Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (15 page)

We discarded the notion of getting to Harry
Caplin’s house on foot, because even at two o’clock in the
morning there was the likelihood that we would be seen.
Using the small inflatable dinghy from the boathouse, we
paddled, kayak style, pulling on the plastic oars, cutting
silently through the black water.

Darkness, along with the neighbouring jetties and
moorings kept us concealed along the way and as we got
closer to the rambling Gothic-style property, its sheer
walls of granite looming above us through a shroud of sea
mist. Gargoyles, looked down from their high perches in
snarling condemnation at anyone entering their domain.

We left the small boat secured to Harry’s jetty and
covered the distance across the garden to the back of the
garage block, staying low, our feet sinking into the freshly
dug earth of the flower border. We moved around to the
side of the single storey building, and crouched down to
take in our surroundings.

A light was on below us at the cellar window and
the sound of water gulping down a drain was loud in the
night. Around us colourful hydrangea bushes lined the
walls, and from the lit window came the sound of Sinatra.

I dropped down onto weather worn flagstones
outside the cellar window.
I raised my head slowly above the sill. I saw the
brightly-lit area at the bottom of the stone steps, which
at first sight looked like any other room for storing wine.
Except that tonight, the rows of racking, heavily laden
with bottles, had been moved back on rollers out of the
way and were now stacked against the end wall. This
secret part of the room was large and well equipped with
machinery and laboratory benches. A draught of hot air
was coming from the heater fans.
Nearer to me an electric vacuum pump was
pounding gently. Harry Caplin walked across the room;
his black T-shirt was stained down the front. The smell of
acetic acid was almost overwhelming.
I felt Fiona’s hand on my back as she looked over
my shoulder, and could hear her swallow hard to avoid
throwing up on the acrid fumes. Harry went across to the
small electric pulverizer and pulled the switch. The music
was washed away on a tide of noise from the little electric
motor. The cellar had obviously been very well sound
proofed and Harry was oblivious to the din coming from
the machines and pump. Outside, the sound of the sea
slapping against the jetty wall and the wind was all that
could be heard.
This was definitely a small morphine-processing
lab: the vacuum pump, pulverizer, drying area, everything
to turn morphine into heroin before it was distributed to
the dealers. Harry Caplin I thought; a retired American
wine distributor living his dream by the sea in England.
More like creating a nightmare. He was almost certainly
the go-between through which supplies travelled and were
then processed. I leaned through the open window, raised
my 10mm Glock automatic, and aimed with care. The
small weapon spat through its silenced barrel. The only
sound was the gun coughing. On impact the bullet tore
open the compact disc player on a shelf above Harry’s
head, sending fragments of plaster and sharp plastic
everywhere.
Harry cowered down by the side of the bench that
he had been working at, raising his arms to protect his
head. Disoriented by what had just happened he stood
up very cautiously, a Walther PPK pistol in his right hand.
“Switch off the pump and the pulverizer and drop
the weapon, Harry, or I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” I
said. For a moment he stared at me, then he did so and
silence descended on the room. He placed the pistol on
the bench.
“Now, Harry, walk slowly towards the door and
open it.”
“You must be outta…” His voice trailed off as I
cocked the Glock.
“Don’t say a word,” I said. “I haven’t forgotten
that you were partly responsible for the death of Charlie
McIntyre.” Harry was about to speak, but decided not to.
He came over to the arched door and slipped the bolts. I
motioned to Fiona to go to the door, but she was already
one step ahead of me and was there, gun in hand.
“OK, Harry, now back away from the door. There’s
a good chap. Just stay where you are, and I promise not
to blow holes into you or any of your very expensive
equipment…”
Harry was biding his time, waiting until I had to
move away from the window, but what he hadn’t allowed
for was double jeopardy. Fiona pushed open the door,
her gun pointed at his genitals. I joined her inside, closing
and bolting the door behind me.
The three of us stood there in silence until Harry,
having regained his composure, said, “Welcome to the
dream factory, people.”
Fiona and I stood there and said nothing.
“Who the hell are you people anyway? I know
you’re not cops,” said Harry.
“No, were not cops, Harry. But I can call one if
you like?” You could cut through the tension that had
mounted inside the cellar.
“So, tell me, Harry, why did you plant a bomb
under my boss’s car? Was it him you were after or the
opium inside the glove compartment? Or did a little bird
inside Ferran & Cardini give you a call and tell you that
LJ’s car was going to be moved?”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Ace,” said Harry. He was
tanned darker than the last time I’d seen him, and the
skin where his watch had been was like a white bangle.
His wrinkled forehead was covered in beads of sweat and
he kept wetting his lips with the end of his tongue.
“What’s the use of explaining,” he continued. “I
really thought you were an OK sort of guy, a little stiff
assed at times, but OK. No hard feelings. As they say
back home, Ace, when Fall comes you can always tell
which trees are the evergreens!”
“Well, where you’re going, Harry, it’s going to be
winter all year long,” I said.
He looked across at me and gave a rueful smile.
He said, “Son, why is it I get the feeling that you’re
shouting at me from the other side of the highway when
all you’ve got is small talk on the sidewalk. If you get
my meaning.” He was cold and as hard as the northern
mistral winds of Southern France.
“How did you get into this racket?” I asked him
quietly.
“Can I sit down?” he asked.
I nodded, but kept the automatic aimed at him.
“Look, we’ve all got problems, Ace,” Harry said,
as he sat down heavily, “and they have to be put into
perspective; the trouble is that problems look big close
up.” Fiona got out her cigarettes and threw one to Harry
along with a lighter. He took his time lighting one up.
“You don’t have to play games, I know all about
your enterprise here,” I said.
“Yeah, so tell me Ace, what do you know?”
“What I know, is that I came here to retrieve
certain items from a sunken boat off the coast of Dorset.
Simple enough, wouldn’t you say, Harry? But something
obviously went wrong on the night she went down - didn’t
it? I’d guess that just before the Gin Fizz was deliberately
scuttled someone or something became a problem. Your
precious consignment of opium goes down with the boat.
More than likely the pickup was late and the captain
panicked. This must have made you very unhappy, Harry.
Especially as you’d almost certainly had to pay extra to
have it transferred to the Gin Fizz just off the French
coast.”
“I’m introduced to a certain gentleman by the
name of George Ferdinand, who turns out to be an exsoldier by the name of George Thomas Ferlind, who
served in the same regiment, and at the same time as our
Cabinet Minister, Oliver Hawkworth. As I see it, he is
either working for Hawkworth or with you, Harry. Either
way he is in a sweet position to keep an eye on Robert
Flackyard and his activities down here in Dorset.”
“Yeah, you are right up to a point Ace, the opium
should have been picked up just before she was scuttled.
The guy sent to collect it was thirty minutes late, by the
time he arrived that little weasel of a captain had put
the Gin Fizz on the bottom,” said Harry reflectively. He
nodded and suddenly began talking quickly.
“I got involved with this racket, because, well,
because I needed the dough.”
“I met George in a bar in London about three
years ago, and I suppose we hit it off instantly because
for the next two hours I went through the whole mess
back home. My pal Marcus Cohen was on a tax evasion
charge at the time and it looked as if he would be going
to the pen for a serious amount of time.”
“Well, I couldn’t just let him rot in a jail. I got
enough money from my first little venture with George
to pay off his entire tax bill including the interest and
penalties. Back then, though, it was a simple case of
buying the processed stuff in, cutting it, and then selling
it on to the smaller dealers outside of London. As I say,
we made a huge bundle of dough in a very short space of
time. After about a year, we decided that there was far
more money to be made by processing the raw opium
and then distributing it to the guys from whom we had
been buying. But to move into this league you need cash
and lots of it. George felt that we needed another investor,
someone who had a hard business head and who wasn’t
afraid to get to get their hands dirty from time to time.
That’s when Oliver Hawkworth got involved.”
“That’s all very interesting, Harry, but you can
save it all for the police.”
“Be smart, Jake,” Harry pleaded, “go and take a
look at what some nice person has paid into your bank
account recently.”
“Nice try, Harry,” I said, “but no, I checked all
of my accounts yesterday, and all monies have been
accounted for.”
Harry drew on the cigarette Fiona had given him
and waved it gently in the air. His initial burst of nervous
talking had passed and now his speech was slower and
more cautious. “Listen,” he said. “It won’t be long before
the Government, here in the UK, legalises cannabis. I
know that for sure, from my buddy Oliver Hawkworth.
Then the tobacco companies will move in; there’ll be
tastefully designed packs, sold in every corner shop and
supermarket in the country. The warning on the pack
will read something like; “inhaling smoke will make you
seriously mellow.”
I said, “But this is now, Harry, and were not talking
a little dope here. I suppose, though, that people who
deal serious drugs and make very large sums of money
out of it are often misunderstood.”
“You are such a wise guy,” Harry said. “OK, so I
did it for the money, and as I got it so I spent it. You know
how it is with money, Ace.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Tell me how it is, Harry?”
“Pick up a handful of sand and see how it slips
through your fingers before you know it. It disappears like
youthfulness. Hell, Ace, I’m not getting any younger. This
is my last chance at making enough dough to retire on.
Believe me when I say that in this industry it’s a miracle if
you make it to retirement, with the type of enemies you
make on the way up.”
“So, Harry, is George Ferdinand one of those
enemies?”
Harry grinned. “Hell Ace, I know him far to well
to be a friend,” he said.
I waited while he fiddled with his cigarette. I knew
he’d have something to say about George.
“You think George is a really complex character,
don’t you? Decorated army career, ending with court
marshal and to top it all a dishonourable discharge. I
bet that’s eating away at you, not knowing whom he’s
working for or whether it was him who blew up your
friend. Real puzzling it must be.”
Dropping the cigarette butt on the floor he stubbed
it out with his shoe as he asked Fiona for another. She
pushed the pack across the bench towards him, and after
taking one he threw them over for me to catch. I brought
the automatic up from my side, knocking the pack
to the ground, cigarettes splayed over the floor. Harry
apologised, making a move towards my feet to pick them
up, but seeing the gun-barrel move in his direction he
thought better of it and sank back into his chair. We
exchanged glances; I shook my head, and Harry smiled.
“No strikes, no runs, no problems,” he said.
“So, tell me how I can stop being puzzled about
Ferdinand,” I said.
“He’s malevolent,” said Harry. “ Whatever form
that may take, I’m against it. George has a very nasty
mind. The only reason we haven’t come to blows and
tried to beat each other to a pulp is because I’m such
an easy-going sort of slob. But he’s just obsessive about
everything having to be in its place and tidy, all of the
time. Even the guy’s appearance is impeccable. What a
nut.”
I nodded. I had thought that the first time I had
met him, those darting eyes and profuse sweating were
sure signs that dear old George was indeed fastidious
about his appearance and definitely not dealing with a
full deck of cards.
“Everyone’s against you, Harry, and yet you are
such a nice guy at heart,” I said, and I smiled. I was
thinking of Charlie, but I smiled at Harry.
“Round outside means a soft centre,” Harry said
with a wide grin.
He pointed to a cigarette near his foot. I nodded
and he picked it up, lighting it from his stub. “This man
isn’t interested in anything other than himself, he’s not an
idealist or intellectual. He thinks with his muscle. Guys
like George work themselves into an early grave, always
scheming and scamming. Treading on toes and upsetting
the wrong people, in wars they appear to be heroes and
get awarded honours - or a court marshal!”
“Sometimes both. George said that he had been
recommended for some sort of gallantry award at the
time he’d been caught dealing smack and cocaine while
on active service in a war zone.”
“It was a DSO,” I said.
“Well, there you are. Like I told you, no sex, no
drink, and no politics, a dedicated anal retentive if ever
there was one. But probably the best guy in Europe with
explosives.”
“The best now maybe,” I said. “But before Charlie
McIntyre met with his untimely end, he might have been
in Charlie’s league – but only in his dreams”
Harry’s face tightened like a clenched fist. He said,
“George would not have done that. I don’t like the guy
but he would never kill in cold blood, believe me.”
“All right,” I said, “we’ll leave that for a minute.
Tell me how Flackyard fits into the picture. And before
you start: I’m not a policeman, Harry. My reasons for
being here don’t include handing you in at the nearest
police station. I’m here for information: set up the facts,
and then you can fade as far away from here as you like
as far as I’m concerned.”
Fiona rose to her feet and walked over to me.
“Fade?” she said. “Do you know what you’re
saying?” She moved across to the equipment like a
Luddite and swept some of it to the floor with a crash
of disintegrating glass and metal denting as it hit the
flagstones.
I said absolutely nothing.
Harry said, “Sure he does, cutie, he’s just too smart
to mention it before he has all the info he wants.”
Fiona froze. She said to me, “sorry,” and sat down
again.
“I’m not messing with you, Harry,” I said, “I’ll
shut you down as far as the UK is concerned but I’ll give
you a chance to get out and away.”
“That’s very magnanimous of you, Ace,” Harry
said. He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on
his knees, massaging his eyebrows and tired eyes with the
tips of his large fingers. “OK, so what do you want to
know?”
“Who is Robert Flackyard?” I asked.