Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (20 page)

Dillon stood back smiling. It was so simple and had been beautifully constructed. He shone the torch beam through the opening. The passage was not that wide – there was limited headroom and he had to stoop to get through. He holstered the Glock and slung the Uzi over his shoulder as he stepped forward. The walls were of roughcast concrete and nowhere near as finished as the small room on the other side. Dillon counted off each pace he took, estimating that the passage was about a hundred feet from one end to the other. He ran the beam of the torch over the heavy metal door that now barred his way. It looked impregnable, but to Dillon’s surprise was unlocked and swung open into a much larger room on the other side. Perhaps the person, or persons, who had engineered the labyrinth, had not thought it possible for anyone to find their way to this area.

He entered the room, flicked on the light switch and the overhead fluorescent strip light flickered on. Apart from the heavy metal door he’d just entered through, the only other was a trapdoor in the ceiling at one end. He studied it for a brief moment, and then pulled it down, only to reveal a tunnel on the other side, which was circular and built of bricks and mortar. It went straight up, about twenty feet, and was covered in cobwebs and spiders.

An involuntary shudder ran through his body. The torch beam cut through the black to reveal a wooden cover at the very top.

A disused well, he thought, and then remembered that he’d seen it earlier when he’d called on Conner. He’d not taken much notice of it in the rear garden because it was virtually derelict and partially overgrown with brambles. He pushed the door back up into place and stood looking around the room. Occupying at least two thirds of the space were more wooden crates similar to those in the garage – some large, some small. All of them appeared to contain something, were numbered and their lids screwed down securely. As he scanned the room he noticed the six metal cases of the type the military use to transport ammunition around, lined up against the wall at the far end. On closer inspection he noticed that each had a heavy padlock protecting its contents. Dillon attempted to lift one of the boxes, almost gave himself a hernia and decided on another course of action. The first lock opened after only a few seconds of working the thin pick around the mechanism. He let the padlock fall to the ground.

As he lifted the lid a faint, musty locked-away smell reached him. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but rather one that you experience when you enter a room that’s been closed up for many years. He shone the torch inside and carefully peeled back the layer of hemp-like material to reveal what was underneath.

There were at least twenty gold bars neatly arranged in the bottom of the case. Dillon picked one up, turning it over and over in his hands. The density of gold is about 0.698 lb per cubic inch, and he guessed that the brick he was holding measured approximately 6 x 3 x 2 inches, or thirty-nine cubic inches. Mathematics was never one of his strong points, but he knew that the average gold bar weighed in at around 400 troy ounces and that its worth was something like £195.00 pounds sterling an ounce. Meaning that this brick at today’s price was worth around £76,500.

Twenty gold bars to each case, and a net worth of £1,500,000 each, he thought. So, if the other cases held the same amount they totalled nine million, give or take a few hundred thousand. All six cases had exactly the same contents. He took one bar out, wrapped it in a piece of the hemp and then closed all of the crates up again and replaced the padlocks; ensuring that they were positioned as they were before. He moved his attention to one of the wooden crates. He hunted around for something to prise off the lid and found a narrow length of flat steel bar thrown behind the boxes along with an ancient screwdriver. He spent the next ten minutes carefully removing all of the brass screws that held it down. Carefully packed inside was everything from oriental carvings to priceless works of art. By painstakingly sorting through the objects, Dillon estimated that there were forty ivory carvings and five paintings by two artists whom he had never heard of.

It was impossible to go through every crate individually and the boxes were all firmly screwed down. But when he tried to lift a few of them he was in no doubt that they all contained something. Each box had a three digit number branded into the wood, running consecutively, and Dillon made a mental note of the first and last crate numbers. It would take more time than he could risk to open every one of them, but what he did open merely confirmed his theory that they all had priceless works of art inside.

He went back through the tunnel to the small anti-room, carefully swung the concrete door back into place and was still surprised at how easily it moved considering how heavy it must be. The door was now the end wall again, and making certain that nothing was out of place he stood for a moment, and considered what he had discovered. It was certainly odd. Priceless art and gold bullion... it was the gold that was confusing him. Who had gone to so much trouble to hide these things, and why?

He went back up the steps and replaced the trapdoor, ensuring that the wooden crates were put in exactly the same positions as before. All the time he was mulling over the contents of the room below. He climbed back out through the rear window, dissatisfied and puzzled. As he crossed towards the house he heard the wounded man in the kitchen calling out.

Inside the house he switched on every light as he went from room to room so that finally the house was a blaze of lights. He started upstairs, searching for anything that might fill the gaps in his thinking. He decided to discard being careful and simply tipped drawers out onto the floor. He rummaged through the contents but found nothing of any significance.

There was nothing in the house, not even a shotgun. He could not believe that Harry Conner did not know what was in the garage – he was definitely involved in whatever was going on, most likely as a caretaker. Dillon looked around the room at the mess he’d created everywhere. Sheila would have something to say about that and Harry would be ordered, in regimental fashion, to clean it all up.

Serves him right, he thought.

Dillon found a small study downstairs and literally ransacked the place – smashing open anything that was locked. Again he found nothing that would explain why there was gold bullion and priceless works of art in a concealed room underground. The question why kept eluding him. He didn’t even find a list like the one he had taken from Julian Latimer’s apartment.

The one thing they would not know was whether or not he had discovered the trapdoor in the garage, for he had repositioned every crate as he’d found it there.

The house had proved nothing, which explained why there was no alarm installed. But it was apparently unimportant that the television and DVD player along with the other electrical goods around the house might be stolen. This in itself told a small story.

But there was no explaining why millions of pounds worth of art and gold, which admittedly would keep whoever it belonged to in a luxury and privileged lifestyle, should warrant five trained men being sent down from London to protect it. And, whilst here, erase Dillon in the process. It simply didn’t add up.

Dillon glanced down at his Omega Seamaster. It was just after 3.15 a.m. on a mild early-summer morning. He had been there for well over six hours. He unstrapped the Uzi from his shoulder, released the clip and quickly ejected every cartridge from the chamber. He replaced the clip into the weapon and walked back through to the kitchen where the two men were still tied up. As he entered the room, the one he’d shot in the shoulder was still in a sitting position staring up at him malevolently. He had obviously got a second wind and had been trying to free himself.

“I’m bleeding to death, you bastard! Call the doc, like you said you would.”

The words came in a snarling flurry, but made little impact on Dillon who simply stood over him. The urge to put a bullet between his miserable eyes was almost too strong to resist.

“Where’s this doctor got to come from?”

“London. Where the fuck do you think?”

“He’ll be too late. It’ll take him at least two and half hours to get here. By which time you’ll be dead, old son.”

Then he added, “Just so that you know, there are two of your friends dead in the woods – one I shot through the neck, the other I had to break his neck with my bare hands. Another is dead by the garage – most of his brains are on the wall. And your mate in there is barely alive, but he should pull through. The phone won’t work because you’re wearing its wire, so you’ve no way of warning the Conners, or whatever their name is. I’ll call for an ambulance when I’m well clear of here. Now, did you get all of that?”

“Fuck off.”

Dillon smiled.

“I’m going to. But I’m also going to inform the police that there are armed men out here. I don’t know how much time that gives you to get free, find your dead, haul your injured mate to whatever vehicle you arrived in and get away before the armed response unit arrives. You haven’t done very well so far, have you? But I’m a sporting man, so I’ll half cut the cord around your wrists, you can do the rest.”

“You don’t want the police calling here any more than we do, so untie this wire and we’ll call it quits.”

“You’re nearly right. But I don’t want to risk setting you completely free either. You don’t know who I am and sure as hell is all fire and gremlins, you won’t be giving a detailed description, because that might get back to your boss and he wouldn’t like that at all. Tommy Trevelyan has special methods of dealing with individuals who bring unwelcome attention to him or his organisation. So, you see, it really does depend on how quickly you can break free and untie your ankles.”

Dillon hauled the injured man over onto his side and, using a kitchen knife, partially cut through the telephone wire.

“There you go, your time starts now. And remember this for the future: If you ever come after me again you will end up like your three mates – dead.”

Dillon went outside. The house was still ablaze with lights and he almost felt sorry for Harry Conner when he finally came home to the devastation and mayhem with the police waiting on his doorstep. He ran back to the Ford, throwing the Uzi into the bushes as he went thinking that he would be safer driving back to the apartment in Lilliput rather than all the way back to London. He cleared away the foliage and branches from the car, pulled off his gloves and, sitting in the driver’s seat with the side window wound down, lit a cigarette whilst enjoying the dawn chorus for a moment or two.

It had been quite a night, but at the end of it he still wasn’t satisfied. Survival was only part of this game – he had managed that all right, but he had left himself with even more unanswered questions than before. Discovering the hidden room only added to those questions of why it was there and who it all belonged too. His gaze was held, as if spellbound by the gold bar that he was holding in his hands, stroking it as if it were a cat. Some say that gold can turn the most honest of men corrupt.

Even with everything that had preceded this point in time, there was nothing in that room that warranted such violence and loss of life. Somehow he had to get at Hart, because he was sure that all the answers lay with him in spite of Tommy Trevelyan’s deadly involvement.

As he drove back to Poole he kept a lookout for a public pay phone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Charlie Hart received the news that same morning. He’d got up early and had gone for a jog along the beach. Forty minutes later he was back indoors and showered, had breakfast and was in his study when the phone on the desk started to ring. He took the call, knowing that it was safe from prying ears and that it could not be listened into or intercepted by anyone or anything. The sophisticated decoder software that was active throughout the system took care of that, which meant that listening in was impossible. He listened to Trevelyan’s gruff tones without expression, all the time thinking what an unsavoury man he was. Things were getting serious, which didn’t surprise him at all.

The hit squad had managed to evade the armed police unit, who arrived with the sun coming up. This was mainly due to the timing of an anonymous caller informing them of gunshots coming from the property. Out of the five men sent down to Dorset, only two got away with their lives intact; one of these had been shot in the shoulder. They did, however, manage to carry the three dead men deep into the woods and lay low until the police left an hour later. They eventually managed to get the bodies back to their van and actually passed the police on their way back to the property as they were driving off up the road.

The three dead men’s bodies would be dumped at sea and the two wounded men were being taken care of by the doctor in the East End of London. It had been a bloody fiasco from start to finish. It was supposed to erase a problem, but instead it had left many elements at risk, and many unanswered questions. Nobody knew whether Dillon had found the secret room or not – he had certainly ransacked the house which didn’t matter in the least. Conner had the common sense to play out the innocent victim who had come home to find that his home had been the scene of some heinous crime. Both he and his wife were now under sedation with a police guard outside, just in case those involved returned.

Hart listened to all of this from Trevelyan, who was clearly angry and then said calmly, “Tommy, I know you have the organisation and the muscle power but you should have left it to me. Throwing men at this problem is only going to make matters worse.”

“I think I know what makes this man tick, Charlie. He was an army intelligence officer whose official army record states that he resigned his commission after striking a senior officer whilst serving in Afghanistan. I’ve even spoken to some of his former colleagues and they tell a very different story – that the army gave him an ultimatum, serve time or resign. He’s exceptionally well-trained and has come top in everything he’s ever done. It’s as simple as that.”

“I disagree. There’s much more to him than that. But let’s not argue about such a trivial matter. Tell me, what happens now, Tommy?”

“Well, for starters we’ve got to find the son of a bitch and then make sure he’s taken care of once and for all time. I just can’t believe he’s still alive.”

Hart smiled to himself. “As I said, Tommy. There’s far more to Mr. Dillon than you know.”

He hung up, because there was nothing more to say and because he was almost pleased that the overpowering Trevelyan had failed. But he accepted that that was merely a personal feeling. Of course Dillon must be found – he was stirring up far too much and starting to attract too much attention.

* * *

At the end of the street, Dillon was sitting behind the wheel of the Porsche, which had been fully repaired and looking brand new again. He had driven back to the apartment in Lilliput. Stopping off along the way to make the phone call, shaved, showered, and had grabbed two hours of sleep before parking up at the end of Charlie Hart’s road. By this time Hart would already have learnt of what had happened and it might force him to make some sort of move. Hart would not expect Dillon to be so active so soon after the night time events that had taken place in Lyme Regis.

Dillon had been waiting about thirty minutes before the big electric gates opened. Hart appeared behind the wheel of his brand new Jaguar convertible and as he pulled out into the morning traffic, Dillon followed three cars behind. Tiredness was catching up with him – not only from lack of sleep, but because recent events were starting to take their toll on his body and mind. He didn’t know where Hart was going, or what to expect. The journey might be a complete waste of time and most likely would be. But he was convinced that by following up so quickly on the Lyme Regis fracas, Hart would be at his most vulnerable.

The two luxury sports cars wound their way across Bournemouth in the light traffic. Hart was driving well, heading generally east towards Christchurch. Dillon didn’t allow himself to get any closer than two cars’ distance; whilst he was part of the flow of traffic, he was relatively safe from being spotted, and could think of no point on these roads where it would ease up, unless Hart intended to head for the motorway.

Dillon kept the Porsche tucked in behind a large white van, just able to see Hart up ahead. Hart drifted to his left and put on his left indicator. Dillon mirrored his actions; three other cars ahead of him were also turning. Dillon closed the gap up as much as he could.

Hart appeared to be in no particular hurry as he drove the Jaguar past The Royal Bath Hotel towards the Lansdown. Here he went on towards Boscombe centre. By now there was nothing between Dillon and Hart and Dillon drove on past, eventually found somewhere to park, and ran back to the corner of the street. At first he couldn’t see where Hart had parked the Jaguar, and then he saw him climb out of the driver’s side and make sure that the door was locked before walking off towards the high street. He followed him at a distance, conscious that the street wasn’t all that busy, forcing him to hang back.

After they’d been walking for two or three minutes, Dillon decided that Hart had walked this route before. At one point he had to duck into a shop doorway as Hart rounded a corner and he had to jog to it in an attempt to keep up with him. Dillon was no stranger to tailing people but as he came around the same corner, Hart had disappeared and was nowhere to be found.

The street in its day would have been a fine example of Victorian architecture. But all that was left today were poorly maintained shop premises that had shabby flats and bed sits over them; some occupied and others that were standing empty, boarded up, their doorways only frequented by tramps looking for shelter. Dillon walked along slowly, scanning both sides. He was just about to give up when he spotted Hart sitting at a table inside a small café. Dillon darted into a newsagents diagonally opposite, and thumbed through a few magazines whilst keeping an eye on Hart, who appeared to be fixated on something holding his attention on Dillon’s side of the street.

Dillon left the newsagents and walked up the street on the fringe of a group of students. He turned into a shop doorway, took out a cigarette and cupped his hands to light it. All the time keeping his attention fixed on the café doorway

Hart was still sitting at the window drinking coffee from a mug and staring across the street, oblivious to everything that was going on around him. Dillon realised that he was so preoccupied that he doubted if he would notice if he went right up to him.

Dillon resisted the temptation to move position to get a better view of Hart’s expression, and it was a full five minutes later that Hart showed any sign of leaving the café. An older woman came out of a building along the street about ten doors away. Hart stood up, went and paid his bill, and a moment later, stepped out onto the pavement. As the woman moved off up the street, Hart followed on the opposite side, a short distance behind.

Dillon was intrigued. He watched Hart keep the woman in sight and decided not to follow. Instead he walked back to the doorway where the woman had emerged from. There was nothing to say who might live there. There wasn’t even a number on the door although there was a wall-mounted entry system with a name next to each of the flat numbers. Dillon thought it slightly odd for such a rundown building to have such a system. He looked back up the street and was just in time to see the woman cross the road as Hart slowed his pace when she’d disappeared around the corner. He followed her. When they had both disappeared, Dillon pressed one of the bell pushes. He didn’t really expect anyone to answer but rang each bell in turn. No one answered until the last but one.

It was a man’s voice who gruffly answered and sounded as if he’d just woken up, or had been woken up. Either way Dillon knew that he wasn’t going to be much help. But, as luck would have it, a moment later, the door opened and a couple in their mid-twenties came outside.

“Excuse me,” said Dillon with an apologetic smile. “I work for a local charity in the high street. A lady who lives in this building kindly gave us a bag of clothing to sell in our shop.”

The young couple looked at him as if he were talking Penguin.

“You see, she left some money in one of the pockets and I’m simply trying to return it to her. I was wondering if you knew the names of your neighbours so that I could trace her.”

“What does she look like mate?” The young male had piercing blue eyes and spoke with a west-country accent.

“About late fifties, maybe sixty something. I’m afraid she was only in the shop for a few seconds, so no one really paid much attention to her.”

“Well there’s only one woman of that description living here – Rosie.”

“Rosie? I don’t suppose you know her surname?”

“I think it’s Rosie Poulter. She lives in flat three on the second floor. Everyone around here knows her. A little bit odd, but harmless enough though. But I don’t think she’s in at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem. I’ll call back later. And thank you,” Dillon said, and without hesitation walked off up the road in the direction he’d come from.

He walked back to the Porsche, got in and sat thinking about Rosie Poulter and what her connection to Charlie Hart was. A minute later he drove off up the road, and was surprised to see the convertible Jaguar just pulling out. Hart had really spent very little time here, so why had he made the trip?

* * *

Hart was asking himself the very same question as he drove back to his home on the Sandbanks peninsula. Every time he made the trip to Boscombe, he came away feeling inadequate and ashamed of what he’d become. And then there was the anger he felt for being so foolish and completely obsessive about visiting that part of Bournemouth. It was completely pointless to go there and yet it seemed he had no control over it.

On this occasion he had not followed the woman as far as he usually would have. After she’d got on a bus he had simply wondered around the backstreets for a while. As he walked he considered the previous night’s events and had reluctantly developed a strange kind of respect for Dillon – there were qualities in the man he not only recognised but understood only too well. He would much rather have him as a friend than an enemy. Hart felt somewhat saddened about what he saw as the inevitable outcome. Men like Dillon were extremely rare these days – one-offs. It was a gross miscarriage of justice that he had to be terminated. Yet, however regretful. It had to be done.

* * *

Dillon rang Issy from the apartment in Lilliput hoping that she would be in. She was, but just about to go out to lunch with a friend.

“Issy, I just wanted you know that there have been developments with the assignment.”

But before he could say anymore she exploded down the line and told him what he could do with the assignment, adding, “I’m sorry, Jake, but I am not prepared to be hidden away for a moment, longer, and I will be back in my office first thing tomorrow morning whether you like it or not. It’s been long enough and I’ve had enough.”

“Issy, they’ve put an open contract out on me. They want me dead and they’re willing to pay for it.”

He had not wanted to tell her, but it was now necessary to keep her safely tucked away and out of harm’s way.

“That’s a dirty trick, Jake. Made more so because I know that you’re not going to expand upon it.”

She didn’t want to believe him, at the same time knew it must be true – under normal circumstances he would not want her to know such facts. Even though she was aware that this was definitely not the first time his life had had a price put on it.

“You know that I wouldn’t bullshit you over something like this, Issy. Of course I’m aware that being cooped up must be driving you nuts. But I’m also sure that your other partners are coping just fine, especially as you’re still working, albeit from home.”

“Are you thick, Jake? The world doesn’t only revolve around you, you know? I want my life back because I’m fed up with being locked up like a caged bird.”

“Look, it won’t be for much longer, I promise. And when this is over we’ll get away. Somewhere hot and peaceful.”

There was a long pause before Issy asked tearfully, “Where?”

Dillon was taken aback by the bluntness of her reply, but thought quickly of a place they’d both spoken of in the past.

“South Africa?”

“Not bad, Dillon. Can you be more specific?”

“How about the master suite at Pezula Castle?”

Her voice brightened, the tears had all but gone. She knew it was shallow, but why shouldn’t she take advantage of this fabulous offer which she knew would be a once in a lifetime holiday. It was as much as she could do to contain the rising excitement that she was now feeling.

“Pezula Castle?”

“Yeah, overlooking Plettenberg Bay. Now will that stop you going into that damned office of yours for a few more days?”

“Oh, I think I can stay put for a little while longer.”

Dillon hung up and using the secure line on his mobile phone, dialled the special projects department of Ferran & Cardini.

“Vince, I want you to take this name down. There’s a ‘Rosie Poulter’ living in Christchurch Road, Boscombe, Bournemouth. She lives alone but has one daughter, who may be at university. The woman is somewhere in her late fifties, or possibly early sixties. See what you can dig up for me. Everything you can find out about her from the minute she was born. But be extra careful that you don’t leave a trail behind you. We can’t be too sure about who may be monitoring us, and this woman has some sort of connection to Charlie Hart.”

“I’ll send the info in email form to your phone, but it will take about twenty-four hours. Oh, there is one more thing, Jake.”

“What’s that?”

“Dunstan Havelock’s home and his private Whitehall phone lines are both being monitored by the security services.”

“Are you positive?”

“One hundred percent. As luck would have it, I intercepted an email confirming it to one of the monitoring departments at GCHQ. It grabbed my attention because it was so heavily encrypted, but not so much that I wasn’t able to decipher it within ten minutes though.” The big Australian chuckled out loud.

“Why are they so interested, Vince? And why are they so keen to talk to me? Something is all cock-eyed about this whole affair and I reckon they know that I’m getting very close to finding out what it is.”

“Well it might have something to do with what you found down in Dorset. I’ve been reading the report you sent to LJ. I’m sure that they know nothing about the gold or the other things you found, and it’s best kept that way. But I’ve no doubt whatsoever, they have their suspicions.”