Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (31 page)

He went back into the house feeling uneasy. The Conners were at home, but the white van was missing. So where was the van? He went back into the living room where he found Sheila almost free of the rope bindings. She was becoming tiresome, and Dillon made sure that she knew it as he roughly bound her wrists and ankles again. He undid Harry Conner’s gag and asked him where the van was. Sheila shot a look of warning, but Conner didn’t have the same courage as his wife.

“I let a friend borrow it.”

“When is it due back?”

“I haven’t got a clue. I told him to keep it as long as he wanted. His car is in the garage for work, see?”

Conner was trying his best to put on a show in front of Sheila, knowing he would pay for it later if he didn’t.

Dillon dragged Conner by the feet into the kitchen and closed the door. He pulled out the Glock.

“Now then, Harry. Sheila can’t hear us talking in here. Have you anything to add or do you want your left elbow shattered into a million tiny pieces?”

“I’m telling you the truth. The van has been borrowed.”

Dillon immediately picked up on the shift of emphasis.

“It’s not a friend, is it? So it must be one of Trevelyan’s men. When’s he due back?”

“I haven’t got a clue. Look, when Tommy Trevelyan finds out about this he’ll come after you, mate.”

“I’m not your mate, Harry. And quite frankly, Trevelyan doesn’t frighten me in the least. He’s nothing more than a decrepit old thug whose time on this planet is very limited. Do I make myself clear?”

Conner nodded.

“Good, because I want you to tell him that as well. I’ll be back.”

Dillon left Conner trussed up on the floor in the kitchen and closed the door behind him. He ran back through to the garage, not sure how much time he had. He moved the empty crates away from the trapdoor in the garage floor and went down the steps to the small anti-room. He went straight to the far side and rested his shoulder against the secret door, which moved effortlessly on its pivot hinge as it had done before. He switched on the torch he’d brought with him in the rucksack and shone its beam into the passageway beyond. At the other end he pushed opened the door to the main storage room, but as the torch beam darted and danced over the walls, he sat back on his haunches and cursed out loud. The room was empty.

He went inside to make absolutely sure. Everything had gone and the floor had been freshly painted so that it appeared that nothing had ever been there. Disappointment was an understatement; he had taken the risk of returning for nothing. He backed out of the room, moving quickly along the passageway, closed the heavy concrete slab and went up the steps. He replaced the empty crates over the trapdoor and went back to the house.

As he entered the kitchen, Conner looked up and immediately saw trouble.

“When did they collect it, Harry?”

“Collect what? What are you talking about?”

Dillon squatted in front of Conner and gripped his throat with his free hand.

“The game plan has just changed, Harry. I’m not feeling reasonable anymore and I’m extremely pissed off. Give me one more answer like that and you won’t be capable of giving any answers at all. And then there is Sheila’s well-being to think about, isn’t there? Now, when did they move the gold and all the other stuff?”

Conner was now really scared on two counts.

“Have you any idea what they will do to me?” he blurted out.

“Exactly the same as I’m going to do to you. But the difference is, Harry, I’m here and they’re not. And you’d better not forget that I’m the one who took out the best that Trevelyan could muster. Did they tell you that at least three of the five they sent down here were killed? They’re most likely fish food by now. Come on, Harry. Get it over with quickly, or I will.”

Fear overcame Conner and he said, “For God’s sake, don’t let Sheila know that I’ve blabbed.”

“She’ll not find out from me, Harry. Now get on with it.”

Harry’s mouth suddenly became as dry as parchment paper and the words came with difficulty.

“They left late last night, about midnight. Three of them, there was, in one of those big panel vans – the sort that tradesmen who fit kitchens and the like use. They took our van as well.”

“Where have they gone to?”

“It doesn’t work like that. I’ve absolutely no idea.”

“Have they taken everything? I mean, it would usually follow that if they had closed down this site for good, then they would have killed you and Sheila before they left.”

If Conner had been frightened before, he was now visibly trembling with genuine fear. Until now he had not considered the possibility, but could see that Dillon was right.

“I’ve no idea where they went. They wouldn’t confide in me. I’m just a caretaker, and that’s what they pay me for each month.”

“But why would they take your van? Wasn’t there room in theirs?”

“Oh, there appeared to be ample room. I don’t know why.”

“Perhaps they left it close by to collect later and didn’t want you to know it was still here, otherwise they would have left it in the garage. Did they mention when they would return it?”

“They just said they’d be back, but didn’t say when.”

Conner was suddenly quiet, contemplating those past events that had now begun to make sense and which only added to his terror.

“Where would they hide it, Harry? Where would you hide it if you were them and didn’t want to use it straight away?”

“There are loads of places hereabouts, I don’t know.”

“Think, Harry. And you’d better be quick because your life may depend upon it. They could return at any time. Think man, for both your sakes.”

“They went to the end of the lane and turned left away from the coast. There are plenty of places they could have hidden it. That stretch of road has gateways that lead straight into lightly-wooded areas along it before it reaches the main road to Exeter in one direction, and Bridport the other. You would have to drive it, making sure you keep your eyes peeled, as the woods come right up to the edge of the road on both sides.”

Dillon stood up.

“I’d like to untie you now, but I don’t trust you and most definitely not Sheila. If things work out, I’ll come back and release you. Otherwise you’re on your own, but I will leave both the kitchen and living room doors open. At worst you should be able to shuffle your way through.”

Dillon ran back to the Porsche and pulled off the camouflage as fast as he could. He drove out of the wooded area and onto the lane, turned left onto the narrow country road and continued along it at a snail’s pace, keeping his eyes peeled for the small white van. Dillon felt like he was chasing the end of a rainbow again, but the taking of the van when they already had sizable transport made no sense. They wouldn’t be short of vehicles. And the fact that the Conners had been left, indicated that someone would be returning or that Trevelyan had a reason for leaving them where they were.

The weather was holding fine. The clouds of earlier in the day had all but disappeared, allowing shafts of sunlight to shine through the leafy canopy of the treetops. He slowed to a virtual crawl at each gateway, staring intently for anything that resembled a van, and then he caught the faintest suspicion of a reflection. The van had been hidden well but not well enough for his trained eye. He took the Porsche through the open gateway and onto a grass standing on the other side before climbing out to investigate what he’d seen.

There was no time for niceties. He was in full view of the road and had to throw caution to the wind. He whipped off the camouflage, uncovering the van so that he could get a better look inside. All the windows were closed and the doors locked. Dillon went back to the Porsch, got the small crowbar from the rucksack and approached the rear doors of the van. Before attempting to jemmy them open, he got down and took a thorough look underneath for any booby traps. He went round to the front and, feeling around for the catch, popped the bonnet open to see if the engine had been tampered with. Nothing had been. Moving back and forth down both sides, he checked for any wires that shouldn’t be there. Whoever had hidden the van had been either in a tremendous hurry or arrogant enough to think that no one would come looking for it.

He placed the flat tip of the crowbar in the gap between the two doors and then pushed against it until the lock snapped and the doors sprang open with the leverage. He laid face down flat on the ground, his arms protecting the back of his head in case of any booby traps. When nothing happened he climbed to his feet to look into the back of the van, sensitive to the slightest movement. He peered inside and immediately saw why it had not been left in the garage for the Conners to find. A wooden crate was pushed right up to the rear and, because of its size, had only just gone in on its side.

Still wary of any booby traps, Dillon grasped the crate and gently pulled it towards him. It wasn’t as heavy as he first thought and he was able to carefully lift it out of the van and onto the grass. He took the crowbar and with extreme caution prised off the lid. The crate was filled with polystyrene baubles that were concealing three large plastic bags which were shrink-wrapped and heat-sealed at one end. Pulling each one out slowly, he placed them onto the grass and, throwing caution out the window, opened each one with the blade of his knife. Each bag was filled with a single parcel wrapped in brown waterproof paper and bound together with natural string cord.

It was no time to relax. He ran his fingers all around the paper and found nothing to make him suspicious. He cut away the cord of each parcel and took his time to carefully unwrap the layers of brown paper from each of them in turn. When he had finished, there were three plastic containers in front of him, which he instinctively knew would have either cocaine or heroin inside. He peeled back the lid from the first container, dipped his forefinger in and then tasted it. Cocaine, cut and ready, with a street value he would not attempt to evaluate. He lifted all three containers and carried them to the Porsche, carefully placing them out of sight in the boot compartment. He put everything else inside the wooden crate and threw it back into the rear of the van, ensuring that the opened lid was facing outwards and then loosely closed one of the rear doors, but left the other deliberately wide open.

He drove back to Conner’s house as fast as he could, he could see no other vehicles on the lane up to the house and drove right up to the front door. He knew he was risking their lives, but too many people had already died and he didn’t want Harry and Sheila Conner on his conscience. He came to a sliding halt with the nose of the Porsche pointing back down the drive, running into the house, gun in hand.

Sheila had already reached the hall en route to find her husband, but it looked as though the extra tight knots were still holding. It would be too risky to release Sheila – he knew that she wouldn’t let it rest there. Dillon manhandled her back into the living room and shut the door behind him as she shouted four-letter expletives at him. He then went into the kitchen and untied Conner as fast as he could. He helped him up and held him against the wall.

“Untie Sheila and then get as far away from this place without delay. Are you listening, Harry? Your lives are worth nothing. Hide somewhere, anywhere, until it’s safe for you to get away properly. I’ll leave your gun in the porch – you might just need it.”

Dillon dashed out of the room, almost tripped on the edge of the hall carpet in his haste and went out of the front door at almost a full run, jumped into his car, and tossed Conner’s gun back into the porch. He drove off as fast as he could, leaving a cloud of dust and hoping that he had not left it too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Only when he had reached the main road, did his heart rate start to slow and the tension unravel itself from the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He had not been surprised to discover that the gold bullion and stolen works of art had already been moved to another location. Rather that it merely confirmed the suspicions he’d held for some time. Instead of being elated, he now felt only a deep sense of disappointment that there was very little doubt that Hart was inextricably involved with Trevelyan’s drug smuggling racket – although he had held this suspicion from early on in the assignment. The theory that he was only ever involved in the redistribution of stolen goods never really washed with him. If every crate that he had seen contained the same amount of cocaine, the total street value would be enormous. And if that were to be equated with a similar quantity at each of the other locations along the coast, he had uncovered a network of incredible magnitude.

He felt little or no satisfaction with what he had discovered, although he was now certain of it not really being the real issue. There were plenty of drug operations on this scale and much larger, but it was not what he had been searching for. Dillon usually felt optimistic about his ability to draw in all of the loose ends by the time he’d got this far with an assignment. At that precise moment he was feeling anything but optimistic. It was Hart who had interested him; Hart who had become almost an obsession with him; Hart, the enigma who somehow just didn’t slot into the world of drugs and funding terrorist activities. Clearly he had totally misjudged the man.

He felt deflated and at the same time knew it was far from over. Finding the house in Lyme Regis and the gold bullion in the secret room merely heightened those unexplained issues like why MI5 was involved. Was the gold really from the Brinks Mat robbery that took place more than twenty-five years ago? Or was he just being paranoid again? The security service was not in the business of busting a drug ring unless it was part of some political or a national security threat, and Dillon could still not see one here for sure.

He wasn’t sure when it had registered that he’d picked up a tail, except that he was on the fast stretch of dual-carriageway between Dorchester and Puddletown before he did. This was the second time in as many days that he had become convinced that he had one and thought he was losing his touch. The BMW 6 series had been sitting on his tail about four hundred metres back for some time, but made no move to catch him.

When Dillon changed down a gear and accelerated, the BMW moved with him. There was no attempt to close the gap, but when he moved out into the outside lane to overtake another car, the BMW also overtook. He was feeling irritated more than anything else and was never one to shy away from a spot of evasive driving if the need arose. If it was an attempt to intimidate him, the driver should learn something from Devdas Shah Zafar’s taxi driver in Delhi.

Dillon waited until the last minute and then left the dual-carriageway at the next turning off which led to villages that he had never heard of, and slowed right down. The BMW followed and there was nothing behind it on the quiet country road.

Dillon was now driving so slow that the other driver had no option but to try and overtake him. But as he did, Dillon accelerated hard up the road, spun the steering wheel hard round to the right and came to a sliding halt across the road, facing back towards the oncoming black BMW. The driver swerved, hit the grass bank and ploughed the front passenger side wing through the soft earth in order to move round and miss hitting the Porsche. As the BMW stopped, Dillon climbed out and sprinted over to the other car that was now half on and off the road. By the time he’d reached it he was convinced that it was not Trevelyan’s men who were following him.

“What the hell are you doing, you crazy idiot? You could have killed us both pulling a stunt like that.”

It was the passenger who had opened the car door and who was now yelling at Dillon.

“That is still a possibility if you keep on! You’ve been following me, which means you know where I’ve been and were so sure of it that you didn’t have to wait at the spot and were able to choose your moment to pick me up on the return.”

“You’re bloody barking, matey.”

“Maybe. But I’m sure that when Morgan reads your report he’ll find it very entertaining, if nothing else. Don’t forget to tell him that you completely fouled up because your friend there isn’t much of a driver. I’d get some lessons in basic handling techniques if I were you. Now, time is short and I don’t have all day to stand talking to you two. So if you’d be so good as to step out of the vehicle.”

“Piss off. We’ve got your number, matey. All we’ve got to do is call the police.”

“And tell them what, exactly? After all, you’ve had that option for some time, haven’t you?”

“Step out the car, or I’ll blow your effing heads off.”

As Dillon spoke, he produced the Glock, the reaction was what he’d expected as the two men complied with his request.

“You won’t get away with this, you lunatic. You can’t just wander around with a fucking Glock in your pocket. You’ll go down for this, matey.”

“You’re not very good at this undercover work, are you? ‘Glock’, ‘go down’ – all words used by the police or the security service. My bet is MI5.”

“Piss off.”

Dillon laughed.

“I’ll give you this. You’ve kept up the pretence, albeit not very well,” he said as he moved around to the front of the car and without hesitation fired a single shot into the radiator grill. There was an immediate hissing sound and a moment later, green coolant fluid started to pool on the ground directly underneath. Dillon walked back to the Porsche and drove off. But he was now deeply concerned that they had most definitely followed him down from London. This meant that they also knew about The Old Colonial Club and the rented apartment in Lilliput.

He continued his journey, more concerned about Morgan’s lot following than the amount of cocaine he was carrying in the boot. At Ringwood he pulled off the main road and into the service station, parking the Porsche out of sight of the road, and went inside to call Havelock at his Whitehall office from a payphone.

“It’s Dillon. I’m on my way back to London with something I found here in Dorset. It’s in the boot of my car and I’m going to need to leave it somewhere safe for a while. I think the time is right for us to meet openly, and Brendon Morgan should be there too. I’ve just had a little run-in with two of his boys and a big black BMW. Unfortunately their car sprang a leak just outside Dorchester. They’ve no doubt been in contact with him by now, and they almost certainly know about The Old Colonial Club.”

Havelock’s voice sounded tired. “It’s Morgan’s job to know these things, Jake. And so what if he knows? It doesn’t really matter at this late stage in the game anyway.”

“Can we meet at your place? Say eight-thirty this evening. I won’t be going back to the club, just in case they’re waiting for me. And don’t say a word to Morgan about us meeting or he’ll have a team waiting. There’s something very odd about MI5 being involved. I don’t like it. Dunstan, just tell him that you need to have a little chat with him urgently. I’ll give you a call at eight o’clock to make sure he’s going to be there. Oh, and Dunstan, can you make sure there’s parking? I don’t want to waste time driving around trying to locate a space which turns out to be half a mile away.”

He disconnected the call before Havelock could argue and glanced down at his wristwatch – there were a few hours to kill before meeting Havelock, which he decided to fill by going into his office in Docklands. It was the only reasonably safe thing to do with so much cocaine stashed in the boot of the Porsche, and it would give him a chance to catch up with Vince Sharp. He could also check his emails to see if Paddy McNamara had been in touch.

He parked the Porsche out of sight in the Ferran & Cardini car park, walked back down the side of the building and stopped at the side entrance. He placed his hand over the biometric reader pad and waited for the outer doors to open and the lift to arrive. He was thinking what to do with the boot full of drugs, which LJ would raise an eyebrow at if he knew that the class-A was on the firm’s property. As he got out of the lift he was immediately thrown back into the world of Ferran & Cardini International. The noise level within the special projects department was always running at full volume, and today was no exception. Some of the younger members of staff looked up in awe from their monitor screens as he walked through the department on his way to see Vince. They knew who he was and what he did, but very rarely saw him in the building as he was virtually always field-based. Dillon was the most successful field operative that the firm had and because of the high-risk assignments he was given, the other members of the team were always shocked when he turned up. Alive!

LJ had gone off to a high level intelligence meeting in Scotland for two days. Which meant that Dillon wouldn’t have to write up a progress report for him or explain why he had destroyed an MI5 vehicle. He found Vince sitting at one of his workbenches with wires and circuit boards laid out in front of him. He looked up as Dillon entered the brightly lit room, and smiled at him.

“Well, what brings you into the building, chap?”

“Time to kill. And the spooks have discovered that I’ve been staying at The Old Colonial Club.”

“Hell. How on earth did that happen?”

“I reckon that someone who works there told them. Because they haven’t got the savvy to have worked it out by themselves.”

“You could be right there. I’ll dig around in the files at Thames House when I get five minutes. You never know – they might have already logged the details on your file. If they have, we’ll be able to see who received the information and from whom.”

“Thanks, Vince. I’m going to check my emails, and then I’ll be off again.”

“Good hunting,” Vince said, and went straight back to working on the heap of wires laid out on his workbench as soon as Dillon had left the room.

He had plenty to think about, but he needed some answers, and the whole assignment had taken too many directions. He always knew where he stood with men like Trevelyan. Usually they just wanted to kill him and that was pretty clear-cut; sometimes he could face it. But when the security service was involved, nobody ever seemed to know what it was they wanted – even someone like Havelock. They were a law unto themselves and their work; in their eyes always justifiable and, at times, crossing some strange boundaries. Some would say unacceptable. During his army intelligence days he sometimes had to liaise with them, but he was never comfortable working with them. And here they were again.

He left Docklands, giving himself plenty of time to drive across town to Havelock’s home. He had checked to make sure that the cocaine was still in the boot and placed all of the containers into another canvas bag. He took the back roads where possible, finding it comparatively quiet going at that time of the evening. The dim light of dusk was taking hold and he drove steadily towards his destination.

He pulled over in a side road not far from Dunstan Havelock’s home to make his call. This time he would be candid, as there was still a strong possibility that the call would be monitored, and said, “Dunstan, forgive me, I’m calling you a little earlier than I said I would. Everything okay?”

“He said that he’d be here.”

Dillon arrived at Havelock’s house at 7.45 p.m. He parked outside without any trouble, Havelock having placed police cones in the space for him. He suspected that Morgan would make his own arrangements and most likely be driven by one of his junior staff. He went up the path and rang the doorbell.

Rachel opened the door and throwing her arms around him, gave him a big hug as Havelock appeared behind her. Rachel closed the door and the two men shook hands warmly.

“You’re a bit early. He’s not due for another forty-five minutes.”

“I know. But it’ll give me time to check around the outside and offload that stuff I was telling you about earlier.”

Havelock looked horribly shocked. “I can’t have that gear in my house.”

“Well I can’t leave it in the car and I’m certainly not handing it over to Morgan.” Dillon caught Rachel’s quizzical expression out of the corner of his eye.

“Sorry, Rachel.”

“What’ve you got in the boot of your car? Drugs?”

Dillon looked at Havelock and the following silence suddenly made her realise that she was right.

“Oh, my God. What will we do with them?”

“Dunstan will know,” said Dillon. “It’s evidence and the drugs squad will want it.”

“I’m wondering why they’ve not been involved with this investigation, Jake.”

“It just doesn’t feel right. I suggest that you leave it where it is for the time being until we can sort something out.”

Dillon looked from one to the other in some despair.

“You do realise, Dunstan, that this is likely to turn out to be one of the greatest drug ring busts in European history, and all you can say is keep it in the boot of the Porsche? A type of car that the police pull over as a recreational pursuit. That’s absolutely priceless. Well I’m afraid if you won’t take it, I’ll leave it outside your front door. I simply can’t risk keeping it in the boot until this thing is over.”

“But, Jake, surely it’s over now that you’ve cracked the whole affair wide open.”

Dillon felt deflated. They were now standing in the kitchen.

“If I recall, Dunstan, you asked me not to look into drugs, but how Charlie Hart came by a priceless Vermeer painting stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum in Boston. We then progressed to looking at the man himself. I suspect that drugs are only one of his interests and certainly not the main one. I feel like I’ve been going around in circles from the minute I embarked on this assignment. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check around the outside for any stray spooks. I’ll then bring the stuff in.”

Dillon went out through the back door, down the garden and through a gate in the far wall. He then checked around the narrow street at the side of the property and ended up at the front of the house a moment later. Whilst Dillon collected the canvas holdall from the boot of the Porsche, Havelock stood at the front door watching him. He carried it up the path to where Havelock was standing and brushed past him. Havelock came inside and closed the door behind them. Dillon placed the holdall on the floor and unzipped it, took out one of the plastic containers and peeled back the top, revealing the white powder inside.

“That is what street-ready cocaine looks like. Now try, if you will, to calculate the extent of human misery that this lot could cause.”

Dillon took the holdall and placed it in the cupboard under the stairs.

Havelock was not at all happy about it, but until they met Morgan, could see no alternative. They went into the living room and Rachel poured drinks. Before Dillon sat down he said, “Rachel, would you mind pulling the curtains in all of the rooms facing the front of the property?”

“Do you think that Trevelyan’s men could have followed you here?” Rachel handed Havelock his drink.

“I’d be very surprised if Trevelyan knows I’m here. His problem is that he can only see what he wants to see. His mind gropes around in mist and the semi-darkness. I doubt if it’s ever seen the sunshine. It would never occur to him that I would know someone like you, Dunstan.”

“Who then?”

“Who knows? Dillon knew that he had confused Havelock even further. Havelock liked to keep it simple and always had difficulty in believing the depths that some people will sink to. He collected his drink from Rachel and then drifted over to the window overlooking the street. He went to one side and lifted the side of the curtain with a finger. He stood there for some time, his thoughts interrupted by Havelock asking, “Well? Is there anyone lurking in the shadows out there?”