Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (29 page)

There was a small discreet knock on his door.

Dillon called, “Who is it?”

A male voice on the other side of the door informed him that it was room service. Dillon got up off the bed and unlocked the door; his left hand gripped the Glock inside his robe pocket. He opened the door and moved back to allow the porter to come in with a trolley on which was a bottle in an ice bucket, a splendid floral arrangement, and caviar and small flat biscuits.

“Shall I put the flowers over there on the dressing table, sir?”

The porter took them over to the dressing table and placed it in front of the mirror so that it appeared to be a double arrangement.

“What’s all this? Compliments of the management?” Dillon was sure he did not merit the treatment.

“The card is on the tray, sir.” The porter left without waiting to be tipped and Dillon went over to the trolley.

The bottle was Bollinger, the ice firmly packed around it. Beside the bucket was a plain elegant Champagne flute. In a salver was an envelope which he opened with misgivings and pulled out a short note. He knew who it was from before he read the first word:

I hope you enjoy the Champagne, Jake. Your eye for things of beauty should appreciate the flowers, which are locally grown. Do take in the sights of Delhi whilst you can. It has always been a very special place to me and I still have many good friends there. I mean really good friends, Jake. Look after yourself, CH.

Dillon wasn’t shocked by this show. He should have realised that it wouldn’t take long for it to get back to Hart that he was on his old stamping ground. After all, this was Hart’s domain and his influence was still strong here. Dillon uncorked the vintage Champagne and poured a glassful, a feeling of sadness washed over him that he wasn’t able to share it with Issy who he’d not told he was leaving the UK. He raised the fizzing glass and said aloud, “Cheers, Charlie. Your warning tones have become much less aggressive.”

But he pondered on the fact that they were less menacing. Perhaps, he thought, Hart felt more secure in the knowledge that Dillon was out of his hair in Britain. In a place where he could easily keep an eye on him. His web of contacts was already working by the fact that he knew that Dillon was in Delhi, and exactly which hotel he had been booked into. It was impressive and it brought home just how scary the man was.

Dillon slept well enough that night, thinking that Hart would not be so crude as to take the risk of having someone break into his room. The next morning he was up and showered before five-thirty.He had room service bring him up a continental breakfast and coffee, and at exactly six-thirty he was downstairs in the foyer waiting for Khan to turn up and take him to see Devdas Shah Zafar. When he still had not turned up at seven-thirty, Dillon called the Embassy and spoke to an embassy official whom Brendon Morgan had told him to contact should he need anything.

“Murdered?” Dillon said out loud, a few heads turned and then immediately looked away again.

The official went on to tell him that Khan had reportedly been stabbed in a bungled mugging not far from his home. Dillon hung up after assuring the official that he would be okay on his own and would not require the service of a guide.

He went outside and got into a taxi, the driver spoke good English and Dillon gave him the address of Devdas Shah Zafar. Even with the windows rolled down, the interior of the car was stiflingly hot and the air-conditioning was non-existent. Dillon sat in the backseat and gazed out the open window as the driver negotiated the early morning traffic into the old part of the city. Ten minutes later and he was pulling the yellow-roofed car over to the side of a bustling street, informing Dillon that it was as far as he could take him and that he would have to travel the remaining distance on foot. Dillon paid the driver and as he climbed out of the taxi, he thanked him in fluent Hindi. A moment later, he was standing in one of the busiest market places he’d ever seen.

It was a surreal scene which one could only term as frenetic – where the traditional and the modern face each other on every noisy colourful street corner. Muslim and Hindu, upper-caste and gypsy swarm down the streets and into holy places. Opel Astras and bullock-carts pause together at traffic lights. Jean-clad young professionals climb up temple steps. A caparisoned elephant’s brought in to celebrate the launch of a new software company, whilst the call of the muezzin competes with Hindu bells. His senses were being bombarded with the wonderful aroma of spicy food being cooked on open fires and fresh breads being baked in stone ovens, to the ever-present accompaniment of stale body odour.

The address was a bit vague as it turned out. Dillon asked for directions a couple of times, and was thankful to be pointed in what he assumed to be the right direction. But he felt like he was lost in the myriad of bustling streets with their varying attractions, vibrancy and colourfulness. One of the many souvenir shops caught his eye and after some vigorous haggling, much to the delight of the shopkeeper, he bought a small memento to take back for Issy. The total flavour of India surrounded him and brought Hart even closer as if he was following his every move. And when Dillon looked around him at the milling crowds, he realised that could well be true. Hart knew exactly what Dillon was up to and would protect himself to the limit. Dillon took comfort in the knowledge that he was armed. He wandered around the streets for most of the morning in search of Devdas Shah Zafar’s home, but without success. By lunchtime he’d had enough and went back to the hotel to clean up and grab something to eat.

Dillon spent some of the afternoon writing up a report for Edward Levenson-Jones and sending it to him in the form of an encrypted email attachment that would end up at the Ferran & Cardini server in London. He then phoned Dunstan Havelock to let him know that he’d flown to Delhi and would be back in a couple of days. That Hart may have sympathies of an unfriendly nature towards the UK, because of the circumstances surrounding the death of his parents. The last call he made was to Brendon Morgan, telling him about Khan being murdered. Bad news travels fast, and Morgan had already been fully briefed by the Embassy of this.

The next morning after breakfast he took his life in his hands with a rickshaw ride back to Chandni Chowk in search of Devdas Shah Zafar. This morning, he arrived two hours later and the crowds were fewer. The young rickshaw driver was able to weave his way through the main street in a cacophony of horn blowing and shouting at people to move out of the way. It was difficult to understand that only a short distance away in New Delhi was the commercial and political bustle of a wealthy quarter of the city. Yet this backwater with straight, rather narrow, streets and high walls, protected expensive town mansions.

High, elegant gold-painted wrought iron gates, set between white pillars covered in the most fragrant juniper, made an impressive entrance. There was a small CCTV camera set high on one of the pillars and down at street level, an intercom panel. Dillon paid off the rickshaw driver and pushed the button.

A man’s voice enquired, “Yes?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Devdas Shah Zafar. My name is Jake Dillon from London.”

“I’ve been expecting you Mr. Dillon. Come through the gates and across the courtyard to the door on the far side. I’ll send my manservant, Baskhar, down to meet you.”

The right-hand gate swung back and Dillon walked through and under a covered area that opened out into a magnificent courtyard adorned with the sweet fragrance of marigolds, begonias, poinsettias, nasturtiums and calendulas. As he approached the heavy solid teak door, it opened and a burly-looking man stood in the doorway, almost filling the space with his muscular hulk. He was wearing a well-cut, three-piece black suit and a crisp white shirt and black silk tie. He bowed his turbaned head as Dillon approached, gesturing with a sweeping motion of his open upturned palm for Dillon to enter the home of Devdas Shah Zafar. The interior of the building was not at all what Dillon had been expecting. Everything was minimalist chic, spotlessly clean with white painted walls and the cooling effect of exquisitely polished marble floors. He entered the capacious hall and was led the way to a magnificent, circular room. Baskhar opened the curved door, motioned Dillon into the room and then left, closing the door behind him. He was standing in a room of pure luxurious indulgence. Expensive Indian rugs scattered strategically around underfoot. Silk of the most vibrant colours adorned the windowless walls and high above light cascaded in through the most amazing conical glass roof.

“I thought you might have called last night,” said the slight figure seated on the far side of the room.

“I’m told that you’re a man of action and was rather disappointed that you didn’t. You would have been perfectly safe.”

The English was clipped but otherwise perfect.

As Dillon walked towards the figure, he noticed that Devdas Shah Zafar was dressed in a suit that any Saville Row tailor would find hard to be anything other than complimentary about. Although diminutive in stature, the man had refined features and was smiling as if at some private joke. As he stepped towards Dillon to proffer his hand, Dillon took it, feeling a good deal of bone and very little flesh. But he did not put the sophisticated man standing before him as being older than Charlie Hart.

“Please, do sit down, Mr. Dillon.”

The little man gestured to the many comfortable-looking chairs positioned around the circular room.

With so many to choose from, Dillon had some difficulty in choosing one and when he did, it seemed to mould round him like a velvet glove.

“I can tell you are impressed. You should have seen Mr. Hart’s mansion. It made this one look like a hunting lodge.”

Dillon was impressed by the little man’s quiet exterior demeanour. In fact, after only having met him two minutes ago, he had no doubt whatsoever that it was nothing more than a façade which masked something quite different altogether. It did appear though that he had done very well for himself, but it was perfectly clear that he still had strong links with Hart.

“It’s kind of you to see me, Mr. Zafar, but I doubt now that you can help me.”

Zafar, now seated, seemed to have chosen the biggest chair in the room and was almost lost in it.

“That, Mr. Dillon, depends entirely on what it is that you want of me. Do not make the mistake of assuming my hospitality is a sign of goodwill.”

“Please call me Jake, everybody does.”

“That is not the way I conduct myself, Mr. Dillon. Now what it is you want? After all, you’ve not travelled halfway around the world for nothing.”

“You already know why I’m here. I can see that visiting you was a mistake. Please forgive my intrusion and that I could have been stupid enough to think that you might have been willing to talk candidly about your past employment with Charlie Hart. It’s now quite obvious to me that you are still in touch with each other.”

“You might also observe that it is unlikely that I was ever his employee. We were business partners, Mr. Dillon. We still are. We’ve always been close, as close as one can be with an Englishman. We are virtual brothers. We taught each other a great deal. You see, you’ve learnt something for your trouble after all. Do ask your question.”

Dillon remained silent whilst Baskhar came in with tea and small cakes. A cup was placed on a coaster beside him on a small occasional table.

“Do you take your tea as a Westerner, or as we do in India, Mr. Dillon?”

“Without milk, Mr. Zafar.”

“Excellent. Tea tastes so much better when not corrupted.”

“What sort of business are you involved in, Mr. Zafar? I hope I’m not being rude, but it must be extremely lucrative to provide such a luxurious lifestyle.”

Dillon felt the question was too bold and that he would get nowhere with this small cheerful character who knew that he was in total control.

“You are not being rude, Mr. Dillon. There is a lot of money to be made here for those prepared to work hard. I have lived here all my life. We also have one of the most active stock exchanges in the world. India is rich and, like so many wealthy countries, full of deprivation and discontentment. Does that answer your question?”

“How about dealing in arms?”

“Yes, of course we deal in arms. Mostly small weapons that can be transported with the minimum of fuss. But you of all people know that we are not the ones who create the need. We merely fulfil it by supplying those who want them, but only if we are able to obtain the right stock at the right price. But that has always been a relatively small part of our business. What you are dying to ask, is what was Charlie Hart up to when he was here. Why is this so important to you?”

Dillon felt that, whilst he had his head in the vice, he might as well go ahead and tell him.

“It’s his background. It seems to be in order, but it’s also obscure and it intrigues me. I’m sure he’s already told you of the strange circumstances in which we first met. But stranger things have happened since then. There have been a number of attempts on my life which I would like to get to the bottom of.”

“But Charlie likes you, even admires you, why would he want to kill you?”

“Because, like me, he’s a realist. And no matter how reluctantly he might do it, he looks upon me as a threat.”

“Are you a threat, Mr. Dillon?”

Zafar’s tea remained untouched whereas Dillon felt a great need for his. But he left it where it was and said, “I’m simply trying to stay alive. I believe that part of the threat to me is rooted in his past. I know it may be foolish of me to say that, but you must have heard from him already.”

Zafar spread his small hands in surprise.

“Mr. Dillon, I can tell you that there is absolutely nothing strange about Charlie Hart’s past. I was ten years old when I met him. Our fathers worked for the same company here in Delhi. And it was a very sad day when his parents were murdered. It was positively tragic that they died like that and it was a very distressing period in Charlie’s life. But he coped with it and focussed on building himself a business empire.”