Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (3 page)

In 1987, two dynamic men, Declan Ferran and
Richard Cardini, both former high ranking intelligence
men, created Ferran & Cardini International. These two
enigmas soon became known simply as “the Partners.” The
shadowy and elusive duo had previously roamed around
the globe for MI6, brushing shoulders with criminals,
terrorists and some of the most powerful and politically
corrupt people in the world.

Outwardly, the company they own looks and
operates just like any other legitimate corporation. But, is
shrouded by extreme secrecy, and behind their elaborate
façade is former M15 director of operations, Edward
Levenson-Jones and the special projects team. Which
unofficially handle assignments where the conventional
intelligence agencies do not want to go. This department,
located deep under the streets of Docklands, also undertake
the setting up of information networks throughout Europe
on behalf of the British Government. Ferran & Cardini
owes allegiance to one person only. Former Prime Minister
and the firm’s benefactor, Sir Lucius Stagg who, at the age
of seventy-three, keeps his finger on the pulse of those in
power. Edward Levenson-Jones has steadfastly nurtured
and guided the special project team, which since its
inception had seen a number of Prime Ministers of both the
main political parties come and go, and had no allegiance
whatsoever to any of them. His office is located under the
prestigious wharf-side glass tower block. Cocooned in
thousands of tons of reinforced concrete in what used to be
the cellar network of the original warehouse that had stood
on the site. He was still working at his desk at eight o’clock
in the evening, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” LJ was stood at the drinks cabinet; a tall
rather debonair looking man in his late fifties with a thicket
of fair hair.

As he poured himself a glass of single malt whisky
the door opened behind him. The man who entered was
in his late twenties wearing a charcoal grey pin stripe suit,
pristine white shirt and sober coloured silk tie. He could
have been a high flying stockbroker or even a successful
business executive, but Guy Roberts was neither of these
things. He was a spy. Not an ordinary one, but a spy all the
same with an honours degree in criminal psychology, and
after a little arm twisting, LJ had succeeded in borrowing
him from M15 as his temporary personal assistant.

“So, what have you got for me Roberts?” LJ’s voice
had a clear clipped tone to it.
“Mostly run of the mill stuff, I’m afraid sir. There
are rumours circulating that Clive Bingham-Carter at M16
is furious about the Prime Minister’s personal request, that
Ferran & Cardini are to have a major input with the new
European network, and that they will handle key field
operatives in the future. The word is, that he’s lobbying the
Prime Minister to sever all association with the firm, sir.”
“Good heavens, doesn’t he ever give up? I’ve already
given him my word that we will update his lot on a regular
basis, and to liase with his number two, each dammed week.
What’s his name?”
“Neville-Smith, sir.”
“What, oh yes, Neville-Smith. Well that’s all the cooperation they’re going to get out of me. What else have
you got Roberts?”
Guy Roberts smiled. “Actually, I’ve saved the best
till last. Dillon?”
Levenson-Jones looked up from his paperwork ever
so slowly. “What about him?”
“We’ve just received a message from the FBI in
Florida. According to this, he’s redeemed himself in the eyes
of the Americans by unofficially helping them to apprehend
and extract the drug trafficker Harry Caplin out of Cuba
and back to Florida to face trial. Dillon is now in California
and staying at the Beverly Hills Hilton. Courtesy of the
American taxpayer it would seem.”
He passed a sheet of paper across to LJ, who put on
his round wire framed reading glasses, and studied it. He
nodded in satisfaction. “So he pulled it off did he?”
“It would appear so, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of
obtaining his record from personnel. I hope you don’t mind,
Sir?”
“Um, have you now. Well stick it in the pending tray
with the others, Roberts. Oh, and you can go home now.”
“Good night, sir.”
Guy Roberts left the room, and Levenson-Jones
crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured another large
measure of single malt whisky. “This one’s for you Jake
Dillon,” he swallowed it down, returned to his desk, and
resumed his work again.

A few miles off of the northwest coast of France in
the English Channel are the Islands of Jersey, Guernsey,
Alderney and Sark. The largest, Jersey, has been an island
for well over eight thousand years; human activity dates
back two hundred and fifty thousand years when small
dark pre-Celtic hunters used the caves at La Cotte de St.
Brelade as their base for hunting mammoth. Eventually,
settled communities replaced these nomadic bands of
hunters in the Neolithic period, naming the Island Angia.
From around 56AD and for well over five hundred years
the Romans then inhabited this enchanting place which
they called Caesarea.

The Vikings arrived in the ninth century and renamed
it Jersey. Meaning island.
Throughout its rich history; Jersey has been a flash
point and the scene of many skirmishes between France,
who ruled there from around 933 right up to 1468, and
England. But because of the strategic importance to the
English Crown, Sir Richard Harliston was sent by King
Edward IV to claim back Jersey and the other islands for
England. Afterwards the Treaty of Calais was reconfirmed
with King Louis XI of France, at which time the Channel
Islands were declared neutral territory, and are still to this
day. With all of these different cultures having inhabited the
island a language called Jerriais evolved. This vivid means
of verbal communication replete with sayings and proverbs
is still firmly rooted in today’s traditional rural life. Without
a doubt Jersey is one of the most idyllic locations in Europe.
But not that night, as gale force winds swept in across
the old harbour of Bonne Nuit, stirring the boats at anchor,
and driving rain across the rooftops, the sky exploding into
thunder.
To Rob Chapman, restlessly sleeping at Castle Point
on the other side of Bonne Nuit bay, it was the sound of
death. He tossed and turned in his bed, and suddenly it
was the same old nightmare, the explosions were all around
him, the ground shaking beneath his feet. He’d become
completely disorientated climbing up the rope ladder, and
had lost his bearings as he ran out of the cave panic stricken.
Throwing himself down on to the wet sand, arms protecting
his head as he took cover behind a large rock, was not even
aware of being hit, and only as the noise faded and he sat
up was there any pain.
His left leg had an open gash about nine inches long
just above the ankle, blood on his hands. As the noise and
smoke subsided, he found himself shaking from shock,
and his fellow archaeologists who had also managed to
clamber out and onto the beach were either dying or dead
around him. Chapman cried out, and sat bolt upright in
bed sweating, and wide awake now.
It was the same recurring nightmare; the uncharted
coastal cave system in Peru where he and four colleagues
had been sent by their wealthy employer to investigate a
tunnel network. Then came the explosions above and
below ground, but that was a long time ago. He reached
over and switched on the bedside lamp, checking the
illuminated digital clock on the small cabinet next to him.
It was just past midnight. He took a deep breath, and stood
up, running a hand through his spiky blond hair as he made
his way barefoot through the dark hallways, to the circular
sitting room, and poured a large whisky into a tumbler.
He was much tanned from regular exposure to sea
and sun. Around five foot eleven, he had a fit muscular body,
not surprising in a man who worked out every morning
before breakfast and was a qualified diver and archaeologist
by profession. Fifty years of age, but most people would
have taken him for forty.
He went through the dining room, and down the
stone staircase into the airy garden room at the back of the
old renovated castle which overlooked the English Channel.
Rain-washed over the glass roof and out to sea, lightning
crackled. He drank a little more of his whisky then put the
glass down beside a framed photograph of his nine-year-old
daughter and wife both laughing at him. He gently touched
his lips with the tip of his index finger, and then placed over
each of their images. Remembering the happy times they
had spent together, before the fatal car crash on the cliff top
road had taken them both from him almost five years ago.
He now lived alone in the home that they had practically
rebuilt stone by stone with nothing more than his memories
of them both. He found that the only way to ease the pain
and utter hollowness that he still felt was to concentrate on
his archaeological work and occasional diving tours with
excessive fervour.
A loud clatter of thunder overhead brought him
back to reality, and slowly he walked back to the bedroom.
Laying back in the dark once again he tried to get a little
more sleep. He was taking a party of amateur marine
archaeologists out from the St. Helier marina at ten-thirty,
which meant that as usual, he needed his wits about him,
plus all of his considerable experience and expertise.
At that moment on the other side of Bonne Nuit Bay,
Nathan Cunningham sat at his desk in the spacious living
room going over sea charts by the light of a single lamp. The
ocean and harbour below could be clearly seen through the
wall of glass that ran down one side of the room. It always
thrilled him to gaze out to sea, it took him back to the days
when he was a young man serving in the Royal Navy. He
had attained the rank of Commander, with an impressive
service record and numerous military decorations to his
name, could even have gone on to command a desk at the
Admiralty, but had decided to call it a day and retire to the
quite life.
On reflection he’d had a good life. At sixty-two,
widowed with one daughter and having made a large
fortune from the sale of his construction firm in London
that he’d set up after his retirement from the Navy. He’d
decided to up-root and move to Jersey. It was a family
holiday to the island years before that had made his mind
up, and at the same time Rob Chapman had introduced
him to archaeology and scuba diving which had become
his new found passions. After the death of his wife from a
heart attack he’d sold his business and his house in St John’s
Wood, moved to Jersey and bought his present home. His
life was completely satisfactory and fulfilled, especially as
Annabelle had had something to do with that as well.
He picked up her photo. Annabelle Cunningham,
twenty six, face vibrant, wide chestnut eyes above high
cheekbones, and a mane of dark hair that fell in loose curls
around her shoulders. She’d come to Jersey with him, and
had immediately fallen in love with the magic of the place.
Nathan had invested in the only café bar in Bonne Nuit
for her that was right on the waterfront called Annabelle’s.
It had proved to be a big hit with both the locals all year
round and tourists in the summer. Putting the photo back
on the polished desktop he quietly reflected on just how
perfect his life was. Outside, the crunch of gravel on the
drive, as his daughter pulled up in the new Mini Cooper
he’d given her, for her last birthday. And then the sound of
the front door closing, and she came in smiling and happy
as she always was. She threw her wet jacket over the back
of a nearby chair. A small puddle formed on the polished
wooden floor, as it dripped. She then leaned over and kissed
the top of his head.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a storm like this, it’s like
hell out there, Pops.”
“The forecast is good for tomorrow though, you see
it’ll be clear by the morning.” He swivelled around in his
chair. “Good crowd in tonight?”
“Extremely.” She said walking through to the kitchen
for a glass of milk. “We had a group of Americans in who
decided to stay until closing.” Yawning she added, “God,
I’m tired.”
“You ought to get off to bed, it’s almost twelve
thirty.”
“Perhaps I will, but we really must discuss the ideas
that I have for the café refurbishment in the morning,
though.”
“Sounds just fine, but I’m going out in the boat first
thing, may even dive, weather permitting, of course. What
say I come to you at the café for coffee late morning?”
“I hope you’re not going out on your own, you know
how dangerous it is, especially after a storm like this.”
“Annabelle, I’m an old eccentric man who likes to
scrabble around on the seabed, and in caves and tunnels
both above and below the water. Please humour me by not
worrying, I would never intentionally endanger my life.
You know that.”
“Just by diving on your own is asking for trouble if
you ask me, and especially as you will insist on diving this
side of the island.”
“As true as that may be, I’m always careful. You
forget, I had one of the best teachers in the business and
believe me, Rob Chapman taught me well.” He got up out
of his chair and gave her a hug. “Now stop worrying about
me and go to bed.”
She squeezed his hand and went out. He returned to
his sea charts, taking one across to the sofa in front of the
open fire and stretching out comfortably. Since losing his
wife he had found it increasingly difficult to sleep at night,
but after a while his eyelids became heavy and it wasn’t
long before he was asleep. The sea chart of the northern
coastline of Jersey sliding onto the floor.
The blue light of dawn came flooding in through the
wall of glass onto Nathan as he lay sleeping on the sofa,
gradually waking him up. He lay there for a moment; then
looked up at the rescued ship’s clock on the wall above the
fireplace. It was a little after five thirty. He got up off of the
sofa, stretched and then went across the room and pulled
back the two enormous sheets of toughened glass that led
out onto the hardwood deck. The sun was just appearing
over the horizon, but strangely there was a calm, almost a
stillness about the air and the sea that was unusual, no doubt
something to do with the storm last night, he thought. But,
excellent conditions to take the boat out, and absolutely
perfect for a dive.
The sunshine always made Nathan feel happy, but
on this morning he also felt excited about taking the boat
out. Going through to the kitchen he put the kettle on,
and ground coffee beans while it boiled, making a round
of chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches for later. He made
himself a coffee and some toast, and went back out on to
the deck to eat his breakfast. After he’d shaved he quickly
wrote a note for Annabelle, and then went out to the garage,
gathered up his diving equipment in to a large canvas kit
bag, and walked outside into the brilliant sunshine.
It took Nathan no time at all to walk the short distance
down the winding lane to the old harbour. It was still very
quiet, and much too early for the tourists, with only a hand
full of fishermen about, and a few noisy seagulls squawking
overhead. He dropped the kit bag into his fibreglass dinghy
at the jetty. Cast off, and rowing slowly, started to thread
his way between the fishing boats at anchor until he came
his way between the fishing boats at anchor until he came
foot power cruiser.
Pulling down the stern step he scrambled aboard.
After securing the dinghy on a line, he made a thorough
inspection of the boat for any storm damage. Happy that
everything was as it should be, he slotted the three full air
tanks that he’d stowed the previous day into an upright
holder on the stern platform.
He then went below, and checked all of his equipment
that was in the kit bag. The full-length wet suit that he’d
bought from the local dive shop had excellent thermal
properties, bright blue with yellow flashes down each of
the arms and legs. Fins, mask, buoyancy jacket, gloves, air
regulators, and his dive computer. He checked everything
with meticulous care always remembering what he’d been
taught by Rob Chapman, check everything at least twice
before a dive, and don’t take unnecessary risks.
He went back up to the wheelhouse and the single
diesel engine roared into life, the boat gently drifted before
he engaged the powered anchor winch. The chain wound
its way back in to the self stow locker in the bow and he
took the Nautical Lady towards the open sea with boyish
enthusiasm.
Nathan pushed the fibreglass craft up to eighteen
knots as he sat in the plush leather seat feeling total
exhilaration as the fresh salt air rushed over him. He felt
alive, and very happy as he pondered over the dive site he
was going to. The sun was up now with the sea the most
perfect deep blue, the granite cliffs of northern Jersey rose
up on his left side creating a breathtaking sight. “Nothing
on earth could possibly be better,” he thought.
“God, I LOVE THIS PLACE!” He shouted at the top
of his voice and pushed the throttle even further forward,
taking the boat up to twenty-one knots.
He had quickly reached the spot where he planned to
dive. It was an area considered by those more experienced
local divers as extremely dangerous due to the large jagged
rocks that were completely unseen at high tide. Even
Chapman didn’t dive there due to the strong currents, and
an underwater nightmare world of fissures and channels.
Rob Chapman had told him that just after the Second
World War there had been two divers from the Royal Navy
conducting a search of the area for any mines that the Nazis
may have laid during their occupation of the island, they
had gone down, and never re-surfaced. Few people even
knew of this, and the professional divers all over Jersey
never took anyone there because the sea around the rocks
was generally so turbulent. That in itself, was enough to
keep anyone away, but not on this sunny morning. After the
storm the night before it was like a millpond. Cunningham
had not seen anything like it before. Adrenaline suddenly
surged through him as the excitement of what lay beneath
took a hold. He switched on his depth finder, and throttled
back the engine. It was then he spotted it, the lines on the
screen showed what he was looking for.
Stopping the engine he let the boat drift while he
double checked the depth, and studied his chart one more
time until he was certain that he was above the formation
of rocks that always remained concealed, even at low tide.
The anchor slid out of its housing, hitting the water with
a splash, and only stopped when it had snagged on the
bottom. He whistled a simple tune as he stripped, pulled on
the bright blue and yellow wet suit, and then methodically
assembled his equipment, clamping a tank to his inflatable.
He strapped on his dive computer then eased himself into
the jacket, adjusting and securing the Velcro straps across
his waist as he took the weight of it. Onto his weight belt
he attached a high powered spotlight. He pulled on a pair
of diving gloves and then sitting on the edge of the deck at
the stern, pulled on his fins. After spitting in to his mask,
he rinsed it in salt water, adjusted it to fit his face, and then
simply rolled back over the side and into the water.