Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (15 page)

“Okay, Cracker. No hard feelings. I can see you don’t need the extra cash right now. So I’ll do the job myself. You could do one thing, though. Would you come with me and give the place a look-over, just to see if there are any snags? At least give me the benefit of your opinion and experience. Obviously, I’ll pay you for your time.”

* * *

The years had been kind to Julian Latimer. He had aged well and carried himself with authority, still had a good amount of well-groomed silver hair, cut impeccably and brushed back at the sides. His good looks were only spoiled by a supercilious air and a condescending nature. And not even the exclusive Saville Row tailoring and expensive accessories could hide this fact. To speak to him made it easy to discover why he wasn’t liked by most of his fellow MPs.

He strode along to St. Stephen’s Square, the silver-tipped walking cane swinging with each step he took. It wasn’t that he had a limp or anything like that. It was merely for show and always attracted a fair amount of attention. He was a nobody who looked like a somebody.

As he passed the policeman at the gate, he received a salute and swung his cane up in return. It was small things like that which he liked about Parliament: a sense of importance. And to be recognised after so few appearances made him feel even better still.

Latimer resented having to attend these committee sittings at all, realising that nobody wanted his opinion and that he was disliked by most of the people there – a feeling he always sensed whenever he entered a room. Well, another eighteen months at most should see him free of his political shackles, although he would miss some of it. Like the chauffer-driven cars and having a policeman stop the traffic so he could pull away at speed during rush hour. Just some of the small perks.

On entering the oak-panelled room he looked around for a position near the door, which would allow him to sneak out later without being missed. But everyone had arrived early and was already seated. To his horror, there was only one chair available on the other side of the long highly-polished oval table, next to a rather large blustery lady from the opposition party, who he knew had a flatulence problem. He suddenly felt tired and a little nauseous. The thought of a session running into many hours sitting next to her was almost too much for him to bear. He would have to find his moment and excuse himself. He was good at manipulating.

* * *

They gazed across the street at the luxury building and in particular at Latimer’s penthouse apartment which covered the top two floors. Dillon was edgy, for the committee sitting had most likely already started.

“I thought I’d con one of the other tenants into letting me in through the main entrance. You know, the old motorcycle courier with parcel routine.”

“That old trick?” De-Luca snorted in disgust. “Everyone knows about that one, Jake. So, what happens once you’re inside the building and you don’t turn up at the apartment you’re supposed to be delivering to? No, it’s a straightforward enough job to slip that electromagnetic lock and get in without raising anyone’s suspicion, if you’ve got the right gear.”

Dillon glanced at De-Luca. “I don’t suppose for one moment you’d let me use this gear, would you?”

Cracker didn’t answer. He was still studying the building, and then scanned up and down the street.

“I must be off my head to even think about working in broad daylight. It’s asking for trouble. So this is how it’s going to work. You’ll do as I say and nothing else. First off, you’ll have to keep a look-out whilst I release that front door, and then we’re going to have to play it by ear from then on.”

“You mean you’re going to help me?” Dillon sounded like a mountain had just been lifted off his shoulders.

“You devious bugger, you knew all along that I wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge once you got me here. But it’s going to cost you over and above for this favour. Now drive me back to my place; I need to pick up one or two items of kit.”

Dillon couldn’t help worrying about the time passing by and could only hope that Latimer was going to be indisposed for the duration of the committee sitting. De-Luca lived in Parsons Green and Dillon took him in the Ford using the back streets to avoid the bulk of the early afternoon build-up. However, delays were inevitable, and by the time they got back to Chelsea, it was almost 3.00 p.m. Dillon was pleased to see that De-Luca had retained his professionalism by keeping a kit bag ready to go at the drop of a hat.

They walked casually up the street towards the front entrance – always mindful of the CCTV camera positioned high up on the corner of the building. Dillon kept a discreet watch over the street whilst De-Luca went to work on the electromagnetic lock fitted to the front door. Luckily, there were few people around at that time of the day. Within seconds, the bolt released, he casually looked up and then pushed the door open. He removed the tiny device that had done the job from the lock case and moved inside. Dillon followed.

“Well, thank God for cheap locks,” De-Luca said with a wide smile.

The two men closed the door behind them and headed straight for a fire door and the stairwell beyond. They mounted the concrete steps two at a time, although there was a lift that serviced all the floors including the penthouse. The lift hummed when they were just rounding the first floor landing and they halted until it had descended. The door opened and closed again, someone wearing hard-soled shoes walked across the polished limestone floor of the hall to the front door.

They continued up to the top floor. Before moving out of the stairwell and onto the penthouse landing, they checked for any signs of a security camera in the hallway. There wasn’t one. Latimer’s front door was made of solid oak with a spy hole peering at them. The lock had a digital keypad at shoulder height which made Cracker uneasy.

Unless Latimer returned, they were much safer up here. Dillon stood guard whilst De-Luca went to work on the door. The lift was not operated again, but from time to time they heard the faint sound of the front door being released and thought how lucky they’d been at street level.

They were making good progress – it was thirty minutes since they’d entered the building. But Cracker was finding Latimer’s door lock to be a lot more troublesome than the front door. Dillon knew that he dare not break Cracker’s concentration whilst he dealt with the lock. He’d placed a flat device over the keypad which covered it completely and lighted up with four flashing zeros in red boxes when it was activated.

“This lock is a problem, Jake.”

“What do mean, ‘a problem’?”

“It has a built-in safeguard to ensure no one tampers with it. If it senses that there’s an intrusion it throws shoot-bolts out at the top and bottom. But there’s something else, these things are usually programmed to alert the police.”

“Fuck. I knew this was going too well.”

“Oh, don’t look so worried. The problem will be solved, eventually. My little friend there is running through millions of different numeric permutations. At some stage, it will find the right one, and then we can tap in the four number code and gain access.”

“I don’t like the thought of ‘eventually’. And why can’t we just pick the lock?”

“There is no lock to pick. Everything is inside, except for the keypad. We just have to be patient; it shouldn’t take long.”

After what seemed like many minutes later, all four boxes were glowing green. Cracker studied the device and then tapped the numbers into the digital keypad on the door. When they got in, they gently closed the door behind them and immediately felt the quiet aura of the apartment. As they moved from room to room, both men were impressed by the tasteful contemporary furnishings and subtle decor which somehow did not match up with what Dillon understood of Latimer who, Dillon surmised, must have used professional interior designers.

A wide circular stainless steel and glass spiral staircase led to the upper floor and the bedrooms, one of which had been converted into a small gym. The layout memorised, and the clock ticking all too quickly, Dillon said, “You find the safe and I’ll look around.” They separated, De-Luca searching for a place where he would expect a safe to be.

Dillon went back down to the study to find everything locked; desk and all of the cabinets. He had to get De-Luca to use up some of his precious time in opening the locks, but Dillon wanted to leave no obvious trace of a break-in. He carefully went through every document in the drawers, only to find nothing more than parliamentary correspondence, including many unanswered letters from some of his constituents who desperately needed his help. Shame on him for not replying, Dillon thought. The cabinets were no more forthcoming with anything of any interest and housed old copies of political newspaper clippings and magazine articles. It was De-Luca who found the interesting stuff.

De-Luca had located the safe in the master bedroom, hidden in the wall behind a full-length dressing mirror. The mirror itself could be released from the wall by pressing a concealed catch in the side of the frame. This automatically allowed it to swing out into the room on concealed hinges. After that, to De-Luca, it was child’s play. The safe was relatively small but of the latest design and specification, and he had gone straight to work on the combination.

By the time Dillon reached the top of the spiral stairs De-Luca had the contents laid out on the floor for Dillon to go through. There was a couple of thousand pounds in cash and no jewellery – much to Cracker’s relief, for it took away temptation. There was a leather-bound diary with a few loose sheets inside the back cover, and various legal documents, including the deeds to the penthouse. In addition to these were various share certificates and a number of bank statements. Dillon collected them from the floor and took them to a long side dressing table, which had wall lights above it. He produced a small digital camera and photographed each and every document in turn before allowing De-Luca to replace them in exactly the same position as he’d found them inside the safe.

Dillon opened the diary to the first page, lined up the camera and started to work his way through the twenty or so pages where entries had been made. Every few minutes, he would glance at his watch, very conscious of the time and that they had yet to restore everything in the bedroom to how they had found it. The time was 4.45 p.m.

* * *

Julian Latimer had to fight off the urge to doze off to sleep. He was totally bored with the time-wasting and futile in-fighting taking place around him. It was like watching a group of very small children throwing their toys out of their prams. He could find much better ways to fill his time rather than to endure the political jockeying and drivel about an issue which had once interested him but now left him stone cold. It was obvious that some of the committee members were playing devil’s advocates and that some were just being bloody-minded for effect. Politically he couldn’t give a toss what they decided; whichever way it went suited him.

He made his excuses and quietly slipped out of the room, informing the chairperson that he would return later. He knew he was taking a risk. That, if caught out, he would be leaving himself wide open for some serious criticism by those senior members who disliked him enough to leak his dereliction of duty to the press. Especially if he wasn’t in the room when the final vote was eventually taken. It didn’t really matter to him, except for the adverse media attention that would be focussed on him and the party. And certain acquaintances outside of politics might also take a dim view if he generated too high a profile.

He was sure he had enough time and that the risk was worth taking. It wasn’t that he had anything urgent to do, but that he must find relief from the boredom of what was going on around him. It had once been different, but that was before he found the source of complete freedom and no longer needed the political fanfare to support him. He would go through a few things at his London apartment, go out and enjoy a fine meal at one of his regular haunts, and then return to the committee sitting in plenty of time. He left the room at 5.40 p.m.

* * *

They worked quickly and with professional thoroughness, ensuring that everything was replaced just as they’d found it. When they were satisfied with the master bedroom, they went back down the spiral staircase to Latimer’s study and made sure that every cabinet and drawer was locked again. To do this and not leave a trace took time, but both men were experienced and did the job properly. Satisfied, they took a last look round and left the apartment, De-Luca using up more time than expected in locking down the door. They used the fire stairs again, negotiating them as fast as they could all the way to the bottom. They reached the hall and Dillon opened the front door.

The well-dressed man looked up startled as they almost knocked him off his feet in their haste to leave. He had almost got his key in the lock when Dillon burst out from the other side.

Dillon quickly said, “I do apologise. Are you okay?” He knew instantly that he was looking at Julian Latimer. He’d only ever seen a photograph; had never met him in person, but this was Latimer, all right.

Latimer gave a cursory smile but looked upon them with distaste and suspicion; he couldn’t place them and his expression suggested that they did not belong there. For some unfathomable reason alarm bells started to ring inside his head, but not because of his absence from the committee sitting. He took a good look at both Dillon and De-Luca, who had by now walked briskly off up the street without turning round. He would definitely remember their faces.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dillon took De-Luca back to Parsons Green and then drove straight to the Ferran & Cardini building in Docklands. Vince was sitting at his desk, monitoring a bank of six LCD screens mounted on the wall in front of him. As Dillon walked in, one of the screens went blank.

“What’s on?” Dillon enquired.

Vince glanced up to see who was interrupting him, smiled when he saw it was Dillon, and said, “One and two are currently linked to an American spy satellite over Santa Marta on the north coast of Colombia. One of our chaps is working with the CIA down there. Three and four are located inside the Saudi Embassy, here in London. We have a new girl on the inside, and I must say she’s done remarkably well to have placed them there at all. Five is aptly linked to the security service network. Old habits die hard, and it’s good housekeeping to keep an eye on what they’re up to over there.”

“And six?” Dillon asked casually.

“Oh, that one is highly classified.”

“Yeah, pull the other one big man. You’ve still got it connected to your DVD player, haven‘t you?”

“Absolutely not, mate. And it’s no use interrogating me about it, because you haven’t got what it takes or the necessary clearance to view that one.”

Vince grinned knowingly at Dillon.

“Anyway, why are you here and what do you want?”

Dillon placed the memory card from the digital camera onto the desk.

“Any chance you can download the images on the card and print off two sets of copies for me?”

“It’ll take me at least an hour. You okay to wait around for a bit?”

Dillon nodded, and went to his own office to make a strong black coffee and catch up with his emails on the internal mail system. Some he deleted without reading and the others he replied to immediately. One of them was from Tatiana, PA to the partners, and Dillon’s former partner asking about the status of his current assignment. He sat gazing at the monitor screen, reflecting on the recent past. Their two year relationship had fallen apart because of Dillon’s unwillingness to retire from active assignments and take up a safer position behind a desk. It still saddened him because he knew in his heart that it was his flat refusal which had compounded the rift between them and eventually had led to them going their separate ways. But life went on and that was the end of it. Or so he kept telling himself.

He sat with his feet up on the corner of the desk, the bland, windowless office causing mild claustrophobia and numbing his mind. He was thinking about coming face to face with Julian Latimer. De-Luca had never seen the politician, but felt as Dillon did; it had been a close call, and the repercussions would not have stopped with Latimer. As it was, the politician had taken a close look at them both, and would not forget.

Dillon was also conscious of the fact that he was restricting himself with every move he made, almost like playing chess against a Russian master of the game. He logged onto the firm’s database and opened the file document that held the current assignment data. He slowly scrolled down through each and every page. The only thing that he concluded from it all was that he knew very little about why or how Hart, Trevelyan, Power and Latimer knew each other. What was it that linked them together and for what reason?

Almost to the hour, Vince came in with the printed images. Dillon thanked the big Australian and studied one of the prints for a moment, satisfied with his handy work with a camera. He left the building and walked back to the parked Ford. It was the back end of rush hour and within minutes he was snarled up in the traffic. So he decided to take the side streets back to The Old Colonial Club.

In his rooms at the club he examined each page carefully. The list of names and addresses were confusing as they didn’t appear in any particular order and only covered the counties in the south of England, starting with Hampshire and ending up in the remotest part of Cornwall, a number of pages on. There were lists of names against each county; Dorset had two full pages of them. Almost all had names crossed out and others added, and against each was a location but only a few had an actual address. The others were starred – perhaps suggesting that they were lower down in the scheme of things, or that there were addresses elsewhere.

Dillon went through everything he had, but couldn’t find any additional information or addresses. He gathered up all the copies that he’d placed over the bed, taking them to a writing bureau with a small lamp under which he could study the images more carefully. There had to be more meaning to them than just a list of names and locations. He started on the tedious task of counting the names.

Hampshire had the highest number with twenty-five, but most had been crossed off, leaving only seven. These were dotted around the south of the county in the New Forest area. Dorset had fifteen original names: they were mostly towards the west. The original locations had been roughly spread out along the coast from Poole to Lyme Regis.

By the time he’d gone over the copies for the third time, he was tired and very confused. When he checked the time it was well after 11.00 p.m. and he was feeling hungry. He put the copies back into one of his canvas holdalls and went out to find something to eat. Even if it had not been too late for the club’s restaurant he wouldn’t have eaten there – the less contact he had with the other guests, the better.

The best he could find was a late night bistro around the corner that was happy to make him a tuna-filled Panini, which he smuggled back up to his rooms. Halfway through eating, he decided he should contact Havelock again, perhaps even risk meeting with him. He dialled his number but got no reply. He supposed Havelock was entitled to go out, but why tonight of all nights? He phoned Havelock’s office number but didn’t really expect anyone to answer, and he was right. Havelock didn’t have an answering machine at home, believing that if someone wanted to contact him badly enough they would ring back or try his mobile number. If they didn’t have his mobile number then they obviously weren’t that important to him. This was logical enough, but of little use to Dillon. He dialled his mobile number, which immediately went to voice mail.

Dillon was tired, increasingly irritable and frustrated. He needed the warmth and softness of Issy’s naked body next to him now, and then wondered for how long she would stay away from her office without him giving her a very good reason why she shouldn’t. She wasn’t stupid, far from it, and would insist on details. Unfortunately, he was fast running out of reasons. He lay on the double bed looking up at the ceiling and could hear the swishing of traffic outside like a lullaby against the quiet of the room’s interior. He was pondering his next move, but within minutes the need for sleep had taken over.

* * *

When Jasper Lockhart refused to meet him in any enclosed or quiet place, Dillon realised there was something wrong. In fact, it took every bit of his persuasive powers for Lockhart to agree to a meeting at all. They met mid-morning on the embankment near the London Eye and Jasper even refused to acknowledge Dillon with a handshake, just in case he was seen as knowing him.

“Nothing personal,” said Lockhart.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, jacket collar turned up to partially ward off a crisp cutting wind coming across the Thames, a light blue silk shirt and a deep red silk tie with a perfect Windsor knot. They remained at least five feet apart, leaning on the parapet and facing the river so that anyone passing by couldn’t see their faces. Even then, it was obvious to Dillon that Lockhart wasn’t comfortable with the situation.

“What’s the problem, Jasper? You’re as twitchy as a cat on a hot tin roof,” Dillon said tersely. “I only want to ask a small favour for which I’m happy to pay your outrageously high fees.”

“The answer is no, Jake.” Jasper kept his gaze on the grey tumultuous water. “Just by coming down here is nothing short of bloody dangerous. But I felt you deserved an explanation, if for no other reason than for old time’s sake.”

“Look, all I want is the names of two reliable watchers. It’ll only be for a couple of days and I thought you might be able to help. It’s nothing dodgy and with no risk.”

“I’m afraid that just talking to you is a risk.” Lockhart’s gaze remained transfixed on the river, as if hypnotised by it. He turned to face Dillon, and stated, “There’s an open contract out on you.”

Dillon looked deep into Lockhart’s eyes.

“A contract? Have you been smoking dope again or is it something more hallucinogenic these days? What are you saying, Jasper?”

Dillon continued to fix his gaze on Lockhart. The other man turned as if to walk away, but stopped himself. He leant back against the parapet and said, “What else should I call it? A contract is a contract. A hundred thousand sterling. The word on the street is that there’s already a number of pros out there looking for you.”

“A hundred grand? The tight bastard. Who’s put it out?”

Lockhart didn’t answer the question, instead sidestepped it like a professional boxer.

“It’s no joking matter, Jake. The word has been put out that anyone helping you will be put on the same contract for the same money.I can do without that sort of shit. As one of your oldest mates I thought it best you should hear it from me personally – you know I don’t trust the phones in this city.”

Dillon looked out across the heaving water of the river for a while. He was disturbed but not only for himself.

“I never thought I’d see you like this, Jasper. You’re not the man I’ve known for over twenty years. What the hell happened to you?”

The eyes were sad and reflective. “I can handle most things, you know that, Jake. And, like you, I’ve been around the block a few times. But this is different; the people involved expect to pay out. If I were you I’d leave this rotten country and get as far away as I could.”

“The thing is, Jasper, I’m not you and I don’t run away from this sort of shit. Is it Tommy Trevelyan?” Dillon tried to penetrate beyond the sea-blue eyes.

“I inherited a vast sum of money and got married.”

“Really?” For a moment, Dillon found this more surprising than the threat against him.

“Anyway, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sarcastically, and then added quickly, “Sorry, Jasper. I didn’t mean that. What I should have said is that I can understand why you’re being cautious. But you still haven’t answered my original question. Is it Tommy Trevelyan who’s put out the contract?”

“He’s the most likely candidate,” Lockhart said. “But that’s one name I really don’t like mentioning. I don’t know how, but he found out about my little reciprocal arrangement with certain Government departments. He let me know that he knew, because at the time he was having a few planning problems with a commercial office block he was building. When I told him to piss off, he sent two of his bloody heavies round to persuade me. I ended up in hospital for four weeks. Thank God for private health cover.”

“That’s the past, Jasper. Move on and put it down to experience. Look, all I need is someone reliable to give me a hand for a couple of days.”

At last Lockhart turned. Talking had steadied his nerves a little, but he was still a very worried man.

“Jake, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. The word is out and Trevelyan not only controls ‘the word’, but also a very large chunk of this city. So I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

“Oh, I am taking it seriously, Jasper. But, there’s always a ‘but’, and you’re forgetting one thing: he’s nothing more than an aged hoodlum in a very competitive and ruthless world. He may have put out a contract on me, but he’s got to find me first. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. So thanks mate.”

“But he’s put the finger on you, Jake, which means that every trigger-happy thug in London will be looking for you, and most likely will have a picture of you, so they can be sure they hit the right bloke. Look, I’ve always liked you, and I know there are many others who feel the same way, but that has to be weighed up against how much they fear Trevelyan and his merry band of misfits.”

Dillon thought of Max Quinn and Tony ‘Cracker’ De-Luca, both of whom had only recently helped him.

“When did you hear of this?”

“Say three hours ago. Before you phoned, anyway. Look, Jake, it’s only just hit the streets. If you’re quick you’ll have enough time to get out of London and disappear for a while; somewhere exotic, where they won’t find you.” Lockhart’s wane smile said it all.

“Thank God you’re a wealthy man, Jasper. Because in a perverse way it’s somehow reassuring. You and me go back a long way and I need to know who I can trust with my life.”

“You know I couldn’t do that to you, Jake.” Lockhart looked embarrassed, stared down at an imaginary something on the ground and then added, “You can trust me, you know?”

“Thanks, Jasper. I do know.”

Dillon knew he meant it, and that he’d taken a huge risk meeting in such a public place. His mind was already racing ahead, thinking that Trevelyan might have made a tactical error in issuing an open contract. That even the police could hear of it. Still, it wouldn’t help Dillon if someone completed the contract.

“I’d better start looking over my shoulder then.”

“Might be wise, given the circumstances. Sorry, Jake. I didn’t mean… Look, have you left any instructions?”

Dillon smiled, because Lockhart was acting like an undertaker at a hospital bedside. “Why, should my luck run out?”

“All I’m saying is the odds aren’t good, Jake. Especially if you insist on staying in this city for much longer. Is there anyone who should be contacted if anything goes wrong?”

“You know, Jasper, you can be a depressingly pessimistic sod when you want to be.”

“Sorry. Just trying to be pragmatic, that’s all.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that when I’m dodging the bullets.”

“Jake, I really do think you’re a fool for not taking this seriously.” Lockhart looked around nervously.

“I’ll see you around some time, mate. You make sure you keep that 9 mm clip fully loaded, and your back to the wall.”

He turned and within moments had wandered down the Embankment and was soon swallowed up by the throngs of people near the London Eye.

Jasper’s sombre delivery of bad news had been almost funny in a strange way. Dillon knew that his old friend’s intentions had been completely honourable and that he’d only wanted to warn Dillon of the impending danger. Dillon’s response was too flippant for no other reason than to spare either of them any embarrassment or awkwardness. But this wouldn’t make the problem go away. If Trevelyan had put out a contract, it was as serious as anything he could remember happening since he’d left the army intelligence.

He decided to confirm Lockhart’s warning. He used his mobile phone to call Tony De-luca. De-luca hung up as soon as he heard his voice. He re-dialled the number and this time the answer machine cut in. Dillon thought about leaving a message but didn’t and hung up. To visit De-luca’s home would be asking for trouble and would put him in serious danger. Surprisingly, he found that Max Quinn not only answered his phone, but was happy speaking to him.

“Who shall I send the Monet to, Jake?”

“Don’t worry yourself, Max. I’ll come and collect it in due course.”

To save Max any further embarrassment he hung up. So Jasper had not been exaggerating; Tommy Trevelyan had picked up where Charlie Hart left off, but it must have been by some sort of mutual consent.