Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (34 page)

Dillon slipped down from the bar stool and gave a wry grin.

“Have I been holding you against your will?”

He walked out of the pub with her and as they stood on the pavement, she turned to him and said, “No, but I’m still wondering what your real game is.”

“I’m sure your mother is very proud of you,” he said spontaneously.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I don’t. But I’m sure she is and always has been.”

“I reckon you know far more than you’re telling. So, do I get to hear the full story one day? The truth?”

He stared at her and noticed how clear and steady her eyes were. “I’m sure you will. It’s been nice meeting you Sarah.”

Dillon shook her hand and was walking back to his car before she could say another word.

As he drove across town to the rented apartment in Lilliput, he couldn’t work out whether meeting Sarah Poulter had been good or bad luck. He had obviously held certain things back and perhaps he might have learnt more from her mother. At the same time he was glad he had met her. He had gone as far as he could – it was time to meet Hart again. But first he must contact Paddy McNamara and hope that he had been able to do the research he wanted.

Dillon parked the Porsche and went up to the apartment. He made himself a coffee and then made the call to McNamara, using his mobile phone. The two men knew each other sufficiently well enough to skip the usual niceties.

“Did you manage to get to the file?” Dillon asked eagerly.

“It’s a very sensitive subject matter, Jake. You’ve hit the mark in one respect. The file and all of its extensive sub-files are classified, and both the American and British Governments have given it the highest classification. It looks like a can of worms, mate. And from what I can see, it’s also still very active on both sides of the pond. One of the files that might interest you: satellite images clearly showing the locations of terrorist training camps in India and Pakistan. But more than that. In a sub-file there are bank statements showing transfers of money from a number of obscure and untraceable companies. Some of these are in the UK and the sums of money involved range from one to eight million at a time. That’s it, mate. Apart from one last thing. Watch your step. Because by the looks of it, there are a lot of different agencies from all over the planet working on this. And they won’t want you clambering all over their hard work.”

“Advice taken and duly filed in the caution tray. Be good, Paddy. And thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Jake. Goodbye.”

Dillon hung up and had found out what he’d wanted. That MI5 were telling the truth and that the investigation was on a global scale. He pushed the speed dial button on his mobile and a moment later, Charlie Hart answered the call, but wasn’t sounding his usual self.

“I think it’s time to meet again, Charlie. The sooner the better.”

“I agree. The sooner the better, but it won’t be easy with MI5 all over me like a rash.”

“How long have they been chaperoning you?”

“Almost two months now. But I suppose you already know that as you’ve been working alongside them of late. Have you any suggestions?”

Dillon thought that Hart sounded battle-weary, even resigned, which disturbed him.

“I’m assuming that your very sophisticated security system has a personal panic button located somewhere?”

“Six, actually, one in every bedroom and one in the living room.”

“Good. Because I want you to hit one of them at exactly 9.30 p.m. Bring the local plod running to that very expensive locale of yours.”

“Are you mad? It won’t just be ordinary policemen, you know? It’ll be armed response and most likely dogs as well. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“No. But just do it, Charlie. Trust me, because I’m all you’ve got at this present time.”

“I’ve known that for some time. Anything else?”

“You’re sounding tired, Charlie.”

“It’s the strain. It’s been with me for a very long time.”

“Well, take it easy and just do as I say. 9.30 p.m. exactly, and do not let anyone into the house except me.” Dillon disconnected abruptly.

He went out onto the balcony and stood at the railing. Across the water sailing yachts were coming back home into the harbour, passing Brownsea Island on their way to their marina berths and moorings. From his mobile phone, he called Frank Gardner to ask a favour. It was simple enough: anchor off Brownsea Island, and, from 9:30 p.m. onwards, keep his eyes peeled on Charlie Hart’s property. That organised, he went back inside and stripped down the Glock – not because it needed it, but to fill in time whilst he waited. He made sure the magazines were full, one in the weapon and three spares, all were loaded with hollow-point ammunition. He poured himself fresh orange juice from the fridge. If there was a time to stay sober, this was it. Dillon had realised for some time that the security service would rather kill Hart than let him get to speak with him again, and he had rather belatedly come to the decision that Hart was fast becoming an endangered species.

When it was time to leave, he drove off with plenty of time to spare. It wasn’t the distance he had to travel, but rather he knew that the parking on the roads around Hart’s home would be extremely difficult, even at that time of evening.

He reached the peninsula at 9.10 p.m., driving up and down some of the side roads in search of a parking space. When he couldn’t find one, he headed straight for the Haven Hotel, drove the Porsche into a vacant space and walked into the main reception lobby of the hotel. On spotting the concierge, he went straight over to him and had a quiet word before discreetly handing him a fifty pound note.

He walked slowly back along Panorama Road towards Hart’s house, passing by his driveway, all the time looking casually around for any signs of a surveillance team lurking somewhere close by. It all appeared to be normal – street lights, house lights, a spattering of people, cars pulling up or driving through. He reasoned that security personnel would be sitting in a van staring at monitor screens linked wirelessly to covert surveillance cameras positioned around the immediate area. And there it was parked in a side road – the only giveaway the blacked out windows.

Dillon was wearing a disguise he had found, and which actually fitted him, in the owner’s private dressing room. Because it wasn’t a bad fit it allowed him to wear the Glock holstered under his right arm, concealed by the blue and yellow sailing jacket he was wearing. He walked past the high entrance gates of Charlie Hart’s home, the collar of the jacket tipped up and the woollen beanie hat pulled down over his ears doing a good job of obscuring his face from anyone observing. Casually, he glanced down at his Omega Seamaster and then crossed the road and retreated up the side road where the surveillance van was parked; pushing his luck should anyone be watching him walk by.

He checked the time again. There was still ten minutes to go. It would seem like an eternity. He was satisfied that everything was as it should be, and that the presence of the security service would more than likely consist of two people, three at the most. He walked to the other end of the road which cut through the short distance from the harbour side of the peninsula to the other that met the English Channel, and which took him back to the Haven Hotel. He went past the hotel’s entrance and headed down towards the chain ferry and the water’s edge. He checked the time again. There was still five minutes to go. It was strange that waiting so often went with silence and that every small sound became an increasing intrusion.

He was tempted to go back up to Panorama Road to peer round the corner, but managed to refrain from such an amateurish action.

At 9.29 p.m. he pulled out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone that he had purchased from a man in a pub for twenty pounds, dialled 999, asked for the police, and spoke precisely. “I want to report a robbery that is taking place at Panorama Road.”

Dillon quickly reeled off Hart’s address. “I’ve also heard someone shouting and there are screams and what sounded like gun shots coming from inside the grounds, so you’d better be quick.”

He disconnected before the operator was able to ask him for his name and after switching it off, dropped the untraceable phone into the deep water.

Dillon knew that Hart’s sophisticated alarm system was connected to the nearest police station, and the moment it sounded they would dispatch officers to investigate – the anonymous phone call would merely spur them on. The shrill sound of the alarm started to sound thirty seconds later.

It was as if a small disaster had just occurred. The sound of police sirens in the quiet street shut out everything else. An ambulance turned up a moment later, which even made the security service men jump out of their van to see what was going on, but in doing so, gave away their location.

The police arrived within three minutes and suddenly the place was awash with uniforms and blue flashing lights. First on the scene were two marked police cars that blockaded the road fifty metres either side of Hart’s entrance gates. Moments later the armed response vehicle pulled up behind one of the marked patrol cars, and six black-clad figures jumped out of the side door and rushed to take up position. Each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 assault rifle and Glock 9mm automatic pistols in their side holsters. At the same time, a silver Lexus IS250d saloon squealed to a holt and two plain-clothed detectives got out and went straight over to the armed officers. One of them spoke to the senior officer in charge, and the next moment one of the detectives moved in a low crouch towards the closed gates and the intercom panel. Before he could push the button, one of the security men ran up to join him, flashed an identity card and said, “I think you’ll find this is a false alarm. We’ve had this property under constant surveillance. Nobody has gone in and no one has come out. Now, do you think you could call your uniforms off and tell the armed response unit to stand down?”

The plain-clothed officer resented the interference and replied curtly, “No, I bloody well can’t. It’s not just the alarm that’s gone off at the local nick – we’ve also had a phone call informing us that there have been screams and gun shots coming from this property as well.”

At that precise moment, Dillon was making his entrance two doors away from Charlie Hart’s property. He had gained access to the neighbour’s home by flashing a fake police identity warrant card, he had acquired whilst hired out by the partners of Ferran & Cardini to work undercover with the internal affairs squad on a police corruption assignment. For obvious reasons, he very rarely used it.

He smoothly explained to the owner of the multi-million pound residence that he was an undercover police officer and urgently needed the use of their small dinghy to get around to Hart’s private berth. Two minutes later he was in the water, rowing towards Charlie Hart’s sixty-five foot power cruiser that was moored up at the bottom of his garden. The police and security men were still arguing amongst themselves at the front gate. Hart had kept his head down and was sitting in his living room drinking a large gin and tonic from a cut glass tumbler – just as Dillon had instructed him to do.

Dillon let himself into the luxury residence by the back door that had been left deliberately unlocked. He went up the stairs two at a time, and headed straight to the living room. Hart was sitting on one of the leather sofas, watching the plasma screen on the wall in front of him. The high-definition camera positioned over the front gate was being fed back through Hart’s elaborate system and onto the plasma.

Outside the detective and the security man were still arguing the toss as to whether the alarm was a hoax or genuine. Hart used the intercom to settle the argument. A moment later, he met the detective and the spook at the front door, and immediately demanded to know who they were and what was going on. It was the young plain-clothed detective who spoke first.

“Would you mind explaining what is going on here, sir? We’ve been led to believe that there is a problem. Is there a problem or not?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s all been a bit of a mistake, officer. My housekeeper set the alarm off accidentally – she still hasn’t got the hang of the security system and must have touched the panic alarm by mistake. I’m ever so sorry for having dragged you all out on a fool’s errand.”

“I see, sir. Well, can you explain the telephone call we received just before the alarm started to sound at the station? The caller clearly stated that he had heard gunshots and screaming.”

Hart looked surprised. “Not from here. For a start, there are no firearms on the property and I’m sure that my neighbours will verify that there have been no gunshots or screams, as you say. There are of course those dubious-looking men who have been sitting in that van out in the road for the last few days.”

Hart looked directly at the spook whilst he was talking. “I was going to call the police myself first thing in the morning to report it.”

“So it has all been a mistake, then?”

“I feel such an utter fool for not calling you immediately myself and explaining that it was a false alarm.”

“If I may say, sir, I suggest that you ensure your housekeeper is made completely familiar with your alarm system. Perhaps then this costly mistake won’t happen again.”

“Of course, officer. Point taken. I will of course phone the Chief Constable and explain that this was all a silly mistake. I will also send a donation to the police fund, as a way of making amends for wasting your time.”

“That’s very generous, Mr. Hart. But you really don’t have to go to all that trouble.” The detective looked embarrassed.

“It’s no trouble. The Chief Constable and I have known each other for many years and I will make sure he hears about the exemplary way that you and your men have handled this matter. Goodnight, officer.”

Hart closed the door before either the detective or the spook could say another word. Outside the police cars disappeared along with the ambulance and the armed response unit, and minutes later the scene reverted back to one of quiet and calm. Apart from the security service surveillance team in the van parked in the road opposite – they remained.

Dillon felt pleased. He had achieved what he had set out to do. He had got into Hart’s house completely unobserved and under the noses of those who did not want him anywhere near the property. He had also made the local force fully aware that there was a security service operation on their patch. This would raise a few eyebrows in certain high ranking quarters. The two men shook hands and went back upstairs to the living room.

“I hope I don’t have to do that again in a hurry. Playing out a situation without a script or any idea where it’s going is dangerous,” Hart complained.

“I know. But you did it well, Charlie. You see, it had to be that way and it was all based on one thing that is certain. The police hate being pushed around by the security service. Luckily, it worked on all counts and I could now use a stiff drink.”

Whilst Hart poured the drinks, he said, “Now that you’re in, how do you propose to get out?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Charlie. It’s already taken care of. I’m surprised you even asked.”

Dillon gazed out towards the harbour.

Hart smiled weakly. “Perhaps I just wanted your reassurance.”

Dillon took his drink and when he was seated opposite Hart, he raised his glass and toasted, “Here’s to Rosie Poulter.”