Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (2 page)

“No, you just don’t look yourself that’s all.”

“Well, I feel absolutely fine. And thank you for showing concern,” Charlie Hart said, as he walked slowly past his son towards the main drawing room.

Daniel knew his father too well to believe him, but let it go anyway, and instead said, “I want to bring a friend around to view the collection.”

Hart reached the drawing room door, placed his hand on the handle.“Who is she?” he asked.

“A friend from university.”

“And what sort of friend is she?”

“The usual kind.” Daniel grinned.

“Where does she come from?”

“What the hell has that got to do with it?”

Daniel walked along the landing towards his father, and was now standing next to him. Hart opened the door and allowed his son to walk into the first floor drawing room ahead of him.

“Actually, she’s Dutch,” Daniel said over his shoulder.

They were standing in a beautiful room, light streaming in through a wall of glass. Hart moved towards the drinks cabinet. He was in no hurry to answer his son, and knew that it would annoy him immensely.

“If you must know, she’s the daughter of the Dutch ambassador to London. So you don’t have to worry about her stealing anything.”

“Didn’t even cross my mind, Daniel. And I’m disappointed that you should think that little of me,” Hart said quietly.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. She’s working on a thesis about the life of Vermeer for her art degree, and I just thought it would be really cool if she could actually get up close and personal with one of his paintings. That’s all.”

Hart poured out two single malts and added ice. He felt it unnecessary to ask his son what he wanted to drink, but handed over one of the tumblers and then walked outside onto the decked terrace and sat down. Daniel followed him, sitting on a wooden steamer chair a few feet away from his father. They sat in silence for a few moments, gazing at the magnificent view over Poole Harbour, towards Brownsea Island and in the distant the Purbeck hills; cutting across the horizon for a good ten miles from Corfe Castle all the way to the Jurassic Coastline of Dorset.

“So, tell me. What’s her name?”

Daniel was irritated by the question. “What does it matter?” It was the usual inquisition whenever he wanted to bring a friend home.

Hart looked over at his son and realised for the first time how abrupt it must have sounded to him. He was still preoccupied and shocked by what he’d discovered across town earlier that day.

“I’m sorry, Daniel. I have things on my mind at present. But I’m merely trying to show an interest in you and your friends.”

Daniel wasn’t convinced. “Freya Johansson. She’s a bit older than me, and from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the Netherlands.”

Immediately, he saw his father tense-up, the glass tumbler in his hand held firmly. Charlie Hart didn’t like to be reminded that his family had originally come from one of the poorest council estates in East London before moving to India. And it was obvious that his father had not enjoyed the same high standard of education he’d provided for him.

“Sorry, Dad; I didn’t mean anything by that. What I meant to say was that she’s a really nice person who has a passion for fine art. And it doesn’t really matter about the other stuff, anyway.”

Hart showed no sign of relaxing; his son had hit a raw nerve, and it still hurt.

He stood up and walked to the edge of the decked balcony, raised his drink slowly and emptied the tumbler in one controlled gulp.

“Of course you can bring her around. You know what I’m like about the collection – it’s not that there are any secrets in there, but most of the paintings are priceless and people have a nasty habit of talking. But I’d be delighted to meet her, Daniel.”

Hart walked back inside and poured himself a refill. As he came out, he said, “So, is this one special?”

Daniel grinned. “Look, you’ll be the first to know if any of them are ‘special’, right?”

They were back to how it always was with them. Father and son; comfortable in each other’s company. Hart would usually work in his study for a while, and they would eat together around 8 p.m., unless either had made an alternative arrangement. Daniel, due to return to Cambridge after the weekend, then went his own way whilst his father largely stayed in to watch television or play around with his new toy – a luxury sixty-two foot power cruiser which was tied up at their private berth at the bottom of the garden. Sometimes his father went abroad for long periods, often at a moment’s notice; he kept a suitcase packed for such emergencies and his passport was always up to date.

* * *

She was a stunningly attractive girl and wore a colourful dress underneath a short jacket. Her blonde hair shone and was tied back in a single plait that highlighted her natural beauty, as did her eyes, which sparkled with mischief. She gave Daniel a wide smile as he opened the front door. To Daniel’s surprise, she had a woman with her, much older, and with a look of self-assuredness about her.

“This is my bodyguard,” explained Freya Johansson, in perfect English.

“Her orders are to escort me at all times. I hope you don’t mind, but she will have to see the paintings, too.”

It didn’t really matter whether Daniel minded or not. There was little that he could do that wouldn’t look churlish. Surely she could have ordered her to stay outside in the car whilst she came into the house on her own? Daniel smiled wanly in defeat, and led the way in. The bodyguard was almost certainly going to cramp his style. Perhaps that was why Freya appeared so impish – she had cut off any possibility of anything amorous taking place.

The bodyguard was dressed soberly, as if she was going to a business meeting. But she was pleasant enough and no doubt grateful that Daniel had taken such a charitable view of her presence. She spoke English formally, with a pronounced accent.

Daniel made coffee and afterwards took them to the gallery room, with Freya giving him a furtive smile, and a casual stroke of her hand across his backside as she stood alongside him. He placed his left hand on the flat biometric scanning pad, and after a short delay the door moved to the right and they all stepped into the air-lock. The outer door closed and he positioned himself in front of a small camera-like device that would confirm his retina profile. A moment later, all three of them were standing inside the darkened air-conditioned gallery. The elaborate lighting controlled by the computer system lit each painting to maximum effect and, as Daniel led them around the room, tiny star lights set in the marble flooring lit up like an aircraft runway.

Charlie Hart knew each painting intimately. He made it his business to know everything about the artists and the history surrounding each masterpiece hanging on his walls. But most importantly, he not only knew what he had paid for them, he knew exactly what each one was worth at today’s valuation. Unfortunately, Daniel was not so well-informed. His father had spent many years painstakingly putting the collection together and had acquired many rare pieces from all over the world. Most of them had been purchased anonymously through the large auction houses in London, Paris and New York and some through small elite dealers. In fact, the only item in the gallery that had no obvious place of origin was the life-size crystal skull, perched majestically on its pedestal of black onyx in the very centre of the room, dramatically lighted by tiny fibre optics from below, the intense light dashed up through the natural crystal in all the colours of the rainbow, through the perfectly carved eye sockets and bursting out of the skull in two separate beams of white light.

From the start, it was clear that the bodyguard knew very little about art in general, but Freya Johansson soon demonstrated that she had a deep knowledge of the subject, and was able to supply some of the background to various paintings. She was quickly absorbed, and went her own way, fascinated at what she saw, whilst Daniel patiently tried to explain to the thick-set woman what exactly was going on in a painting by Francisco Goya.

Every now and then, he would steal a look across the room at Freya, but to no avail, as she was totally fixated by the exquisite Vermeer hanging on the wall before her. After ten minutes, the bodyguard had just about had enough, and expressed her sincere thanks at being allowed to see the collection.

At the far end of the room, Freya leant forward, peering closely at one of the other Vermeer paintings. Suddenly, she felt faint, placed her hand against the wall to steady herself, and turned her head away from the others so that they wouldn’t see her expression.

Slowly she stood up, re-focussed, and took another look at the painting.

Vermeer called this one The Concert, and it showed three people in the scene, singing and playing instruments. Freya’s stomach churned. She would never forget the trip that her father had sent her on three years ago; the museum in Boston, the Vermeer paintings hanging on the gallery walls. However, this one hadn’t been on show, because this particular painting had been stolen in 1990. So was this the original, or was it an extremely good copy? She glanced quickly across the dimly-lighted room at Daniel, who was now standing in front of the crystal skull with the bodyguard, telling her about its history. Thank God, for she knew she wasn’t hiding her shock too well.

She had read the archive newspaper articles about the audacious robbery at the Boston museum – of how it had shocked and stunned the international art world. She recalled that it was on the morning of March 18, 1990 that thieves disguised as police officers broke into the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum and stole thirteen works of art, including the painting of The Concert by Vermeer. They also got away with three Rembrandts (two paintings including his seascape ‘The Storm on the Sea of Galilee’ and a small self-portrait print) as well as works by Manet, Degas, Govaert Flinck, and a French and Chinese artefact. It is still considered to be the biggest art theft in US history and to this day remains unsolved. The museum still displays the paintings’ empty frames in their original locations due to the strict provisions of Gardner’s will. This left the instruction that the collection be maintained unchanged.

There had been much speculation over the years about the whereabouts of these paintings. And now Freya Johansson was perplexed at what she was possibly staring at – the stolen Vermeer in a private collection in Dorset. Her first thought was to look for more, but that would be ridiculous and may arouse Daniel’s suspicion. She needed time to think.

Could she simply be mistaken? Inwardly, she grimaced at the possibility that she was not. This painting was so well-documented and her interest in Vermeer so detailed, that she’d always carried a mental image of it around with her. But, for the time being, she must keep an open mind.

Her mouth felt dry and she needed a glass of water. She must have appeared to be acting a little strangely, for Daniel called out from the other end of the gallery, “Freya, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Daniel. It must be the air-conditioning in here – it’s making me feel a little woozy, that’s all. But I think it’s probably a good time to leave anyway. I’m having dinner with Daddy in Covent Garden at eight-thirty.”

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Daniel gave her a glass of water, noticing for the first time how pale and puzzled she looked – yet the gallery was anything but disorientating.

Freya Johansson drank the water, and wondered how she should deal with this discovery. She knew herself far too well to be able to simply walk away from it. She gazed up at Daniel, the concerned face of a university friend, and wondered about his father. How could a famous painting by Vermeer, stolen from a museum in Boston, be in his private collection in Sandbanks Dorset, seventeen years later? She needed to know, but she knew it might hurt people whilst finding out. Too bad, because this one belonged back in the Boston museum. And were there other paintings?

CHAPTER TWO

Dunstan Havelock took Jake Dillon and Dillon’s lawyer girlfriend, Isabel, (‘Issy’) Linley, out to dinner. The fact that Havelock had turned up alone and not with his wife suggested to Dillon that the dinner was not simply out of friendship, although that left him puzzling over why Issy was invited. The fact that he was now dining in one of the most expensive restaurants in London confirmed his theory beyond any reasonable doubt. As much as he liked Havelock as a person, he didn’t trust what he represented: the political establishment, a personal fixer for the Home Secretary.

“How’s Rachel these days, Dunstan?” Dillon asked pointedly.

Havelock, unruffled, turned urbanely to Issy. “One might be forgiven for thinking that he’s asking after my dear wife simply out of concern or perhaps even politeness. But it’s nothing of the sort, my dear. It means that he doesn’t trust the purpose of this exquisite meal or the opulence of this fine eating establishment that we now find ourselves in. The mistrusting swine.”

Isabel Linley, a stunning forty-year-old with a high-flying career in international corporate law, winked but added seriously, “Isn’t that what’s kept him alive all this time?”

Havelock turned back to Dillon. “Rachel is in Monte Carlo. She’ll be back in a day or two. And, of course, you’re right. There is something that I’d like to pass by you. Might be of interest to Ferran & Cardini, but I’ll let you run it by Edward Levenson-Jones. Would you be interested?”

“In which case it must be either extremely dangerous, or of an extremely sensitive nature, as usual. Otherwise you would have gone straight to the security services with it.”

Issy was not only Dillon’s friend and lover, but she was also his greatest admirer and protector since their university days.

“Now, would I have enticed you along, Issy, if it was anything sinister?”

Havelock caught the attention of a passing waiter, and ordered another bottle of Bollinger.

“It’s nothing more than a little snooping around, that’s all.”

“Then why not let the police deal with it?” Dillon asked.

“The Home Secretary feels that it’s not for MI5 or even the police to be involved with. He would prefer that Ferran & Cardini took the brief, especially as we would rather keep it under tight wraps. You know that we have high regard for the integrity of the firm, but more importantly, we trust you. And there are few we can say that of.”

“And you don’t trust your own security service to take it on?”

Havelock poured vintage Champagne into finest cut crystal. “It’s not their cup of tea, so to speak, Jake. And please don’t think that you’re second best, because you know better than that.”

“And this comes straight from the Home Secretary, does it?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Which is it, Dunstan. Yes or no?”

“The Home Secretary does know about it, but the request comes from Simon Digby at MI5.”

“You are kidding me. That loathsome cockroach. The irony of it. We’ve only just crossed swords over who the new European Network should be reporting to.”

“You know very well that Digby is only doing his job, and, furthermore, I’m positive that he holds no malice towards you personally. What I can tell you is that he’s had this thrown upon him by MI6. And that he’s now trying to do a favour for our friends across the pond”.

“The Americans? I should have known. Why can’t they deal with it themselves?”

“Because the problem appears to be on our soil. I need not have mentioned their involvement, Jake. But, I’m trying to be as honest with you as I am allowed to be.”

Dillon gazed across the table.

“There was a time when you didn’t have to try, Dunstan.”

Dillon finished his glass of Champagne and controlling his agitation, placed the glass ever so gently onto the table.

“You should know by now, Dunstan, that nothing annoys me more than being taken for a complete fool. Why is it that I’m the one who’s always offered the shit jobs that the police and the security services don’t want? And I suppose that you’ve already spoken to the partners and that they told you to run it by me.”

“Oh, now look here, Jake. Firstly, it was Sir Lucius Stagg whom I spoke to, and I most certainly do not think that you’re anybody’s fool. But, point taken. And yes, he did tell me to talk directly to you and that, if you said no, well then that would be the end of it.”

Dillon looked round at Issy, who was sitting beside him.

“And what do you think of all this?” he asked her.

“I agree with you, Jake. These people only ever approach your firm, and in particular you, when they have a situation where they don’t want to get their hands dirty. For what it’s worth, I’d say leave it well alone.”

Dillon stood up and put a hand out to her.

“I suppose that I’m expendable at the end of the day. Well not this time, Dunstan. Find yourself another fool.”

“Not to me, you’re not,” Havelock said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I thought we had a good working friendship, and in all the years that we’ve known each other, I’ve always tried to ensure that you were paid the highest rate. You can hardly say that I’ve been using you.”

“It’s never been for the money; you know that, Dunstan.”

“I know it’s not the money.”

“So tell me then, why would I be interested this time? As yet you’ve not even told me what’s on offer.”

“Only more money, I’m afraid. And, of course, the thanks and appreciation of HM Government.”

“They can stick that where the sun don’t shine.”

“When you were in the Intelligence Corp it was Government money that trained you. When you dropped in and out of all of those exotic locations for weeks on end, who paid the enormous expense accounts that you managed to run-up? And who paid for the experience that you gained along the way that has made you what you are today?”

“The point is, Dunstan, I’m not really sure that I like who I am anymore, or what I do today.”

Underneath the table cloth, Issy slipped her hand in his and gently squeezed it.

Dillon turned his head slightly towards her and immediately saw the knowing smile that she was giving him.

Dillon looked across the circular table at Dunstan Havelock, adjusted his tie and said, “If you promise not to speak politico bullshit I’ll listen to what you have to say.” Havelock nodded and leant his stocky figure forward over the table as if he had stomach ache.

“A painting by Vermeer that was stolen along with others from a museum in Boston on March 18, 1990 has possibly turned up in a private collection in Dorset.”

“Dorset? Where exactly?”

“The Sandbanks peninsula. I’m informed that it’s allegedly in a private collection and that the man who has it lives in one of those very large architect designed properties located right on the ocean’s doorstep.”

Havelock leant back, took off his jacket and hooked it over the corner of his chair. As he looked at Havelock sitting across the table, the bland expression on Dillon’s face was impregnable.

“Sounds intriguing. Go on.”

“Well, that’s it really. Except that the person who has it is known to associate with certain criminal elements, both here in the UK and the US.”

Dillon remained silent; taking in the details that he’d just been given.

After a while, he said, “If you know where this painting is, why don’t you simply pay this character an early morning visit and ask him where he got it from and from whom?”

“Good point, Jake. But, unfortunately, it’s not that simple. You see, he’s extremely well-connected in certain quarters of the city, as well as in India and Pakistan, and the trade that he generates for the UK is vast. The Home Secretary would rather we avoided any form of high-handed approach or official enquiry.”

Dillon leant back in his chair, looked at Issy, who smiled reticently back at him, and said, “It’s beyond my remit, I’m afraid. Dunstan lost me about five minutes ago, and now I’m as confused as you are.”

“So what makes you so sure that I’d find out anything more?”

Havelock sipped his Champagne and eventually said, “Your dumb-wittedness will not put me off, Jake. You’ve got contacts from all walks of life, and they’re dotted around all over the place. And I know from old that you can call them to arms when required to.”

“What you mean, Dunstan, is that I know numerous people with dubious talents, and some of those just happen to be villains and fences, is that it?”

“You make your world sound so seedy, Jake. And no, it’s not just because of your acquaintance with those individuals of a criminal persuasion. It’s much more than that.”

“I’m not happy about the Americans being involved, Dunstan.”

“Oh come now, Jake. They’re not really involved and they’ve promised not to interfere. You’ve simply got to look at the broader picture – if we turn them down and don’t help out, they’ll simply send in their own people covertly. But if we do, it will bank a large number of brownie points with them and that’s always a positive thing, isn’t it?”

“You’ve slipped back into that politico speak, Dunstan. Cut the crap.”

“I’m sorry. But try and look at it this way: suppose it’s not HM Government, but the person who benefits the most from our help? At the very least it’ll take away any suspicion that he may have been involved in one of the largest art heists of the twentieth century. And he’s British, which in itself is enough for us to get involved.”

“Is this painting valuable? I mean, is it really worth all the aggravation that it’s without doubt going to cause?”

“Priceless at today’s valuation. But it’s not just the phenomenal value that matters, but who stole it and how it got to the UK in the first place.”

Issy sat back, resigned. She already knew what was going to happen. And it had nothing to do with Dunstan Havelock, the Americans, a stolen Vermeer painting, any amount of money or any of these things. Dillon always had to think his way through the risk factors and the odds of achieving the objective.

Dunstan knew this, as she did, and that it would be Dillon’s own assessment of both of these factors, along with his insatiable curiosity that would make his mind up. It would merely be a question of how much he wanted to get involved. And, knowing that Dillon was always searching for his next rush of excitement, the answer was a foregone conclusion. The job sounded like it would be a walk in the park for Dillon, and something that could be cleared up quickly. She only hoped that the sudden sense of apprehension she was feeling, indicated the same.

“Why is it that you even bother to ask for my opinion when you’ve already made up your mind about something? Don’t get me wrong, Jake. I love the fact that you want my opinion, but you’re so annoying when you do that,” she said, and glanced sideward at Dillon. They were sitting in the back of a cab returning to Dillon’s converted warehouse loft apartment on the banks of the Thames.

“I love you.” The words sort of tumbled out of Dillon’s mouth, and were completely spontaneous.

“What?”

“I said I love you.”

“Are you drunk, or feeling unwell or something?”

“No. It’s just that I wanted you to know, that’s all.”

Issy’s arms went around Dillon’s neck, burning lips brushed lightly against his with impatient passion. And then, as quickly, she broke the embrace, gently caressing his face for a moment, before saying, “I wouldn’t want to lose you, Jake. Not for anything.”

“I know. And you don’t have to worry; I promise to be careful.”

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Understandably, I do worry, and it’s because the work you do is likely to get you killed one of these days. But hay ho; you’re the only one who can do anything about that.”

Dillon knew what was about to come and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I promise that I’ll have a quiet chat with Sir Lucius after this assignment. Perhaps he’ll take pity on me and give me one of those nice safe desks to sit behind.”

Before Issy could reply, the taxi pulled up outside the apartment building.

Dillon walked across the open plan living area, pulled back one of the large glass panels, went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a single malt whisky before going out onto the terrace. He stood for a moment, listening to the sound of the city in the background and staring down at the river, six floors below him. Sitting on a lounger, he opened the file that Havelock had handed him after dinner and started to read the first page of a typed document. Since he’d got to know, and like, Dunstan Havelock, he had dropped a lot of the hard-man façade, and had over the years even started to trust him. More importantly, he trusted the man’s integrity.

After ten minutes of reading, he closed the file, finished his drink, stood up and went back inside, pulling the glass panel closed behind him. As he walked past a large oak-framed mirror, he stopped and took a good look at himself. His dark hair, once shoulder length, was now shorter but still as unruly as it had ever been. There was little he could do with the laughter lines that had started to appear in the corner of his eyes and around the mouth.

And the scaring over his body would always be there as a reminder of his rough past and, to some extent, his present lifestyle.

Dillon used his exceptional intelligence gathering talents; freelancing for Ferran & Cardini International, and the British Government, when it suited them. He charged a flat fee of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds per assignment, which fuelled an expensive lifestyle. Anything left over was shrewdly invested for a rainy day. The small, run-down West End theatre that he’d invested a large sum of money into a year ago was an indulgence he could afford. It not only appealed to his theatrical alter ego, but also gave him immense satisfaction to be involved with the renovation, when time allowed, in bringing back the building to its former glory. This was an extravagant project which Dillon immediately found an effective stress buster and a million light years away from the violent world that he moved in on a day to day basis. After looking at himself for a second or two, he rubbed an imaginary itch on his chin and then went off to bed.

* * *

It was still quite early the next morning, although Issy had already gone off to her office in Chelsea. He got out of bed to make coffee, took it back to the sofa where he had left Havelock’s folder and went through it again.

It was obvious that the man who at present had the Vermeer painting was extremely wealthy. Anyone who lived where he did had to be. The Vermeer was apparently part of a magnificent collection. Dillon didn’t need to go and check out the place to accept that it would have a state-of-the art alarm system, and possibly more than one. Breaking in would be a non-starter on his own, but he knew someone who might be persuaded to help him.

Charlie Hart had started life in New Delhi, India. He was born there in 1951. His father had been promoted and posted there to manage the British Imperial Import & Export Company office, and had subsequently made a comfortable living for the family. By the time Charlie was thinking about coming to live in England, he’d already made a fortune by trading in a variety of things, but it was property development in the UK that had made his wealth grow. So the dossier proclaimed. He still had strong trading links with India and Pakistan, and traded quite a lot in Northern Europe. Dillon pondered, Northern Europe; now that was an interesting area. What would he be trading there that was profitable? Background information had been checked and verified at the time when Hart came to the UK. Immigration had seen no problems with allowing him permanent residency, as he was already a British subject.