Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (5 page)

Rumple’s ruddy colour had returned to his cheeks.
He was perched on a chair by the French doors that
opened out to the garden, checking over and cleaning his
dive equipment. Mrs Rumple looked up from her typing
as we came into the room. We, however, all looked a little
worse for wear after several of Harry Caplin’s cocktails.

Rumple came over to me and said, “I caught a chap
snooping around the front gates earlier, sir. An unsavoury
character if ever I saw one. When I asked him what he
thought he was doing snooping around, he said that he
had an appointment to see you. To be honest, sir, I didn’t
believe him and challenged him further by walking down
to where he was stood.”

“Unfortunately, before I got to him he’d jumped
into his car, wound the side window down and before
driving off; he said to tell you to be at La Café, the one
down by the beach, at nine o’clock sharp.”

“Did he now, well I certainly didn’t have any
appointments today because no one knows that I’m here.
Did he give his name Rumple?”

“No sir. Unfortunately he went off down the road
like a shot out of a gun. But I’d recognise him alright”
“Go on then man; tell me, what did he look like?”
I said impatiently.
“Well, sir, he was tall with smarmed hair parted
down the middle, I’d say he was late forties, possibly
early fifties. He had a thin long face and a complexion
that looked like a lunar landscape on a very bad day.”
I showered and put on a change of clothes. Before
going back downstairs, I made sure the automatic pistol
now holstered under my arm was completely concealed.
Satisfied, I went down to tell the others what to do if for
any reason I didn’t phone in on the hour, every hour.
I pulled the Mercedes into the car park of La Café.
In the far corner I spotted the blue Porsche, the registration
was the same as the car that had recently followed me all
the way from Bournemouth to London. Owned by Mr
Robert Flackyard.
“Good evening, Mr Dillon - so good of you to
join me.” The voice was familiar yet the tone was now
cruel and cold. His words hung in mid air, suspended on
invisible wires.
I slowly turned to greet the darting eyes and sweaty
face of George Ferdinand, who was sat at a small circular
table overlooking the water. A handful of people were
sitting at the bar talking and laughing loudly, as people
do when they’ve had too much to drink. Otherwise the
café was virtually empty.
I spoke with deliberate nonchalant slowness.
“Well, well, Mr Ferdinand - what a pleasure, we
meet again so soon. Why am I not surprised to see you?
Is this the little bit of business you had to take care of?” I
noticed the small automatic laid on his lap partly covered
by his jacket. He stroked the silenced barrel slowly up and
down as if it were some sort of phallic. His eyes darted up
at me and caught me looking at it.
“I have no wish to harm you Mr Dillon or your
friends. I am here to escort you to Mr Flackyard’s home
in Canford Cliffs. He wishes to have a conversation
with you, that’s all. My instructions are to ensure that
you arrive at his home safely and on time.” He stood
up, the 9mm held in his left hand covered by his jacket
now draped over his arm. The barrel pointing directly
at my stomach, without a word he jabbed the gun in the
direction of the rear door.
As I got up to leave I said over my shoulder,
“Listen, George, the gun under the coat routine, it’s a
bit of a cliché, you know? Why don’t you be a good boy
and put it away before you hurt someone. After all, you
know that you won’t use that peashooter in public. There
are far too many witnesses around, and it would be much
simpler if you were to put it away yourself, before I have
too take it away from you?” The end of the pistol barrel
was sharply jabbed in the small of my back in reply.
Once outside he stopped and said. “I’m reliably
informed Mr Dillon, that you are carrying an automatic
pistol under your left arm. Please be so kind as to pass it
to me - carefully.”
I was instructed to get into the driver’s seat of the
Porsche. “If I don’t call in on the hour, there will be an
army of police at Flackyard’s house within five minutes,”
I said.
“Please don’t be so melodramatic Mr Dillon. Mr
Flackyard would not be that stupid. Feel free to use your
mobile phone whenever you wish,” he said with a sneer.
“Now if you don’t mind, please drive. Our host does not
like to be kept waiting.”
I parked the Porsche in a secluded side road lined
with cherry blossom trees on either side.
George was still waving his gun about as he told
me to get out of the car.
He slowly pushed open the wrought iron gate,
the hinges protesting noisily at this interruption of their
slumber. Holding it open for me, he said in a lowered
voice, “This is where I leave you, Mr Dillon. Please walk
towards the house.
“A member of the staff will come and meet you.”
With that he silently left me alone at the home of Mr
Robert Flackyard, entrepreneur and probably one of the
biggest criminals on the South coast.
By 9.15pm the sun is well down. To the west the
skyline was intensely mauve and the sun, hitting the higher
storey of the white Spanish style house, made it as pink as
the flowers on the rhododendrons along its walls. The last
rays of the sun did a spray job on the side of Flackyard’s
angular face, and behind him the gold lettering from some
of his exquisite first edition book collection did a glittery
dance over his shoulder. The house was richly furnished
and I didn’t have to be asked to dinner to know that the
cutlery would be only the highest quality sterling silver.
On Robert Flackyard’s contemporary cherry wood
desk was a porcelain-and-gold pen set, a gold letteropener, the latest hi-tech computer flat screen and half
a dozen A4 typed sheets. They weren’t held down with
bottle tops, either.
“I understand you to be a keen diver, Mr Dillon,
an expert on wrecks in particular, I am led to believe?”
It wasn’t an exact description, but it wasn’t a
question open to retort, either.
I said nothing. Flackyard undid the top button of
his shirt and loosened his tie; he then motioned me to sit.
I wondered just how much outside of the law you had to
be to have a set-up like this.
“In the course of time, this coast has attracted
adventurers of all sorts. Not all of them have sought
recently lost treasure, and some of them have been far
from successful. To the point of losing there lives.”
We sat opposite each other in soft luxurious leather
sofas, a low glass coffee table in the middle separating us.
A man dressed in a formal black suite, white shirt and
dark tie appeared in the doorway.
“Would you like tea or coffee Mr Dillon, or perhaps
something a little stronger?” Flackyard asked.
“Coffee would be fine, thank you, black and strong
please.”
Flackyard dismissed the middle aged man and then
continued. “In the case of you and your friends, however,
I am of the opinion that your motives are not entirely
honourable.” He paused, and then said, “I’m hoping to
provoke a reply, of course?”
“Of course. Your English, by the way is excellent.”
I said.
“How astute you are Mr Dillon. My mother
was a Moscow prostitute. My father a wealthy Russian
aristocrat who defected to England when I was just ten.
After changing the family name I was packed off to one
of the top public schools in the country and then ended
up at Oxford. But you avoid my question.”
I didn’t reply immediately. Instead I sat in thoughtful
silence for a brief moment, “I’m not sure how your ideas
of honour could be expected to key in with mine. You
and I are complete opposites, it would seem.”
“That may be so, Mr Dillon, but the fact remains
that you were sent here to retrieve items belonging to a
friend of mine as well as to myself. Now, however…”
His voice trailed away. The sun had disappeared over
the hill now, leaving only a few fiery trees to mark its
passage. Flackyard got up and went over to his desk.
“The Partners have returned these items, and both my
friend and I are very grateful to them for this service that
they have performed with your help, of course.”
As he spoke he walked slowly across to the corner
of the room, the rich Persian carpet switching off the
soundtrack of his footfalls. One wall was filled with
books from floor to ceiling. He reached up and slid his
hand into the shelf of loosely packed books and removed
about six between compressed palms. In the space behind
the books was a brown paper parcel about half the size of
a cigar box. He returned to where I was still sitting and
put it on the coffee table in front of me. I didn’t touch it.
Coffee came in the only way it could travel in a
house like that: in a silver pot attended by the finest china
cups and saucers. On a side plate were a selection of small
cakes and biscuits. Flackyard forced three of them on me
in quick succession.
“I like to think that the people I conduct business
with are honest and straightforward,” he said as he
poured the coffee. He pushed the package towards me.
“Please, Mr Dillon open it, I would appreciate
your opinion.”
I sipped at my coffee and he lit a Turkish cigarette.
The package was quite light. Pulling apart the brown
wrapping the contents soon became apparent.
“As counterfeit money goes, the standard of these
Euro notes is exceptionally high, Mr Flackyard. Even the
paper feels right.”
“That is because the paper, Mr Dillon, is very
genuine.” he said triumphantly.
“Fascinating, but why are you showing me? Surely
it’s Declan Ferran and Richard Cardini who should be
seeing these. For all you know I could be working for
some sort of secret Government agency.”
“That is highly unlikely, Mr Dillon,” he laughed.
“I have had my people check you out. You once had a
brilliant Army career operating in numerous countries
for the Intelligence Corps, attaining the rank of Captain.
That is before you were discharged under some dubious
and certainly clandestine circumstances. You then
surfaced within a Whitehall department. Your job
description there was to say the least a bit vague, and
finally you joined Ferran & Cardini International. But
that is of course only part of it, isn’t it? An extension of
your military career perhaps? All in all, Mr Dillon, you
are shrouded by mystery and intrigue - are you not?”
So that was it, the man who had followed me
that Sunday in the black Mondeo was not working for
the minister as we thought, he was part of Flackyard’s
security team, instructed to find out about me.
“As interesting as it maybe, however, I have not
had you brought here to discuss your past career, or to
thank you. The other items that you found on board that
boat belong to an associate of mine and he wants them
back – Mr Dillon – all fifty of those small packages. I
sincerely hope that no harm has come to them, and that
they are safe and sound or, I am afraid you will be the one
to pay the price.”
“I’m sorry, but what exactly are we talking about
here, Flackyard?”
He got up and went over to his desk again. “Please
do not insult my intelligence. I know that you and your
friends pulled up a large quantity of the finest raw opium
from the Gin Fizz. Furthermore, you will ensure that they
are available for collection by midday tomorrow at the
latest. I sincerely hope that I’m making myself clear. You
will be contacted in the morning to arrange the details of
the hand over. I think that concludes our conversation,
Mr Dillon.”
“My driver will take you back to your own car.
Oh, and please remember this; you really do not want me
as your enemy.” For just the briefest of moments I sensed
the hatred that he felt towards me, but his self-control
was impeccable, and soon there was only calm in his eyes.
Back at the house I poured myself a large vodka,
and downed another before I felt anything like relaxed
and before anyone had summoned the courage to ask me
what I had learned to our advantage. “Flackyard knows
that we have the opium, and that his associates, whoever
they maybe, want it returned by midday tomorrow,” I
said.
“Tomorrow, Charlie, you and I both return to
London. Fiona, I think it best if you also get back to
whatever it is you normally do.”
That night I lay awake turning over and over in
my mind, how Flackyard could have known about the
opium or how the mysterious George Ferdinand could
have found out about my pistol. The only way that either
of them could have known was if someone had told them.
But who, and to what end?

I woke early the next morning from a restless
night’s sleep, angry with myself for allowing LJ to ever
get me involved with this assignment. Also, I was still
wondering; who had a motive for leaking information
and whether it had been one of the team in Dorset who
had tipped off Flackyard, but for what reason, and what
gain? These questions kept going over in my head. I used
my mobile phone to call Tats who was still in bed.

“Just gone six o’clock. Thought I’d give you a
wake up call. How are you?”
“I’d be a whole lot better if you’d have let me wake
up organically, especially on a Saturday. You know I’ve
never been good with alarm calls.”
I could hear her stretch and yawn; I imagined her
naked body warm from sleep under the sheet.
“How’s the seaside. You must be nearly through
down there, aren’t you?”
“Nearly, but not quite. We have a small problem to
sort out first. That’s the other reason for my call, I want
you to do a check on the Rumples, Charlie McIntyre,
and Fiona Price. Dig as deep as you can and see if any of
them have ever had any contact with Robert Flackyard,
no matter how trivial, because I want to know about it.
Call me back on this number as soon as you can. Oh and
Tats – see you soon.” I hung up, got dressed and went
down to breakfast.
Outside the day was starting dull, the grey wind
was breaking the points off the waves and white spray
was thrashing the big rocks of the headland.
Apart from me, the only other person at the table
was Charlie. My phone rang. It was LJ. “Jake, I want you
to go along with whatever Flackyard wants. I have taken
instructions from upstairs, the Partners feel that for the
good of the bigger picture and the assistance that he is
offering, you are to hand over the packages as requested.”
Without acknowledging or answering I said,
“Someone is leaking information to Flackyard.” At this
revelation, Charlie’s head came up from his cornflakes.
“What do you mean, a leak? That’s impossible.
Everyone involved with this assignment has been
thoroughly vetted.”
“That may be, but last night an acquaintance of his
escorted me at gun point to Flackyard’s house for a little
chat. He knew far too much, and as far as I’m concerned
it can only be someone involved that’s feeding him with
information. I’ve not got a shred of evidence, of course.”
I paused to let LJ absorb this fully. “Oh, and I’ve asked
Tatiana to run further checks, this time concentrating on
any possible connections with Flackyard.”
“Well, I’m dumbfounded, old son. I suppose that
Flackyard could have applied pressure on someone. But
if that’s the case, I can see that a few phone calls need to
be made. We can’t have our clients getting one over on us,
can we now?” His voice trailed off, lost inside his own
scheming thoughts for a few moments.
“LJ, I’m not happy about handing over anything
to this character until the firm has taken possession of the
currency that he promised as part of the package. By the
way, I’ve already seen a sample, and the quality is quite
outstanding.”
“I agree with you for once. Sit tight down there
for a little while longer, will you, just while I make a few
arrangements at this end, and don’t let those packages
out of your sight.” With that he hung up.
Except for Charlie, none of the others knew about
my chat with LJ. We sat around doing nothing until Harry
Caplin called to invite us to his place for coffee. We went.
“Jazz and Swing music,” Harry was saying, “some
of the greatest tunes of all time come from performers
like Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis
Jr.” An espresso coffee maker was bubbling away on the
dark slate hearth and Fiona, in her bronze-coloured linen
trousers, was sitting cross-legged like some special sort of
Buddha. Around her were scattered the brightly coloured
CD cases of all of those great entertainers and many more
as well.
On the walls hung a series of contemporary paintings
by local Dorset artist, Samantha Bush, along with photos
of a young Harry standing with a rifle underarm, foot
resting on a rock, surrounded by other men. What looked
like carcasses lay before them, so obviously a good day’s
hunting had taken place. The words at the bottom read,
Toronto, Canada October 1963.
Charlie was listening to Harry doing a quick run
down on New York (Charlie had lived there for three
years). I was looking at Harry’s books, multi function
exercise machine, and the pristine 7mm Mauser sporting
rifle and its beautiful Carl Zeiss x8 telescopic sight. I
looked at his collection of rocks and minerals in their fine
wooden case and listened to the mellow music playing.
Harry commented on each as he selected it. “This is a
song about a man so infatuated with a girl that he feels
compelled to tell her about his love and admiration for
her. Of course, he does this because he’s off to war and
may never see her again.” Harry said it in an impassioned
and melancholy voice.
Fiona clapped her hands and on her face was the
sort of smile when a woman is thinking about how the
smile should look.
Harry took a bow and laughed loudly. He poured
more coffee for everyone and I took mine back over to the
shelves. In them he had almost every DH Lawrence novel
in print, including a special edition of Lady Chatterley’s
Lover. There were various art books, many of them about
modern artists dating from 1945 up to the present day.
Tucked away on the higher shelves there were many
geographical reference books concentrating mainly on
southern Europe.
We made small talk over coffee and then Charlie
said, “What made you come to live in Europe, Harry?”
“Well,” said Harry, “I was eating tablets to sleep,
pep pills to stay awake and vitamin supplements instead
of proper meals. Here I drink the best Champagne all
day, and what’s more, it’s cheaper!” Harry was lacing the
coffee with French cognac. Charlie and I declined.
“Yes,” he said, and took a swig from the bottle
before recorking it, “there I was you see, up to my neck
in credit card and mortgage debt, and worrying about
what sort of season the Yankees were likely to have. How
to break out of it? I knew there were jobs for Americans
abroad but I was already to old for the big corporations.
So one day I’m standing in a bar near Grand Central.
Watching all of those sad little commuters walk by outside
and thinking about how I would like to step off this
farcical treadmill that I called a life, and I say to myself;
what are these sharp suited executive nuts looking for
that I could supply them in exchange for money? Well,
what do you imagine I conclude?”
He looked at all of us in turn, his captive audience,
picked up the pot and poured more coffee, enjoying the
pause before answering.
“Wine.” He continued. “Now that handed a laugh
to every low life creep in my home town, because that
kind of booze, ain’t something to put your arms into like
a Hugo Boss suit.”
“But me and a guy named Marcus Cohen, who
was an old buddy of mine from our college days, we
struck it rich with a couple of deals supplying an outlet in
Chicago with as much as we could lay our hands on, he
then sold it on for a good profit. But after a short while
we decided to cut out the guy in Chicago and sell direct
to Mr Average Fella.”
I walked over to the open doors that overlooked
the harbour. There were occasional smacks of warm
raindrops on the balcony tile-work. On the water an
elegant yacht, her crew busy preparing her rigging, glided
by under the power of her inboard motor. The crew
spotted us watching and gave a friendly wave, as sailors
often do.

Harry was saying, “Balls to the big time wine guys,
I said, I’m for the little guy every time. So we set up “wine
direct inc.com.”

“Harry, you really are priceless,” said Fiona.
“Whatever were you selling?”
“Well, we published a one page web site called
‘Wine in your cellar’, see?”
“We sent promotional flyers out to restaurants,
office blocks, bars and joints as well as running a few
small ads here and there. We do all right – our overheads
are small and what we sell is paid for in advance by credit
card.”
“But one day my buddy Marcus Cohen says to me,
‘balls to these average guys, Harry, they’re just a set of
low spenders. What we need is a class angle’.” He comes
up with one there and then; ‘Connoisseur Wine.com,’ he
says.”
Harry Caplin walked across to the bookshelf and
removed a leather folder.
“Did it work out?” Charlie asked, who was
lounging back on the bright red sofa holding an empty
coffee cup on his knee.
Harry flipped open a copy of Time Magazine to a
full-page advertisement.
The caption read Connoisseur Wine.com is proud
to present a selection of fine wines from some of Europe’s
most exclusive vineyards. Buy one case and receive another
free of charge as an introductory offer, all beautifully and
individually presented in hand-made wooden crates and
chosen by a panel of famous growers, accompanied by a
detailed history of each wine by Mr Harry Caplin.
Fiona started to clap her hands; Charlie and I
didn’t join in. Harry didn’t seem to take offence.
“But,” said Charlie, “how come as you live here
in England?”
“Simple. I look through these books…” Harry
grabbed two large reference books on wine from the
shelf, “…and choose one for the ad in Time Magazine.”
When these books were removed they revealed a
smaller one that had fallen down the back of the row of
books.
“But…” said Charlie, “…it says...” Charlie’s face
bloomed red in embarrassment.
I quickly plucked out the book.
“…it says there’s a panel of famous wine growers!”
Harry agreed with a smirk.
The small book, on closer inspection turned out to
be the type reporters keep for jotting quick notes down
in. The entries made at the beginning were mostly to
do with detailed timetables of passenger ferries around
Southern Europe.
“They choose the wine…” Harry went on. “… but
I, Harry Caplin, select it.” Harry laughed a great boom
of a laugh and slapped his thigh with his enormous hand.

That Saturday was one big long wasted day as I
look back on it. We left Harry Caplin’s and returned to
the house, to find one of Flackyard’s flunkies had phoned
to inform us that the hand-over would not be taking
place.

Instead, Mr Dillon was invited to call by at Mr
Flackyard’s this evening to collect the samples for Mr
Levenson-Jones in London to inspect. Charlie and Miss
Price played backgammon arguing continuously about
almost everything; eventually they agreed to disagree and
went off to La Café for a drink. The Rumples had gone
into town.

I cursed myself for forgetting the package of
counterfeit Euros the night before. A repeat visit to
Flackyard’s house was something I was definitely not
looking forward to. On Rumple’s return, we had the
expenses to discuss, as he was the only one LJ trusted with
the bookwork as well as being in charge of the diving.

It was when Rumple was locking the accounts
backup discs in the writing desk drawer that he noticed it.
We checked, sat down and thought about it, but
Rumple found broken woodwork and then there was
no doubt at all. Everything was as we had left it, the
sea charts, Charlie’s sketches of the ocean bottom, but
someone had stolen the photos that Rumple had taken of
the Gin Fizz.
There is no alternative in situations like this. It
wasn’t something that either of us found enthralling. In
fact it was a sordid little job of the sort that constitutes
much of our work. Rumple and I began to search
everyone’s room. Apart from the usual personality
insights that these searches always provide, there was
only one remarkable thing. Among the several articles in
Fiona’s room that a young single woman in the employ
of a mundane Government department shouldn’t have in
her possession was a small revolver and silencer, together
with about twenty rounds of ammunition.

LJ had sent one of the company’s helicopters down
to take Charlie and me back to London. It was a fine
clear night when I went out to the airport via Flackyard’s
house. There were lights on, and outside in the sweeping
drive there was a silver Mercedes and a red Ferrari, each
brand new with local plates. Further along the exclusive
road under a flowering cherry tree was Harry Caplin’s
old black Mk1 Jaguar.

I knew that, as surely as sugar is sweet, a blue
Porsche would be somewhere near by. It was. This only
reinforced my suspicion, that there was more to Caplin
than he was portraying, and that he had deliberately gone
out of his way to introduce himself to Charlie and me,
that day in La Café.

A bell jangled deep in the interior and echoed
back like a laughing hyena. I rang again. Finally and to
my surprise, Flackyard himself opened the door, and he
passed me the package from his inside jacket pocket. It
was still wrapped in brown paper and held together with
clear tape. Charlie had the motor running when I got
back to the Mercedes.

As we drove to the airport, we discussed the
assignment and how we thought it was going in light of
recent developments. Both Fiona Price and the Rumple’s
names cropped up in the conversation a number of
times. We found our reserved parking space with ease,
slotting the Mercedes in one manoeuvre. The warm night
air held the aroma of aviation fuel that had been spent
through hot jet engines, and as we approached the main
terminal building I spotted our pilot standing over by the
entrance. Once we’d scrambled aboard the sleek Bell Jet
Ranger helicopter the rotors were engaged and within
a minute we were airborne. Before I knew it we were
skirting the Gatwick air traffic control zone. In the small
cabin the instruments glowed and with a sudden leap the
pilot had taken us through the low clouds. The bright
lights of the city cut through the fine mist that was now
shrouding London as we descended towards the heliport.
My thoughts were bizarrely, where the hell was Charlie
staying tonight?