Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (37 page)

The Solitaire was tied up alongside a pontoon
constructed of solid granite, on the seaward side of the
marina, where the deep water could easily take a vessel of
her size. Hugo Malakoff was sitting in his study at the stern,
reading the documents from inside the silver chest for the
second time that day. The Spear of Destiny, lying on the bed
of vivid purple silk, remained within his reach on the highly
polished desk top. Every so often, he would stretch out his
hand and gently touch it. He’d never felt so invigorated, so
confident, in his entire life. He examined the letters, and
then one of the four blue hardback ledgers, these interested
him the most. All those names, many eminent members of
the British establishment, who together with people like his
own, and Oliver Asquith’s father, were secretly in support
of the direction in which Germany was taking during those
early years of Adolf Hitler’s rise.

He picked up the telephone and called Captain
Armand on the bridge. “Get me Lord Asquith at his London
residence.”

It was two forty-five, and Asquith was asleep at his
Kensington home, when the phone rang on his bedside
table.

Asquith rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Hugo, do you
know what time it is?”
“Of course, Oliver. It’s two forty-five in the morning.”
“Exactly. What the bloody hell can be so important
that you have to call me at this unholy hour?”
“Oliver, we have possession of the spear.”
“What? When did this happen?” Asquith was now
fully awake and listening intently.
“This afternoon. I have the silver chest, the spear,
and a number of small blue ledgers that make extremely
interesting reading.”
“And, my father’s diary?”
“Alas no, Oliver. That is not here, I’m afraid.”
You could have heard a pin drop in Asquith’s
bedroom, “But, that’s what this has always been about,
Hugo. Retrieving that bloody diary.” Asquith’s voice was
full of despair.
“You are fretting over nothing Oliver. I’m sure that
if the diary were down there, like you said it would be, then
Dillon would have almost certainly have found it, wouldn’t
you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But what about these
ledgers, you say they make interesting reading?”
“Oh, they do, Oliver. Quite fascinating.”
Asquith snapped, “Hugo, the last thing I really want
at this unearthly hour, is to be toyed with. Just get to the
bloody point, will you?”
“So be it, Oliver.” The Frenchman, spoke quietly and
deliberately slowly, “What I have in front of me, are four
hand written ledgers. They are official Nazi documents, and
contain many notable names, which correspond to details
of numbered bank accounts in Europe and South America.
Both, your father and mine, are named, Oliver.” Malakoff
stopped talking, while he let Asquith comprehend the
enormity of what he’d just said.
“No, no, no. This can’t be true?” Asquith screeched
down the phone. A sudden cold sweat breaking out over his
entire body, making his pyjamas cling to him uncomfortably.
“Please tell me that this isn’t true, and that I’m having some
sort of horrible twisted nightmare, Hugo?”
“I’m afraid, that you’re not having a nightmare,
Oliver. And, as we both know, in the wrong hands, this will
almost certainly finish both of us. So, it’s just as well that I
have possession of this information, and nobody else does.
My advice to you is simple, my friend. Taisez-vous! Mefiezvous!”
“Of course I’ll keep my mouth shut, and I’ve been
on my guard ever since this whole dreadful affair started.
Promise me, Hugo. That you’ll get rid of them.” Asquith
said, and then added, “Immediately?”
“Oliver, you know that I’ll take care of everything.”
Malakoff got up, walked across the study to the wall of
glass, and gazed out across St. Aubins bay. He stood there
in the darkness for a moment, before saying, “I always
do, don’t I?” And immediately disconnected, replacing the
phone back on its cradle on his desk.
Asquith, lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling.
Contemplating his life, should it ever become public
knowledge that his father had been a Nazi supporter and
collaborator. And after an indefinable amount of time, he
fell back into a restless slumber.
Malakoff was standing in front of his desk, gazing
down at the spearhead when Captain Armand came in.
“Unless you have any other further orders, Monsieur.
I will remain on the bridge until daylight.”
Malakoff looked up at the clock hanging on the wall
in front of him. It was just after two fifty-five a.m. “There
are no orders, Captain.”
Armand turned to leave, and Malakoff said, “Ensure
that everyone is alert, Armand. And make sure that the deck
areas are patrolled every ten minutes, just in case our friend
Jake Dillon decides to pay us a visit.”
“Of course, Monsieur. But, I don’t think we need
to worry. We have every deck light on, as well as the
underwater lights. We’d spot him a mile away, but we’ll
still take every precaution.”
“Good, because I don’t think we should
underestimate, Dillon.” Armand nodded, turned and left.
Malakoff waited a moment or two, before removing
a small remote control from the top drawer of his desk. He
gathered up the letters, the spear and the four blue ledgers,
and placed them all inside the silver chest. A painting
hanging on the wall behind him silently slid back as he
pushed one of the buttons on the small black device, to
reveal a safe. He punched in a six digit code, opened the
solid looking door, and put the silver chest inside.
Malakoff stood for a moment, admiring his newly
acquired masterpiece, and then he suddenly started to laugh
loudly. He’d paid twenty million pounds, a drop in the ocean
for someone with such wealth, to have it stolen from the
Tate in London. But, it wasn’t just for art’s sake that he’d
wanted it, he thought. And then took a look around with
equal fervour, at all the other masterpieces that adorned the
oak panelled walls. It was simply because, he wanted it.
Switching off the lights, He walked along to his
bedroom, thinking of the gold bullion, still convinced that
it was on board the U-boat. It was the one thing about this
mystery that had not been resolved. Before retiring to bed,
he made a mental note to return to the Devil’s Hole area,
before sailing for France the next day.

Chapman, rowed them silently through the marina,
and out into the main harbour channel. Staying close to
the dockside, they crept round to the seaward side, past the
ferry terminals and on to the deep water anchorage. Dillon
put on his fins, and rinsed out his face mask, in readiness to
go over the edge. Chapman, pulled in the oars, and looked
at his watch.

“Agreed.” Dillon replied, his voice just above a
whisper.
“When do you want to go?”
“Five minutes.”
“Okay. Now Jake, the water’s about fifty feet here,
very clear, and the bottom mostly sand with only a scattering
of vegetation. So, with the moonlight, you’re not going to
have much cover down there, and don’t forget, they’ve got
their underwater lights on. You’re going be an easy target if
they spot you.”
“They won’t, and it’s a good to know that you’re
going to be the focus of their attention then, isn’t it?” Dillon
smiled. “And like you said, you’re good at playing a drunk
in a boat. So do just that, stay out about forty or fifty feet
on the starboard stern quarter for about five minutes, and
make a lot of noise while you’re out there. That should
distract them long enough for me to get on board. When
the lights go out, get away as fast as you can. Understand?”
“Yes. But, what if it doesn’t work?”
“Have no fear, it will. Those boys on board the
Solitaire are going to be on edge and very nervous, like cats
on a hot tin roof. They’ll want to see what all the commotion
is. So make the performance good, because, I don’t want
you getting yourself shot on my account.” Dillon gave
Chapman a pair of night vision goggles, and placed another
pair into his dive bag.
“It’s three o’clock.”
“Time to party.” Dillon placed the mouthpiece
between his teeth, bit down on it, and started to breathe the
compressed air. He gave Chapman the okay sign, moved
over to the starboard side, and rolled backwards into the
black ink like water. He was gone in an instant, only a rush
of phosphorescent bubbles racing to the surface were visible
in the moonlight.
Chapman waited a second, dropped the oars back
into the water, and started to row. He rounded the point,
and was on the seaward side of the harbour in no time.
Letting the inflatable drift for a moment, while he took
stock of the area through the night vision goggles. There
were ocean going yachts scattered here and there and a few
large power cruisers. The Solitaire, by far the largest craft
at anchor, was two hundred metres away, at the other end
of the pontoon.

Malakoff laid in his bed, not able to sleep, the spear
and its mythical powers upper most in his thoughts. He felt
elated that it was now in his possession and that things had
gone better than planned with the added bonus of obtaining
the Nazi ledgers. He got out of bed, put on a silk dressing
gown, and went back along the gangway to his study. Went
straight to the bar in the corner of the spacious room, and
poured himself a large brandy. The Frenchman walked
over to the wall of glass, and pulled back one of the sliding
panels. The hardwood deck felt good under his bare feet, as
he stood savouring the cool night air. Leaning against the
stern rail, he looked up into a clear star-filled sky. Raised
his glass and took a swig of the fifty year old brandy, and
thought what an exceptionally lucky man he was.

Through the tiny device in his ear, Dillon could hear
Chapman and the others reporting in every thirty seconds.
Their voices barely above a whisper, as they talked to
each other. He stayed close to the seabed as he made his
way towards the Solitaire. Fifty feet from her bow line, he
surfaced behind a large ocean going yacht, pulled out the
night vision goggles from the watertight dive bag, and put
them on.

“Chapman, can you hear me?” Dillon whispered.
“Loud and clear, Jake.”
“Vince, are you and LJ getting this?”
“One hundred percent, loud and clear Jake.” Vince

Dillon floated there in the darkness, watching for
any activity on board Malakoff’s luxury vessel. Two men
emerged from the bridge; both had automatic weapons
slung over their shoulders, and were smoking cigarettes.
They moved along the outer gang-ways, talking to each
other in French. Every twenty paces, they’d stop, and look
over the rail for anything suspicious below.

“It’s as we thought. They’re patrolling the gang-ways
in twos.” Dillon said.
“What do you want to do?” It was Chapman who
replied.
“We’ll wait. See how long it is between patrols, and
if any of the others are lurking in the shadows. So keep your
eyes peeled, Rob.”
Dillon watched, and waited patiently for another
ten minutes. He’d picked out Mazzarin in the shadows by
a lifeboat. Zola on the uppermost sun deck, making no
attempt to conceal himself. And, Kurt standing just below
the bridge smoking a cigarette, an AK47 rifle slung over his
left shoulder.
He placed the night-vision goggles back inside the
bag, and got ready to dive again.
“Vince, I’m on my way. Give me sixty seconds and
then kill the juice.”
Vince confirmed, and a moment later Dillon
descended to fifteen feet and approached the Solitaire.

Captain Armand used the two way radio to summon
Kurt and the others on to the bridge. Pierre appeared just
behind him, Mazzarin and Zola came through the hatch on
the starboard side a moment later and joined them. Except
for Armand, each had an AK47 rifle in their hand.

“You two,” Armand said to Mazzarin and Zola, “go
to the stern deck areas, and keep yourselves out of sight and
alert.” The two former Foreign Legionnaires, nodded their
understanding, and left. “Pierre. You are to patrol the port
gangway, as well as the forward deck. Stay alert, because if
you don’t, you will be dead.” Armand said, dismissing him
with a wave of his hand towards the port side hatch.

With an air of superiority and aloofness, the
bodyguard said, “I will post myself in the vicinity of Herr
Malakoff’s suite, captain. Please keep in contact.” He then
turned and left the bridge.

Armand watched as the big German left. How
melodramatic, he thought with contempt, dressing up
entirely in black. He took off his jacket and threw it over
the back of his captain’s chair, revealing the butt of the SIG
Sauer P226 pistol sticking out from the leather shoulder
holster that was strapped under his left arm. His mood,
like the others, was tense, as he poured a generous measure
of vodka into a glass tumbler. He returned to his chair, sat
down and leaned back, sipping his vodka and just staring
out of the windscreen in front of him.

With the underwater lights on, Dillon dismissed all
notion of getting on board the Solitaire by using the anchor
line. Instead he stayed close to the keel, attaching one of
the limpet mines amidships, as he swam to the stern and
surfaced. Seconds later, Vince cut the power to the Solitaire.

Dillon wasted no time, exchanging his dive mask for
the goggles again, slipped out of the buoyancy jacket, and
clipped it onto the dive ladder complete with air tanks. With
the goggles on, he was able to see clearly and immediately
spotted Mazzarin leaning over the rail. As the gangway
lights went out, he shouted something to one of the others,
and then walked off down the starboard side to see what
had happened.

Suddenly, Zola appeared out of the darkness. Dillon
was aware of footsteps descending the metal steps towards
him, and eased back under the water, placed the regulator
back in his mouth and floated just beneath the surface. Zola
paused halfway down and lit a cigarette. The flame from the
lighter dancing in cupped hands. And then, he was standing
on the edge of the dive platform, just above Dillon’s head.
His outline rippling above the water, not more than six feet
away. Dillon took out, from inside his wetsuit jacket, the
watertight dive bag containing the silenced Glock, surfaced
without a sound on the far side of the dive ladder, took it
out, and extended his arm. He then seized his moment and
gently squeezed the trigger, twice.