Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (10 page)

Sloping shoulders and a neck like a tree trunk. The
young muscle-bound security guard eyed me up and down
suspiciously as I handed him the invitation, eventually
pushing open the heavy oak door for us.

Robert Flackyard’s spacious and elegant entrance
hall was as I remembered it from my previous visit.
Simply decorated in Mediterranean style and furnished
with impeccable taste, yet strangely cold and clinical, like
a doctor’s waiting room. We were immediately offered
a glass of Champagne and shown through to the rear
terrace, where a number of enormous marquees had been
erected; the illuminated swimming pool was now the
centrepiece.

Throughout the grounds torches had been lit and
the gravel paths freshly groomed. The sound system on the
stage area belts out nostalgic melodies from Flackyard’s
collection of early LPs. I wondered for just a brief moment
whether it might be a love of swing music that Harry
Caplin and Flackyard had in common. But, deep down,
my guts were telling me it wasn’t. Girls almost wearing
flimsy nothings, flitted around the guests refilling glasses
as they became empty.

I left Fiona talking to a tall blond haired banker
called Jack from New York in white dinner jacket. The
Dom is flowing, servants scurry and smile - the Flackyard
hospitality is working its magic.

To one side of the half round stage stood the main
attraction of the charity auction. An Aston Martin DB5,
brilliant silver paintwork gleaming. Sam ‘the car wash’
was busy giving it a final dusting off and polishing the
chrome. I approached the stage casually, glass in hand, as
if to merely admire and examine the car prior to bidding
later in the evening. Having spotted me walking towards
him, the young watcher knelt down by one of the wire
wheels and started rubbing the chrome spokes vigorously
with his cloth. He concealed his face, so that only the
back of his head was visible. He spoke quickly and to the
point.

“Flackyard hasn’t left the house all day. Apart from
the caterers, cleaning contractors, florists and marquee
people, only two other people have been allowed in. One
of them was that pizza-faced weasel George Ferdinand,
he got here about 2.30pm this afternoon. Stayed about
twenty minutes and then left.”

“Was he alone?” I asked.
“Yeah, he was alone, but he didn’t look happy
when he left, mind, slammed that big oak door at the
front so hard I thought the whole building was going to
fall down with the shock. Then he got in his car and spun
gravel everywhere as he pulled off.”
“Anything else?”
“Another bloke arrived around 4.15pm, never
seen him before. Definitely not local, though, he was
older, mid fifties, big and really fit looking. Might have
been ex military. He only stayed about fifteen minutes
and then left.” Sam got up and walked to the rear wheel,
crouching down he resumed his polishing with vigour.
“Well – elaborate,” I said.
“I couldn’t get a really good look at him; they’ve
kept me away from the main house and I’ve been watched
all day by the security guards. But I did manage to see
something that may be of interest. Look, I want a bonus
for staying here all day, you know, I’ve really stretched
this car cleaning lark beyond belief.”
“Why is that not a surprise? Go on.”
“One of Flackyard’s own security people obviously
knew who this big guy was. Because as he came through
the front gates he shook hands with him like an old friend.
I think he was telling him that the boss was expecting
him.”
He pointed over to the gate in the wall which leads
out on to this terrace.
“They were only talking for a minute or so and
then this big bloke walks off.”
“But as he did, the security guy calls after him
using a nickname I think, and when the big fella replied
though he had a really low gruff voice. I thought I’d
heard it before somewhere, but because of the distance
between me and them and all the noise going on like,
I really couldn’t hear what the name was or what was
being said. Sorry.”
One of the hired helps, with slicked down hair and
a fake suntan, came striding towards us; SECURITY was
written on a badge pinned to his lapel.
The conversation immediately switched to the
car. Sam was informed that Mr Flackyard had given
instructions for all cleaning staff to leave the premises,
as the evening was about to commence. He was given an
envelope and escorted to the main gates. Over the many
speakers an announcement was made that the auction
was about to start. I looked around for Flackyard who
was conspicuous by his absence. I sat down at the nearest
available table.
My thoughts though were elsewhere. Was George
Ferdinand possibly skulking in the flowerbed or was he
attending to a little business elsewhere?
Had Rumple really gone off the track? Who killed
Charlie McIntyre? What of Harry Caplin, was he in
league with Flackyard or working with Ferdinand? All
of these questions kept rattling around in my mind, over
and over again, never resting.
After about five painful minutes of sitting at a table
with eight complete strangers who had all drunk far too
much Champagne I quietly got up and walked out. On
the way I looked around for Fiona, but to no avail. In
the main hall Robert Flackyard was coming through a
doorway from an adjacent room with two of his security
people.
“Mr Jake Dillon, what a pleasure it is to have you
in my home once again. I sincerely hope that you are not
leaving us so early, the festivities have barely begun.”
“Tell me Flackyard, why exactly did you invite me
here tonight? It’s surely not because I’m on your A-List of
influential people to have at parties, is it?”
“Perhaps you just wanted to know where I would
be this evening?” I said easily, all the time looking straight
at him. The angry fire flared in his eyes, but only for a
second, receding almost immediately.
A snap of his fingers and my way was barred. I
was ushered through the doorway and into the room
Flackyard had just that minute come out of by the same
sullen faced security doorman who had seen Fiona and
me in earlier in the evening. The walls were covered in
books from floor to ceiling all placed carefully in fine oak
bookcases.
Flackyard walked to the far end of the library and
placed himself behind a large, highly polished mahogany
desk. He stood for just a moment looking down as if
collecting his thoughts. Sitting down he swung around
and leaned back in the leather-faced captain’s chair, all
the time concentrating on the polished top of the desk.
Not once did he look up at me. Clasping his hands as if to
pray, he leaned forward putting his elbows on the mirrorlike wood, the tips of his fingers just resting on his chin.
After what seemed like an eternity he eventually lifted
his gaze and looked straight into my eyes with piercing
coldness.
“My dear, Mr Dillon, since you arrived here in
Bournemouth you have been - how shall I put it - a thorn
in my side. Your firm sent you here to discreetly retrieve
certain sensitive items from a sunken wreck. Having
achieved this, you disappoint me by still having in your
possession something belonging to my associates and
me…”
His voice trailed off, as another dark suited
security flunky roughly pushed the door open with a
hand tightly gripping a struggling Fiona Price under the
arm. He blurted to his employer that he had found her
snooping around inside the house. Flackyard, furious at
being interrupted in this manner sharply barked the order
that she be released at once. Getting up, he went round
and pulled up an old 1930’s leather easy chair in front of
the desk, motioning her to sit.
“Miss Price, how good of you to join us, I am
enchanted to meet you, and of course, by your beauty, you
look so elegant this evening.” He was instantly charming,
with a golden voice, tainted by time but guaranteed to
captivate, as long as you prefer tone to substance.
Before turning his attention back to me, he ordered
the man who had just manhandled Fiona in, to get out
of his sight. That done, he continued, “Now, Mr Dillon,
where were we – ah yes, your meddling in my business,
and the missing packages. I will come straight to the point,
especially as I’ve guests to attend to and lots of money
to raise for our charities. I asked you here this evening
for one reason and one reason only. As you quite rightly
guessed, I wanted to ensure that I knew exactly where
you were. Unfortunately I was informed just a moment
ago that my people have not found what they were sent
to look for. Your rented house and the boat I’m afraid
will need a little straightening out when you return.”
I lurched forward towards Flackyard. The two
bodyguards who had been stood on either side of me,
reacted instantly and with a professional expertise that
sent me down onto my knees.
“Ah, but how very remiss of me Mr Dillon, I
forgot to give you the credit you so rightly deserve. I
should have known that a man of your resourcefulness
and experience would move the packages. But my friend,
you would be well advised not to trifle with me, I am
not a man to cross. Show him, Nazir.” He said to the big
Egyptian stood to his right. But kept his gaze on me.
Nazir, cracked his fingers, like a bare knuckle
boxer does, just before a fight. And for a split second I
thought I was in deep trouble. He stood in front of me,
his face completely expressionless, pulled a two-way
radio from his jacket pocket and spoke very quietly into
it. The Egyptian then walked in a business like manner to
the other side of the room to a large sash window.
“Let him up.” Flackyard ordered. “Why don’t you
take a look out of the window, Mr Dillon?” He said with
a grin.
I stood up, straightened my jacket and bow tie and
then looked over at Fiona, who shot me a nervous glance.
I did my best at a reassuring look back.
“Well, the view over your courtyard is very nice,
Flackyard. But what is it, that I’m supposed to be looking
at?”
Nazir, once again spoke into the two-way radio.
A dodge pickup truck backed into the courtyard and
stopped just below the window.
“Take a good look. As Mercedes go, I’d say the
one that you’re looking at, would fall into the compact
class. Wouldn’t you, Mr Dillon.”
I didn’t say a word, simply turned and then walked
across the room to where Fiona was sitting and stood by
her side.
“I do so hope that you’re not in any way under
the illusion about the lengths that the people who own
that opium will go to. They want it back, Dillon. Think
yourself lucky that you weren’t in your car at the time
they crushed it. Needless to say the next time…”
“There won’t be a next time, Flackyard, and those
packages, that you so badly want back. Well, they’ll be
kept safely on ice until you fulfil your part of the deal
as agreed with my employers. Until then they stay safely
hidden away. Of course you will be told when and where
to retrieve them, as and when the Partners are completely
satisfied that their business with you has been concluded.
Once and for all. Is that clear enough for you – Mr
Flackyard?”
The air in the library hung heavy with tension and
cigar smoke. Only the tick-tocking of the grandfather
clock standing in a far corner broke the silence, as I
waited for Flackyard to reply.
“You are of course quite right, Mr Dillon,” he
said calmly. “I shall arrange for delivery as quickly as
possible.” Flackyard hadn’t flinched; his hands now lay
flat, palm-down on the tabletop. The calmness that he
showed was a façade inside, I knew that he was seething,
wanting to smash his fist into my face repeatedly for
daring to confront him, especially in front of his staff.
“When you’re in a position to conclude the
transaction, Mr Flackyard, please contact me on this
number. Oh and you owe me a new car.” I placed my
card in front of him, turned, smiled to myself and left
with Fiona.

I drove the car that I’d hired into London with an
odd feeling of melancholy.
Charlie had been murdered not more than twenty
feet from where I’d been standing and Rumple had been
shot in the shoulder right next to me. Not that I thought
that either had been unsuccessful attempts to get at me,
but diligence ensures a much longer life than bravery ever
did. I decided to make a few discreet inquiries on my own
private grapevine, even if it did mean ignoring LJ’s rules
and procedures.
The cool wind carved up the street faster than a
stockbroker’s Porsche, and a leather–clad rider on a
Japanese super-bike came roaring past in search of cooperation in the act of suicide. Instead of going to the
apartment I checked into one of those cheap, small sidestreet hotels that catered for travelling salesmen and
persons looking for anonymity. It was all 80’s floral
wallpaper and dusty fake plants. I wrote the name of
James Fisher into the register. The overweight Slavic night
porter manning the reception desk eyed me suspiciously
and asked for some form of identification.
“Can I see your work permit?” I asked bluntly.
Embarrassed by my retort, he grudgingly gave me
a key and told me my room was on the third floor at the
front. The gaudy floral wallpaper was obviously a job lot
with bed linen to match. The room was otherwise clean
but bland and poorly furnished. I threw my overnight
bag on the floor, flopped down onto the bed and slept,
waking with a start when my travel clock told me it was
10.40 am. I had already decided to let a few hours pass
before contacting LJ. I used my mobile phone to dial an
inner London number. The phone made all the correct
noises associated with making a call. After a while it even
rang at the other end.
“Can I speak to Simon Davenport?” I said. He was
my first ear to the ground.
“This phone is very hot – be careful,” said the voice
at the other end and hung up. He wasn’t usually a laconic
man, but in his world of electronic wizardry, tapped land
lines and mobiles being listened to by satellite were an
everyday occurrence. I decided to ring someone else who
definitely had his ear to the ground. This time I was a
little more circumspect. I waited for Alex Chapman, an
Australian, to speak first, then I said, “Hello, Alex.”
“I recognise the voice of my old mate…” he replied.
“You do,” I said before he could blab it across the
phone.
“Are you having a spot of bother?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Alex; am I?” I heard him laugh like
a hyena at the other end.
“Let’s not talk over this,” he said. His paranoia
about talking on telephones was legendary.
“How about that trendy café bar, what’s it called,
bloody hell it’s got a name that plays on words. Ah, I
remember, ‘Java Kye’ that’s it, say in an hour.”
“OK,” I said.
Java Kye actually is slang for coffee and drinking
chocolate respectively. This sophisticated small café bar
in Kensington has a reputation for exquisite coffee, and
from the moment you step in your senses are lifted with
the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans from around
the world. You fight your way through a selection of
American and European newspapers with a few glossy
magazines added for colour. Inside it’s a fusion of what’s
now and memorabilia of a bygone age, stage set superbly
to amuse the rich and famous. I heard someone saying,
“… God, I feel like shit this morning, but I have to say
what an absolutely excellent party.” It was 12.30 in the
afternoon.
“Espresso, please,” I said. Alex’s skull shone
through his thinning hair over a copy of the Financial
Times.
“Hello Alex,” I said. He didn’t look up. The girl
behind the counter gave me the coffee and my change;
only then did Alex murmur, “Bring any baggage with
you?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said. I’d forgotten this
man was paranoid. His brief but frequent stays in prison
had left him with a skilful technique in rolling cigarettes
thinner than matchsticks, an obsession about being
followed and a lifelong aversion to any food that wasn’t
healthy.
“We’ll sit over there at the back so I can see who
comes in.” We moved towards the rear and two vacant
chairs.
“Did you go round the block a couple of times to
make sure?”
“Relax, will you.”
“You have to play by the rules,” said Alex. “Only
careless fools don’t have rules, and they get caught.”
I thought that was pretty good coming from the
man who got caught at least once a year. “Rules,” I said
over the top of my coffee cup. “I didn’t know that you
were an advocate of rules.”
“Well, I am now,” said Alex. “Rules, you’ve got to
know what to do in any situation, so that you can do it
before you even think about it.”
“Sounds like something the psychiatrist at that last
prison told you. What sort of rules are we talking about
here, Alex?”
“Depends, mate. Like if you’re at sea and your
boat starts to sink, always jump off the high side. That’s
a good rule, if you should ever be in that situation.”
I said, “But I’m not expecting to be at sea on a
sinking boat in the near future.”
“Oh no?” said Alex. He leaned forward. “Well, I
wouldn’t be too sure about that, mate.” He gave me that
conspiratorial wink of his and a little snort.
“What are you hearing then, Alex?” I always found
it difficult to believe that Alex Chapman was a man who
could keep a secret. He was such a transparent rogue. But
he had as many secrets as any other man did. Alex was
the archetype professional computer hacker and thief.
I ordered another espresso coffee for us both.
“What am I hearing?” he said, repeating my
question.
“Well, I keep hearing about you and that firm you
work for, all over.”
“Where, for instance?”
“Well, I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources as
they say, but I can state without fear of contradiction
that you in particular my friend are as hot as a red chilli
pepper as far as a certain person is concerned.”
He paused, and I didn’t press him, as he is a man
who hates to be hurried.
I waited. He said. “Certain parties, let’s say the
whispering in the jungle, is that you are hard on the heels
of something very special?”
It’s important to know when to be cagey and when
to admit the truth. I nodded. Alex was pleased to be right.
He went on, “If you were an individual associated with
the illegal buying and selling of certain types of hardware,
shall we say…” He looked at me quizzically.
“Yes,” I said a little doubtfully.
“So you agreed to supply a certain group of
individuals overseas with this hardware, and were
planning to finance it with the proceeds from the sale
of packages recovered from a boat at the bottom of
the English Channel, that doesn’t even officially exist.
Imagine then, suddenly finding out that these foreigners
who had signed the perforated side of the contract were
planning to pay you in funny money. And that the firm
employed to dive down and recover these packages, were
now holding on to them. You’d be right cut up, wouldn’t
you?”
“If the packages came out of this sunken boat that
doesn’t exist, you mean?” I said attentively. But my mind
was already on this revelation about Robert Flackyard
and illegal arms dealing. As I had thought he was using
his party loving playboy lifestyle to take him around the
globe as a cover. The association with drugs was purely to
finance these deals. Alex came back into focus, saying…
“Yes, mate. The bloke involved in getting these
packages out of the boat for this individual would
suddenly become a spare part in a garage. If you get my
meaning.”
I got his meaning.
Alex said, “I wouldn’t like to be quoted as to who
finds you superfluous to requirements, but I hear the air
in Bournemouth can be very chilly even at this time of
year.”
To say that I didn’t like the situation would have
been the understatement of the millennium. I knew that
I would have to re-contact LJ very soon or he would be
calling Fiona Price to find out where I was. I didn’t much
like the idea of Alex knowing so much about the firm’s
business. But he had confirmed what I had suspected
from the start. There was definitely someone inside the
firm leaking information about this and possibly other
assignments.
At this stage I still had no idea who this person
might be and nothing substantial with which to confront
him or her. But that might change after I’d spoken to
another old acquaintance who still walked the corridors
of power.

I left Alex, walked around the corner and jumped
into the first of a long line of waiting black London
taxis. The jovial face of the cab driver looked back at
me through the rear view mirror as he asked me where I
wanted to go.

“Straight to Soho, and no sight seeing, thank you,”
I said. He smirked and pulled out into the traffic. I knew
exactly where to find Jasper Lockhart at two-thirty in the
afternoon.

A young oriental hostess wearing nothing but a
thong showed me to a table near the main stage. With a
smile, I was asked what I wanted to drink and informed
that the next show would be starting in five minutes. On
the raised circular stage, three polished chrome tubes,
about two inches in diameter and attached at the base
and on the ceiling, stood alone. From behind, I felt a
hand on my left shoulder and the words, “What’s a nice
boy like you doing in a place like this.”

Looking round, Jasper Lockhart’s face was
grinning boyishly down at me.
“Jake Dillon, you old rogue, what brings you to
this salubrious establishment.”
“Actually you do, Jasper.” I said matter of factly.
The firm dealt with him when we had to, but always one
had the feeling that he was likely to walk off with your
wallet if you took your eyes off him for even a minute. He
gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder before starting to
walk off towards the stairs leading down to what the sign
said were the private dance rooms. “Come on,” he said,
“It’s quieter down there.”
He had an accent like an announcer at a country
gymkhana. Professional instinct prevailed over personal
feeling. I followed him downstairs, where he headed
straight for one of the rooms in which a red haired
girl of no more than twenty moved around the pole in
time to the music, for those who craved the intimacy of
a personal dance or two. I endured five minutes of the
spectacle, while Jasper watched the nubile young thing
rhythmically gyrate up and down and around the pole,
even upside down in time to the music.
When she had finished he slipped another twentypound note inside her G-string, gently patting the bare
cheek of her arse as he asked her if she would be working
later. Apparently she would.
The downstairs bar area was much quieter. Jasper
insisted on buying more drinks, although he had already
been drinking heavily. He was wearing a handmade
Italian suit with the jacket collar partly turned up at
the back; his tie was askew, and stained with splashes
of pasta sauce from lunch. He usually produced in me
a feeling of amusement, but I was far from feeling like
laughing today.
“Nice holiday in Bournemouth?” He was always
fishing around for stub ends of information that he could
peddle. He squeezed a slice of lemon into his drink,
gnawed at the yellow pulp and sucked the rind.
I said, “What are you looking so happy about,
have you just won the lottery?”
“Fat chance of that,” he said, giving a brief laugh.
He threw a peanut in the air, catching it in his mouth. His
face had the chiselled features of a film star; long shiny
hair swept backwards over his head and struck his collar,
while an artful wave fell forward across his forehead.
“You look younger every time I see you,” he said.
Jasper Lockhart was a congenital liar - he told lies outside
working hours.
In the world that I had left behind, forms of address
among those men working together varied. There’s ‘sir’
used by those high and mighty civil servants, who do not
wish to pursue any form of relationship, the ‘nickname’
used by those who have never grown up. The Christian
names of friends and the surname form of address among
those who think they are still at university. Only men like
Jasper Lockhart are called by their full name.
“What are you doing this afternoon? Fancy a little
drive down to Hampshire? I’ve just bought myself a small
country place, got a couple of the dance girls coming
down with me. Make up a foursome, if you like? Back in
time for last orders, what you say?”
“You are living it up,” I said, “you’ve come a long
way since 1998, haven’t you, Jasper?”
In 1998, Jasper Lockhart overheard, and covertly
recorded a conversation between two junior ministers
in the corridors of power, which he promptly sold, to
three separate tabloid newspapers for undisclosed sums.
He was immediately fired from his job, threatened with
a prison term for breaking the Official Secrets Act. But,
nothing more came of it, except that Jasper had the last
laugh on the Government at that time. In a way it was
this incident that gave me the idea for the new European
Network. Now Jasper made a living by hanging around
and offering hospitality to foolish people with access to
secret or semi-secret information.
“Yes, I live well,” he said, “picked up my new
Jag convertible last week, had it specially painted in the
colour of my choice – you’re right, life’s just one long
party.”
At the next table a small group of advertising
executives and their clients sat drinking Champagne at
one hundred and fifty pounds a bottle, paid for with the
generosity that only an expense account brings. Extolling
the virtues of their particular strategy to generate higher
sales volumes of a particular software system or something
as interesting, no doubt.
Jasper took a sip of his cocktail, and crunched the
bright red cherry while talking at the same time. “Could
sell you a morsel of information you’d like I reckon.”
“The private email address of the Prime Minister?”
“Very funny, but keep the wisecracks to yourself.”
“What have you got,” I said.
Looking around furtively, he said, “It’s going to
cost you a grand.”
“Look, Jasper, just give me the sales pitch, we’ll get
to the estimates later.”
“Well, I got a call from a certain party in Winchester
the other day. This chap’s a real high-class operator, only
gets into very expensive houses, if you know what I mean.
I’ve got to know all the breaking and entering boys.”
“Anything they pick up unusual or official looking,
I get to see very quickly.”
“They know I’ll pay top dollar with no frills
attached. Anyway, this villain unbeknown to him is doing
over a high profile Cabinet Minister’s country residence,
on the outskirts of Winchester, when he flips through the
desk and finds a rather tasty leather desk diary. Knowing
I’m a collector he passes it across to me for five hundred
notes. What I’m offering you is just one page…”
I caught the attention of a hostess over Jasper
Lockhart’s shoulder and it amused me to see him spin
round as if the boys in blue were just about to lift him out
of his very expensive jacket.
I said, “A vodka lime soda and another of whatever
my friend is drinking, but can you ensure that there are
two pieces of lemon and at least three cherries, please.”
Jasper smiled in relief and embarrassment.
He said, “Phew, for one moment…”
“Yes, you did, didn’t you.”
At the next table one of the ad-men said, “…but
excellent copy stateside.”
“What do you think, then?” Jasper Lockhart ran
his tongue round his mouth in an attempt to dislodge the
particles of lemon and cherry.
“So you’re still doing a bit of ‘Politico black
marketing’ on the side,” I said.
“Well, we’ve all got to live, haven’t we?” This was
a man with little or no scruples; he would even rob his
old granny of her pension. Given half a chance.
“I’ll want a second opinion?” I said.
“I haven’t told you what’s on the page yet.”
“You aren’t going to tell and trust, are you?” It
didn’t seem like him.
“You must be joking. All you’re getting is just the
first and last word.”
“OK, what are these words?”
“The first word is ‘Italian,’ the last word is
‘hardware’. Thought that might make you sit up and pay
attention.” He used a toothpick to remove a stubborn
piece of lemon, from between his teeth.
“I don’t get the bit about ‘hardware’.”
“Weapons, you moron.”
“So, what about them.”
“Don’t take the piss, Dillon! Retired Italian
Generals?”
“We don’t get involved with the military, past or
present.” I pretended to think deeply. “There’s a chap
called Jerry Franklin at the U.S Embassy, here in London.
More his kind of thing, I’d say.”
“Listen, pal, it’s got the name of your firm on the
same page.”
“I’m not deaf, you know,” I said irritably, “I didn’t
write it.”
“Well,” said Jasper Lockhart somewhat subdued.
“I’m just trying to wise you up.”
“That’s as may be, but still no sale.”
The drinks came. In Jasper Lockhart’s iced glass
were three bright red cherries. Two slices of lemon and a
slice of lime clung to the edge.
“Well, I didn’t think they’d do that,” he said in a
breathless voice, and to tell you the truth, nor did I.
I said, “How big is it?” He raised his eyes to me,
and only with difficulty remembered what we had been
talking about. “How big?” He measured about fifteen
centimetres by ten with his fingers.
“How thick?”
“About three centimetres – why?”
“Doesn’t sound like a grand’s worth to anyone I
know.”
“Hilarious, I’m only selling one page for a grand.”
“You always did like a laugh,” I said.
“So make me an offer then.”
“Nothing. As I’ve already said, the firm doesn’t get
involved with military stuff.”
Jasper Lockhart speared the cherries with a cocktail
stick after chasing them around the bright pink drink.
“Look, I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do.” I
said. “Bring it to my address here in London at nine this
evening, and please be on time. I’ll have Vince Sharp, my
department’s special operations specialist, come along
as well. But, I can tell you now, I don’t think there’s a
flying pig’s chance, that he’ll be able to get the Partners
interested in it. Even if he does, payment will be by the
normal route, and you know how long that can take, so
don’t go spending it just yet.”
The ad-man at the next table said, “But the market
in India is enormous!” I knew that Jasper Lockhart
was acquainted with our friend Oliver Hawkworth the
Cabinet Minister and owner of the Gin Fizz. They had
both worked at the Treasury around the same time. Either
he hadn’t put the connection with Ferran & Cardini
together yet and was trading off the cuff, or he did know,
and was playing a game of cat and mouse.