at the single storey building. He paid and
tipped the driver, walked up to the front door and rang the
bell. The dark pin-stripe suit was immaculate, as was the
crisp white shirt and blue silk tie that had small red cricket
balls running diagonally across it. The door opened, and
Dillon’s mouth nearly dropped open.
“Thought I’d come down and give you a bit of a
hand, old son,” Edward Levenson-Jones said. “Well don’t
just stand there gawping, go and fetch my suitcase.” LJ said
as he brushed passed Dillon, “Now where’s the fridge, I’m
bloody well dying for a large gin and tonic.”

Dillon took a shower, and changed into a pair of
stone washed denim jeans and a short-sleeved blue cotton
check shirt. He went out into the garden, late afternoon
sunshine and a warm summer breeze coming off the ocean
had replaced the rain of earlier. LJ, had discarded his suit
for something a little more casual, and was wearing a pair
of casual khaki trousers, a white hand-made shirt under a
dark blue blazer. And, was standing by the cliff top smoking
a cigar, and gazing out across the bay as Dillon walked
across the lawn to him.

“Ah, there you are,” he said adjusting his old school
tie with one hand, and raising his empty glass with the
other, and added. “You’re just in time for a refill, old son.”

“It’s so good to see that you’re not homesick, and
that you’ve settled in so quickly. Gin and tonic is it?” Dillon
said, taking LJ’s glass.

“Sarcasm, old son, is the lowest form of wit. And,
before we go any further. I know you’re upset by my
unexpected arrival, and I’ve no doubt you feel that I should
have let you know I was coming. But unfortunately, Jake. I
couldn’t tell anyone except young Roberts, who is I might
add, unofficially keeping an eye on things for me back in
London. It’s this damn Frenchman, Malakoff, you see.
Every time we go to do something he’s there, one step ahead
of us all the time.”

“Any ideas about who it is leaking information to
him?”
“I’ve got a few irons in the fire, but as yet, absolutely
nothing to link him to anyone involved with this assignment.”
Dillon walked back into the kitchen, poured two
large gin and tonics and then went back out to LJ who was
by now sitting in one of the old wicker easy chairs on the
lawn.
“That large white power cruiser over in the next bay
is the Solitaire.” Dillon said, passing a glass tumbler to his
boss.
“I thought as much, and in keeping with the ego of
the man who owns it, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But that’s no ordinary boat, you
know?”
“What do mean?”
“While I was out diving with Chapman this morning,
we passed her at anchor on our way back to Bonne Nuit. So
I took the opportunity of having a closer look.”
“And what makes you think it’s been modified?”
“Well, the hull has almost certainly undergone
a vast amount of modification. I had Vince look up the
manufacturer website for the specification, and that boat
has been adapted for high speed. The same goes for the
deck areas. Although, the changes are much subtler, and are
only minor in comparison to the hull. But when you look
a little closer, you can spot them. That is most definitely
not your run of the mill, gas guzzling, multi-million pound,
ocean-going cruiser out there.”
“Are you sure about this, old son?” Dillon passed
him the high powered binoculars, and LJ took a look. “I
see what you mean about the hull, much sleeker than you’d
expect on a craft of that size. Looks harmless enough, and
that’s the impression it’s supposed to give, I’d say.”
“So it would seem, and I’ve got no doubt that she’s
packing some heavyweight electronics on board, as well.”
LJ continued to look through the binoculars. “When
I was just a young whipper snapper at MI5, I was assigned
to a case that I’ve never forgotten, and probably never will.
It was a particularly nasty hostage situation. In fact, by the
time I’d arrived, two of the six hostages had already been
executed. I can still see their blood soaked bodies now. After
being shot through the head, the bodies had been callously
thrown out of a first storey window onto the concrete below.
I can vividly remember how the terrorists would watch us
from behind steel shutters, while we watched them. It was
just a game really, a particularly nasty game which would
explode into violence every so often. Until that is, the SAS
found a way in, and ended the siege with the precision of
a surgeon’s scalpel. Forgive me for prattling on, but I have
the feeling that Malakoff is watching us, and that he knows
we’re watching him.”
“Watching? No, I’d say that he was stalking us.
Biding his time, until we find the tunnel entrance. That’s
when things will get really interesting.”
“Quite so, Jake. Now tell me how things have
progressed and don’t leave anything out, not a single damn
thing.”
When Dillon was finished, LJ paced up and down
the lawn with his hands behind his back deep in thought.
Dillon went and refilled their glasses, reappearing a moment
later.
“So, what do you think our next move should be?”
Dillon asked.
“Well, let’s see. I’m assuming of course, that you’ve
brought along the usual array of weaponry. Which you no
doubt obtained from that albino fellow in the East End?”
“I’ve brought along a little insurance, naturally”
Dillon said. “Oh, and by the way, he also threw in Semtex
and underwater detonators at no extra charge. You never
know, we may need to blast our way into that tunnel.”
“Which we’ve got to find first, haven’t we?” LJ said.
“If only Nathan hadn’t had the misfortune to have been run
over. Life can be so unjust sometimes.”
“I’ll agree with that, but in the meantime we’ve still
got to push on.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Chapman, we really do need him on our team.”
“So what’s it going to take, to get him to help us?”
“Well, he won’t be bought, if that’s what you mean.
Money really isn’t his thing, and he makes that perfectly
clear when you talk with him.”
“Oh dear, now that’s a shame. It really would’ve
been a lot easier, if we could have simply offered him a
lump sum of money. But never mind; we’ll just have to find
out what floats Mr Chapman’s boat. And then do whatever
it takes to convince him, that helping us is the right thing to
do.” He stood up and glanced at his watch.
“Good heavens, it’s almost food time, Jake. Where
are we eating this evening?”
“I thought we’d drive down to the harbour and have
a bite to eat at Annabelle’s place. I’ve already booked us
a table, and Chapman will be in there later. He’s in there
every evening around ten-thirty for something to eat.”
“Excellent, that’s settled then. All that remains now
is to drag Vince away from his computer for a few hours,
and for you to put a jacket on, Jake. You look as if you’re
going to a barn dance.” LJ said as he turned and walked
briskly off inside.

As darkness fell on Bonne Nuit bay, an inflatable rib
from the Solitaire came alongside Dillon’s powerboat, the
only sound was the muted throbbing of the outboard motor.
Kurt was at the helm and Pierre sat up in the bow. As they
bumped against the hull of the sleek craft, he jumped up
over the side rail and then made his way back to the stern,
and the rear deck area. He skilfully picked the lock of one
of the stowage lockers and lifted the lid into the upright
position. From his pocket he took a small electronic disc,
no bigger than a fifty pence piece and using the magnetic
backing attached it to a metal strengthening bracket.

A moment later he was back on board the inflatable.
“Everything okay?” Kurt asked.
“I’ve placed the device inside one of the stowage

lockers.”
“Good, now for Chapman’s dive boat, the Wave
Dancer.” Kurt said and turned the inflatable towards it.
Hugo Malakoff was sitting in the main day cabin
of the Solitaire, wearing a khaki linen suit and sipping
green tea out of a fine bone china cup when Kurt came in.
He’d changed and wore a silk maroon coloured shirt and
matching tie, and a hand made black Italian suit that made
him look rather aggressive.
“Did everything go to plan?” Malakoff asked.
“Yes, Mien Herr. There is now a tracking device on
board Dillon’s powerboat and another on Chapman’s dive
boat, as you requested. Captain Armand informs me that
we can now track them from up to five miles away. Dillon
has booked a table at Annabelle’s place for eight o’clock
this evening.”
“So they’re eating at Annabelle’s, are they? That can
only mean one thing, Kurt. Dillon hopes to meet up with
Chapman, what a cosy scene that makes. I think it might be
rather amusing to join them.”
Captain Armand entered at that moment. “Your
orders for this evening, Monsieur?”
“Yes, Captain. Organise some female company for
Pierre, Mazzarin and Zola. Bring them aboard, and let
them all have a drink on me. You may break out a case of
Krug for them and then later this evening, when they’ve had
their fun, bring the three of them ashore. They can let off a
little more steam at Annabelle’s if you follow me?”
“Absolutely, Monsieur.” Armand smiled and went
out.

It was just after seven-thirty, and Annabelle
Cunningham was feeling happy sitting at her father’s
bedside on the fifth floor of the city hospital. Her spirits
had been lifted on her arrival, by the doctors informing her
that Nathan was well on the way to recovery.

On her way in, she’d picked up a handful of
newspapers, and had been reading the articles aloud to him
for the past two hours. She got up and walked around the
room to stretch her legs, restless from being cooped up for
most of the afternoon in the small private side ward. Her
eyes glanced down at Nathan’s old brown leather attaché
case that she’d brought with her to the hospital. She’d been
slowly going through his documents and the numerous old
scraps of paper, which he habitually scribbled on. Sitting
down in the chair, she reached down and picked up the case
off of the floor, placing it on her lap.

There were copies of plans and correspondence
to the planning office. These all related to the proposed
refurbishment work to Annabelle’s café, which she’d given
to Nathan to read just before he’d left to come up to London.
A street map of the city was tucked inside a pocket, and as
she pulled out the soft backed booklet a folded piece of
paper fell out from inside. She picked it up off of the floor
and unfolded it.

Nathan had always been a prolific doodler, and the
sketch that Annabelle was now looking at on the creased
scrap of paper, made her look twice. So surprised was she,
that she stood up and held it at arms length. Turning it
on its side and then upside down, viewing it from every
possible angle to make sure that what she was interpreting
was in fact correct.

She flushed with excitement, “Oh my God, why
didn’t I think of that before?” She said out loud. “Pops,
you old rogue. I do believe you’ve just given me a clue to
your U-boat mystery!”

She gently stroked a hand across her father’s forehead,
brushing the hair back with her fingers. And bending down
she lovingly kissed his cheek; there was a knock at the door.
It was the police officer stationed outside Nathan’s room,
who stuck his head inside to ask if she’d like a coffee or tea
brought in. Annabelle declined, and then informed him that
she would be leaving very shortly.

Stepping outside she looked up, the evening sky had
turned a wonderful shade of pink with only a smattering of
wispy clouds trailing off over the rooftops. Annabelle eased
herself into the rear seat of chauffeur driven Mercedes, and
as she settled into the luxurious leather she made a mental
note to phone LJ straight after dinner.

Edward Levenson-Jones was sitting on the terrace
of Annabelle’s café, looking out across the harbour. The
dark sky was streaked with pink and orange as the sun
disappeared over the horizon.

“Never ceases to fill me with a sense of hope.” LJ
said as they sipped a glass of Pimms.
“A day without sunshine is like night, isn’t that how
the saying goes?” Dillon said.
The waves lethargically rolled onto the sandy beach,
and tiny bats darted around the night sky just above the
cliff tops. LJ got up and moved to the edge of the terrace.
“I must say, that’s very profound, Jake.”
Dillon took a sip of his drink. He grinned boyishly,
and said, “Well perhaps I feel profound. You know what
it’s like, you look at your life and how it’s passing you by. I
mean, here I am still playing action man hero at forty.”
“Oh dear, old son. Sounds like you’re coming down
with a nasty dose of melancholy. You know as well as
I do, it never pays to look back with regret. Not in our
business, anyway. Next thing you know, you start getting a
conscience, and then that’s the end of it. That’s no good to
anyone, including yourself. I trust you realise that?”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I know it doesn’t
pay to dwell on the past, and I’m not as you put it, feeling
melancholy.”
“Good, because we have this wretched man Malakoff
to contend with. And what still concerns me the most, is
what his next move is likely to be?”
“That’s what bothers me.” Dillon said.
“Well, would you look at that, I think the answer to
that question is coming towards us right now.” Vince said.
“What?” Dillon asked.
“Walking this way up the beach.”
Dillon and LJ both looked round at the same time.
Hugo Malakoff jumped down from the inflatable, walked
along the beach and up the steps, followed closely by Kurt,
who as always, was one step behind his employer. He
looked around the terrace, saw Dillon and the others, and
came over. “Mr Dillon? Hugo Malakoff.”
“I know who you are, Monsieur,” Dillon replied in
excellent French.
Malakoff raised an eyebrow. “You speak like a
Frenchman, Monsieur,” he replied in his native tongue,
“such fluency in an Englishman is extremely rare.” He
turned to LJ and added in English, “A pleasure to see you
in Jersey, Mr Levenson-Jones. Have a pleasant evening
and an enjoyable dinner, gentlemen. The food here is quite
exquisite.” He then turned and went through into the
restaurant followed by the German.
“The audacity of the man, he knew who we were,
and that we’d be here this evening.” LJ exclaimed.
“So it would seem.” Dillon stood up. “Let’s have
dinner, I’m absolutely starving.”
The food was excellent, just as Malakoff had said,
and LJ had thoroughly enjoyed himself. They started with
pan fried sea scallops followed by roasted guinea fowl and
locally grown vegetables that were accompanied by Jersey
new potatoes tossed in butter. LJ devoured everything with
zealous enthusiasm.
“To be honest, old son, I prefer good old fashioned
British bred red meat. But I must say, that was a most
enjoyable meal and one of the best that I’ve had in a long
time.”
“So, it wasn’t too much of an endurance for you,
then?” Dillon inquired.
“If by that remark, you’re insinuating that my palette
is not adventurous. Then you are very much mistaken. As a
matter of fact, I’ve eaten both exotic and even bizarre dishes
during my life long travels.”
“Such as?” Dillon pressed.
LJ poured himself another glass of wine before
answering. “Okay, let me see.”
“Take your time, Vince and I are in no hurry.”
LJ shot Dillon one of his glances from over the top of
his wire-framed spectacles. “Well, I suppose two of the most
bizarre dishes would be jellied sheep’s eyes. I tried those on
a trip to India, and then there were the grilled python steaks
in South America. How’s that for exotic?”
“Okay, point taken.” Dillon said amiably, and raised
his glass in a mock toast to his boss.
“I’m glad to see that you still have a small degree of
humility, Jake. At least there’s still some hope for you yet.
Can either of you see what Malakoff is up to?”
“Having dinner over by the window behind you.
The henchman who is with him, by the way, is called Kurt.
He’s his minder, and the one who threw me over the cliff,
and then attempted to murder me with a silenced carbine
the other night.”
“Oh my, that won’t do, will it?” LJ asked the
waiter for strong black espresso coffee instead of the weak
milky excuse that he was offered. “So Jake, what are you
suggesting our next move should be? Malakoff being here
this evening demonstrates to me that he doesn’t want us
talking to Chapman on our own. I’d also venture that this
brazen display is simply to tell us that he’s here, and is
going to stay here. The man’s arrogance obviously knows
no boundaries.”
“I think that we need to talk to Chapman. Urgently,
and in private.” Dillon said getting up and putting on his
jacket.
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“Oh yes, I know exactly where he’ll be.”
“Excellent.” LJ stood, buttoned up his blazer and
adjusted his tie. “We’d better get going then.”
“Vince, you stay here. Keep an eye on our friends
over there, and ring me from your mobile if they should
leave.”
“Do you want me to follow them, Jake?”
“Hell no. That would be tantamount to suicide, and
that big German is far too dangerous. You stay put here,
and do what comes naturally. Converse with total strangers
and have a few more drinks, but keep your eyes on those
two. I’ll only be an hour or two and then I’ll come back and
get you in the Range Rover.”
As they went out, Dillon complimented the chef on
an excellent meal, and the two men left. Malakoff saw them
leave, said something to Kurt, and then ordered another
round of liqueurs for them both.
Dillon drove the Range Rover into the wide gravel
driveway, parking it next to Rob Chapman’s pickup and
switched off. He took the Glock automatic out of the glove
box and tucked it under his belt in the small of his back.
“What in heaven’s name do you want that for?” LJ
demanded.
“Insurance.” Dillon said bluntly, adding. “Now let’s
go and have a little chat with Mr Chapman.”
Gravel crunched under their feet as they walked
across the drive to the entrance portico. Dillon stood for
a moment, looking up at the big oak panelled door before
tugging on the old-fashioned bell pull. From deep within
the unusual granite building, the jingle jangle of the bell
could just be heard. After what seemed to Dillon like an
eternity, Rob Chapman appeared at the door wearing a pair
of dark shorts, a white T-shirt and bare feet.
“Jake, come on in.” Chapman said as he motioned
the two men into the hallway.
“Hello, Rob. Sorry to barge in on you like this,
but I’d like to introduce a friend of mine to you, Edward
Levenson-Jones.”
Chapman smiled. “No problem, Jake and it’s good
to meet you, Edward. Come on through to the garden room
and have a drink, I’ve got a bottle of white wine on the go.”
The garden room had a view over both Gifford
and Bonne Nuit Bay, and a clear glass domed canopy that
gave the impression of being out in the open. There were a
number of exotic plants and flowers in pots of all sizes and
colour. Chapman poured wine, and then handed Dillon and
LJ a glass each.
“So gentlemen, a toast. To life and whatever it
throws at us.” Chapman raised his glass and then emptied
it in one gulp.
Dillon glanced over at LJ, who was watching
Chapman. Raising his own glass he said, “And always be
prepared for the unexpected.”
Chapman frowned then turned to LJ and then back
to Dillon. “Odd sort of toast, isn’t it. Now why would you
say that, Jake?”
“Oh no reason, Rob. But I suppose it pays to keep
an open mind about some things, doesn’t it?”
“Something’s not quite right here gentlemen. And,
if I were any judge of a situation, I’d say that this wasn’t a
social call?”
At that moment, they heard a woman’s panicked
voice shout out from one of the rooms on a lower level,
“Get out, you have no right to be in here!”
It was Chapman’s sister who had called out, she was
staying with him for the summer holidays.
Chapman flew out of the room, with Dillon
following close behind, down stone steps and through
narrow corridors. They reached the kitchen doorway, and
were instantly greeted by the sight of Kurt, restraining a
pretty woman somewhere in her mid to late thirties with
naturally blonde hair in a plait bound up at the back.
He had an arm around her neck, and she looked
terrified and very vulnerable stood there. The big German
saw them come through the doorway, tightened his grip and
instantly took one step backwards. The two men stopped in
their tracks, Malakoff appeared at the same time through
the open rear doorway.
“I hate to see a bully picking on someone smaller
than themselves.” Chapman said and his face was hard.
Dillon said, “I couldn’t agree more. He’s a disgrace
to the entire German male population.”
Kurt’s eyes flashed anger, and he released his grip on
the girl, allowing her to break free and run across to where
Chapman was standing. He looked straight at Dillon,
meeting his eyes with steely coldness, and then smirked,
turned to Pierre who was now stood next to Malakoff, and
nodded at him. The Frenchman stepped into the kitchen
and positioned himself on the other side of the large beech
table that was positioned in the middle of the room.
LJ had seen what was going on, and had until that
moment, stayed hidden in the hallway. He now casually
entered the room, and said. “Monsieur Malakoff, I’d leave
quietly if I were you. Before someone gets hurt.”
Dillon glanced at Malakoff, who made no attempt
to leave.
“My dear Levenson-Jones, those are brave words
coming from someone who spends most of his time sitting
behind a desk. We wish only to talk with Mr Chapman,
about a business proposition that will make him extremely
rich.”
“Get out Malakoff, and take your bully boys with
you. I’ve no wish to discuss anything with you.” Chapman
said angrily.
“Oh, come now Mr Chapman. I’m sure that with a
little gentle persuasion, you’d change your mind?” Malakoff
said, and then fleetingly glanced across at Pierre who
instantly moved around the table fast. He had a knife in his
hand, and with his arm extended went forward towards the
two men.
LJ dragged the girl back out of harm’s way through
the open doorway into the hall. Chapman turned, and made
ready to defend himself, but it was Dillon who moved first.
He struck the side of Pierre’s head with a high karate kick
that sent the Frenchman to the ground in a daze. Pierre
recovered enough to pull himself up from the hard flagstone
floor using the edge of the table for support. Dillon wasted
no time, and delivered a heavy blow to his kidneys. Pierre
cried out and fell to one side. He lay prone on the flagstone
floor for a moment, then forced himself up on to one knee.
Dillon moved forward, raised his left knee up
sharply, and made heavy contact with the unprotected face.
The Frenchman’s head snapped back, and blood instantly
started to flow from his broken nose.
“That’ll teach you to mess with me, sonny.” Dillon
said, standing over the unconscious man.
Kurt calmly rolled his head from side to side,
vertebrae clicked and crunched into place. He picked up
a dangerous looking meat cleaver, eyeing it up and down,
before repeatedly switching it from hand to hand. Dillon
pulled out the Glock and pointed it at the big German.
“Put it down, or I’ll put a bullet in your thick head.”
Dillon said calmly.
Kurt raised the cleaver above his head, but before
he had a chance to move Malakoff intervened, “No Kurt,
leave them. Get Pierre on his feet.”
“A wise move Malakoff. Now clear off, and take
that scum with you.”
The German helped Pierre to his feet. He appeared
dazed, blood on his face and he led him out. Malakoff
stood glowering at Dillon for a moment, before turning and
storming off.
Chapman hugged his sister to comfort her, tears
rolled down her face as she sobbed on his shoulder. Still
physically shaken and distraught from the encounter with
Kurt. He led her back upstairs through the garden room
and into the lounge area, where he made her lay on one of
the large sofas. After covering her with a large throw from
one of the other chairs, he led Dillon and LJ to the front
door.
“Now you have my attention. And, if what’s just
taken place, has something to do with Nathan laying in
a coma. Then count me in on whatever it is you’re all
involved in. But, I’d obviously like to know a whole lot
more first. Now, if you don’t mind gentlemen, I think it’s
probably for the best, if you leave now. Jake, Edward - it’s
been interesting to meet you.”
He opened the big oak door and swung it back on
its hinges.
“How about a dive in the morning, Rob. That is, If
you’re up for it?”
“Be down by my boat at eight o’clock sharp.”
Chapman said as he closed the door.
The drive back to Annabelle’s Café took no longer
than two or three minutes in the Range Rover. Dillon was
trying to think of a reason why Vince hadn’t phoned them
to say that Malakoff had left the restaurant. Dillon parked
the 4x4 a little way back up the hill at the side of the road.
As they entered the café, LJ discreetly tapped Dillon’s
arm and pointed towards the bar. Dillon immediately
noticed that the place was empty apart for Vince sitting
on a wooden stool, talking to two men who were standing
either side of him drinking and laughing loudly.
On seeing the two men, Vince Sharp slipped off the
stool and motioned for them to join him at the bar. It was
obvious to Dillon that he was very drunk, and probably
the reason why he’d not noticed Malakoff and Kurt leave
earlier. He introduced Mazzarin and Zola and beckoned
the Portuguese barman to bring another round of drinks
for everyone.
“Vince, I’m sorry to be the party pooper, but we’ve
really got to be up at the crack of dawn in the morning. So
if you’ll excuse us gentlemen.”
As Dillon turned to leave he felt a hand grab his
shoulder, and as he turned, Mazzarin punched him hard in
the stomach.
“But the party’s only just begun, Englishman.”
Mazzarin said with a malicious sneer.
Dillon recoiled away from the blow, knocking tables
and chairs over as he fought to keep his balance in vain.
Zola stood leaning against the bar sipping his beer, he’d
been joined by Pierre who was now sitting on the stool
still holding a wad of tissue to his broken nose. Malakoff
had positioned himself at the far end of the bar and was
whispering into the ear of the barman, and handing over a
large wad of fifty pound notes to him.