Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (12 page)

After dropping Tats off at her place around 3.00
am, I decided to drive across town, and unofficially find
out a little more about our friend Oliver Hawkworth.

Deep down on the lower fourth floor of the
Government building the air is conditioned, filtered and
purified from all outside pollutants. Two armed guards;
body searched and scanned me for anything concealed.
A passport-sized photograph was produced inside a
laminated pouch with the words VISITOR printed on it.
The double steel door slid back silently and on the far
side was yet another security check waiting. I asked for
Mr Vass and it was five minutes before he came to sign
me in.

After shaking hands he led me through a maze
of corridors eerily lit with blue coloured lamps, which
eventually led to a large open plan room. The unusually
high ceiling was a complex grid of piping hidden behind
a suspended matrix of mesh panels. Every so often water
sprinklers protruded through the panels; below the false
ceiling, lined up in orderly rows, were computer terminals,
each with someone observing intently the information
on the screen in front of them. Everyone wore a headset
clipped over one ear complete with microphone.

We were standing in the middle of the ‘Arena’, so
named by those who worked at the secret establishment
of the Central Archive and Intelligence Bureau, located
underground near to the Houses of Parliament. Where
information received from Commercial Espionage or
Government departments is collected and deciphered by
the men and women sitting at the computers.

I watched as a young woman spoke into her
microphone. A moment later a supervisor went over and
together they checked and compared how the un-coded
version compared to the original that had been received.

He or she then explained why certain items of
text had been left out and why others had been inserted.
Once this had been completed the supervisor keyed an
authorisation code into the terminal and the original
coded message was deleted. A hard copy was then printed
off at one of the many printers lined up along one wall.
The room held an air of expectancy, as if something big
was about to happen, but strangely, there was no feeling
of hurry; in fact it was a very calm place.

Adrian Vass’s office was a glass-walled eyrie
reached by a lift. From it, we could see the entire room.
Columns of stainless steel were positioned here and there.
A sobering reminder that we were deep underground.

“What, no Bournemouth rock?” asked Adrian.
“Very funny, and it’s Brighton rock by the way,
Bournemouth’s far to posh for sticks of rock. Word soon
gets around doesn’t it?” I said.
“Yes, I’m afraid it does, but not much gets past us
down here, you know.”
Adrian smiled expectantly. His moon-like face was
much too large for his short slim body, and was made
even larger by his receding hairline. He motioned me into
a bright red chair. “You’ve put on weight, you old dog,”
he said from the other side of his desk.
“This must be the first time you’ve been down
to see us since Charlie McIntyre…” He didn’t finish the
sentence. We had both liked Charlie.
Adrian looked at me for a minute without saying a
word, and then said, “Somebody put a firecracker under
Levenson-Jones’ Range Rover, I hear.”
“Yes, we have a pretty good idea who it was – just
have to prove it,” I said.
“Well, you’d better watch your back. Whoever it
was, is most definitely a nasty piece of work.”
I said, “It was Levenson-Jones they were after, not
Charlie or me.”
“Famous last words. Personally, I’d wear a cast
iron jockstrap for the time being if I were you.”
He reached inside his blazer and pulled out a small
notebook with a cheap pen pushed through the spiral
ring binder down the side.
“I’d like you to tell me something and then forget
that this conversation ever took place.” In tacit agreement
Adrian slid his pen back down the side of the notebook
and placed it back in his pocket.
“What is it you want to know? Who’s fiddling
their expenses in Whitehall or which Junior Minister is
sleeping with hookers?”
“Perhaps I’ll save that for next time,” I said. “What
I want to…” I paused.
“Here, come into my other office, it will make you
feel much more relaxed.”
He pushed a button on his key-fob and a concealed
door behind him slid back revealing another room, a
little smaller than the one we had just come from. No
listening device on earth could break through the specially
formulated linings to this area. Known only as Fort Knox,
it was the depository for all information received and
sent by spooks and their agencies over the last fifty years.
It took Adrian only a few seconds to locate the correct
database and files relating to the information I wanted to
see. I glanced through medical records. All information
was included; height, weight, scars, birthmarks, blood
group, reflexes as well as full dental records and any
medical treatment received since the age of ten.
I opened up the main content of the file.

HAWKWORTH, Oliver S.R.
File renewal: six months.
Birth: Born 1950. Caucasian – British National –

UK Passport – UN Passport.
Background: Cambridge/Sandhurst Military
Academy/Blues and Royals Regiment/Member of
Parliament. Married S. Hamilton/1 daughter – Elizabeth
– aged 18 years.
Property: London - Penthouse/Winchester -
Country House/Tuscany – Small Wine Growing Estate.
Assets: Shares (disclosed) in various multi-national
Companies. Two bank accounts – one Italian and anther in
the UK. Also undisclosed deposit account in Switzerland.
Personal: Mistress (see file X9D100). Alcoholic –
has undergone rehab - five years ago (never made public)
– no relapse to date.
Interests: Boating - owner of power cruiser the ‘Gin
Fizz’. Shooting – pheasant/grouse – excellent marksman.
No recorded homosexual activities.
Travels throughout Europe on behalf of the British
Government – Tuscany Villa/Italy.
He holidays with family four (4) times a year.

Adrian walked across to the sheer wall of glass,
thoughtfully looked down upon his minions before slowly
turning back to me and answering my question.

“What’s he like?” he repeated. “It’s hard to say
in a few words. He was made a colonel at thirty-five.
Which means he is no fool? They say that when officers
are up for promotion,” Adrian paused, “it’s probably just
a load of old bollocks, but I’ll tell you anyway. Officer
candidates at that level are invited to a small gathering
of notables in Army circles. The candidate has to endure
his peers’ scrutiny as well as their child like behaviour
throughout the evening. Not only is he bombarded with
an array of obscure questions, but they’re also watching
to see if for instance he drinks out of the finger bowl.” I
smiled and nodded.

“Oliver Hawkworth was served with some sort of
Californian prune crumble just to see how he negotiated
the stones. But he fooled the lot of them by swallowing
every one of the little blighters. I couldn’t say whether it’s
all true, but it’s certainly in character. Nearly all of those
men around that dinner table went onto become some
sort of advisor to the Government. To this day they still
meet up once a month for a big gut bash and a cosy chat.
They’re the sort of people who have devoted a lot of time
and expensive training to detect the difference between a
vintage bottle of Dom and Spanish sparkling wine.”

“He earns around a million a year and that’s only
what he declares.”
I whistled softly. Adrian went on, “He obviously
pays tax on some of it, and very unofficially sits on six
or seven boards who like to have a member of the old
boy network. Hawkworth’s big contribution is that he
can influence affairs abroad, is tenacious and extremely
charming. He has personally financed at least two
successful take-over bids in South America that we know
of, and is always quick to put a few hundred thousand
into the hands of a discontented general. His reward is
always by way of holdings in some of the region’s largest
and wealthiest national companies. As he is persona
gratis with most of the Presidents, it really is gambling
without risk.”
The phone on his desk rang. “Vass.” Adrian
rubbed his eyes.
“Complicated wiring diagram?” He pinched the
bridge of his nose. “Just run off a copy in the normal
way, show the technical people before you destroy the
original.” He was listening intently. “Well, just show
them the part that hasn’t got the originator’s name on it.”
He hung up.
“Hell’s struth,” he said, “they’ll be asking me if
they can go to the coffee machine next. Where was I?”
“I wanted to ask you about land deals,” I said.
“Isn’t that how he’s made his fortune?”
“Partly true, but his family is one of the wealthiest
in England, don’t forget.”
Adrian lit one of his own rolled cigarettes, then
spent what seemed like minutes removing shreds of
tobacco from his lip.
“Hawkworth has the Midas touch where land
acquisition deals are concerned. He buys a parcel of
land at rock bottom price and then sells it at a premium
almost immediately. Nothing clever or wrong in that,
you might say, except that in every transaction the same
Development Company’s name crops up. Can’t for the
life of me, think what that is at present, but anyway, it’s
always very large sums of money changing hands. Some
have speculated that it’s nothing more than an elaborate
money laundering racket, but no one can prove that,
of course. Others say that it’s a Member of Parliament
abusing his position. But again that is only speculation.
He is extremely careful to always cover his tracks. So you
see, Oliver Hawkworth keeps on making vast sums of
money and then some more again.”
The phone rang. “Phone me back, I’m busy,” Adrian
barked into the mouthpiece and hung up immediately.
He turned back to his monitor screen, asking: “You
understand what this column is?” He tapped the screen
with his pen.
“Well, I’m no expert,” I said, “but I gather that
these abbreviated prefixes are a record of his personal
weaknesses or traits that he may have such as women,
drink, membership of drinking clubs and the like.”
“Absolutely spot on,” said Adrian.
I pointed to the letters ‘CI‘. “An accessory to an
illegal act,” Adrian said as quick as a shot.
“Meaning something he has been prosecuted for?”
I said.
“Hell, no,” Adrian replied in an astounded voice.
“He’s never been within a hundred metres of a
law court, let alone inside one. No, for anything about
which the police know anything it’s another sort of prefix
entirely – it’s ‘PL’ for that.”
“What about a ‘BR’?”
“Bribery of a public servant.”
“Let me guess, once again not prosecuted?” I said.
“No, as I told you, it had to be a ‘PN’ prefix if
it’s been made public. It would be a ‘PP’ if he had been
accused of bribing a public servant.”
“Anything for illegal selling.”
“That would be a ‘RT’ prefix,” said Adrian. Now I
was beginning to understand how the system worked and
I’d found the item I wanted.
* * *

The next morning I got Tats to show me the
revised notes relating to the new European Network.
After shredding them into a million tiny strips, we went
through it all again. I thought about Oliver Hawkworth.
Two items about him were still hazy. I phoned Adrian
from my mobile. “That matter I spoke of earlier this
morning.”

“Tell me, why was his file so conveniently to hand
on your hard-drive?”
“Even you need a security clearance to pull the
records of a Cabinet Minister.”
“Very simple. He’d already asked for your records
only the previous day.”
“As you are well aware, anyone who has been or is
a civil servant has a file past and present.”
“Oh,” I said, and heard Adrian chuckle as he hung
up. Of course he could just be having a laugh. But the fact
was, I wasn’t laughing.

The plain-clothes policeman led me along the softly
carpeted corridors of power; austere men in military
uniform looked quietly down from dark paintings lost in
a penumbra of varnish. Mr Oliver Hawkworth MP was
seated behind a vast oval mahogany table, which was
polished like a guardsman’s boot.

A slim mahogany clock stood discreetly against a
panelled wall pacing out the silence. On Hawkworth’s
table a banker’s lamp with a green glass shade marshalled
the light on to four heaps of papers and newspaper
clippings.

Only the crown of his head was visible. He
continued with what he was doing, allowing me to
feel embarrassed for interrupting his private study. The
policeman motioned me to a hostile looking chair in
front of the table.

Hawkworth ran a finger across the open book and
scribbled in the margin of one of the typewritten sheets
with a gold fountain pen. He turned over the corner of
the page and closed the green leather cover.

“Smoke.” There was no trace of query in his voice.
He firmly pushed the silver box across the table with the
back of his hand, put the cap on his pen and clipped it into
his inside jacket pocket. He retrieved his cigarette from
the ashtray in front of him, put it into his mouth, drew on
it without releasing his grasp on its filter, mashed it into
the ashtray with controlled violence, disembowelling the
torn shreds of tobacco from the lacerated paper with his
immaculately manicured nails. He brushed the ash from
his jacket.
“You wished to see me?” he said.
I lifted the lid of the small silver box. I took a

cigarette and lit it with a match I then blew it out and
tossed it towards the ashtray, allowing the trajectory
to carry it on to Hawkworth’s pristine paperwork. He
carefully picked it up, snapping it in two before placing it
into the ashtray. I drew on the strong tobacco.

“No,” I said, stripping my voice of interest, “not
really.”
“You are discreet – that’s good.” He picked up a
sheet of paper, and held it under the light and quietly read
from it a potted history of my career in Army Intelligence.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,”
I said.
“Good, good,” said Hawkworth, not at all
discouraged. “The report goes on; ‘inclined to pursue
developments beyond the call of duty. He must be made
to understand that this is a dangerous failing in military
intelligence work’.”
“Is that what you wanted to do,” I asked, “to
tell me that my obsession with tying up loose ends is
dangerous?”
“Not merely dangerous,” said Hawkworth. He
leaned forward to select another cigarette from his silver
box. The light fell momentarily across his face. It was
a hard bony face and it shone in the light like a marble
bust of a long gone Roman Emperor. Eyebrows and hair
were the palest blond and as fine as silk. He looked up.
“Potentially fatal.” He took a white cigarette and lit it.
“In wartime, soldiers are shot for disobeying even
the smallest command,” continued Hawkworth in his
gravelly voice.
“Is that so, but this is the twenty first century,
that law is completely outdated and quite unnecessary in
today’s civilised society.”
“Absolute nonsense,” he said flushing with anger.
“I’ve been informed by the Partners of Ferran & Cardini,
that you are demanding the assignment concerning the
Gin Fizz be continued. I would like to remind you, Mr
Dillon, that your job in Dorset is now over. Your refusal
to accept that is impertinence, sir, and unless you change
your attitude I shall ensure that life becomes extremely
difficult for you.” Hawkworth drilled me with his eyes
while he puffed on the cigarette firmly placed between his
index and forefinger.
“No one owns me, Hawkworth. My employers pay
only for services rendered. I work for them, and for the
Government from time to time because I believe in what
I do. But that doesn’t mean that I’ll be used as and when
others feel like it, especially by a self-centred, egotistical
multi-millionaire.”
“What’s more, don’t give me that ‘fatal’ crap,
because I’ve taken a postgraduate course in fatality.”
Hawkworth blinked and leaned back into the
opulence of his chair. “So,” he said finally, “that’s it, is
it? The truth is that you think you should be as powerful
as your employers, and the Government?” He rearranged
his pen set.
“Power is only a state of mind,” I told him. “Except
if you hold a position of power, and have wealth to go
with it, it seems you can get away with anything…” I left
it at that.
Hawkworth leaned forward and said, “You think
that because I hold shares and sit on the boards of a few
companies, all of which I have disclosed to the House, I
should not have a say in the control of my country?” He
held up a hand in an admonishing attitude.
“You just sit there, and listen – it’s my turn to
lecture you. It really is simple, isn’t it, Mr Dillon? You are
no better than a common or garden spy. I do not impugn
you or your firm’s motives as to why you do what you
do. But please feel free to impugn mine as a Minister.
You might say that it is my duty as an Englishman to
increase prosperity for all. As it’s your duty to do as your
employer’s command.”
He paused for a moment before adding, “Without
questions. Your job is to provide success at any price, by
means fair or foul. Men like you, Mr Dillon, are simply
implements to do things with, shadowy figures that are in
the dark recesses of ordinary people’s minds. Who when
done with, are forgotten, quickly.”
“You mean, that I’m a janitor in the wash room of
state?” I asked humbly.
Hawkworth gave a cold smile. “You are a very
annoying fellow, you know?”
“You sit here talking of ethics, as though you were
employed to make ethical decisions. You are nothing in
the scheme. You will complete your tasks as ordered:
no more, no less. This is what you are paid for. There
is nothing more to discuss.” He leaned back in his chair
again. It creaked with the shift of weight. His hand
clamped around the black silk rope that hung beside the
Curtain, and a moment later the policeman appeared.
“Show the gentleman out, Constable Baker,” said
Hawkworth.
I made no move, except to pull out of my inside
pocket a number of folded sheets of paper and place them
onto the mahogany table and push them across towards
Hawkworth.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“These are for the man who has everything. They’re
pages from a diary,” I Said, watching Hawkworth’s face.
“They’re from your diary.” I watched the policeman
out of the corner of my eye; he was hanging on to every
word.
Perhaps he was planning to tell his Govenor!
Hawkworth flicked his tongue across his drying
lips like a hungry python.
“Wait outside, Constable,” he said, “I’ll ring
again.” The policeman had withdrawn to his notebook
before Hawkworth spoke again.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you,” I said, and lit another of his cigarettes
while Hawkworth fidgeted with his guilt feelings. This
time he left the dead match where it had landed.
“I know of some pieces of hardware, or shall we
call them mechanical digger parts, that go to Argentina in
regular consignments. I’ll tell you, those importers must
be very inefficient because they have received shipments
of the stuff and yet, there are no parts to be found on any
shelf - anywhere! You can hardly blame them for being a
little confused.”
Hawkworth’s cigarette lay inert in the ashtray
quietly turning to ash.
“It would seem that the same applies to shipments
going to India and China. Of course, it wouldn’t be
cricket if a company with an English M.P. as a director
sold this type of thing to volatile regions of the planet.
The Americans would blacklist them, but what with all
this muddle in the Argentine everyone ends up extremely
happy.” I paused. The clock ticked on with its steady beat.
“As a way of moving gold or even possibly weapons
there’s nothing to beat…”
“Enough, you are making up fairy tales Mr Dillon,
you are in fact, just guessing,” Hawkworth said calmly.
I thought of the small diary that Jasper Lockhart
had obtained from his friend the housebreaker and how
he had made it so available to me. Making my subsequent
guessing much easier, “You’re right I’m just guessing,” I
agreed.
“Very well,” Hawkworth said in a resigned but
businesslike voice, “how much?”
“I’ve not come to blackmail you - Hawkworth.
What I want from you, is an assurance that I can continue
with my janitorial duties in Dorset without interference
from the management. I’m not pursuing you. I’m not even
remotely interested in doing anything beyond my brief.
But I want you to remember this: I’m the person who’s
responsible for this assignment, not Levenson-Jones, not
even the Partners of Ferran & Cardini. I’ll be responsible
for what happens to you, whether it’s good or bad. Now
be a good chap and ring your bell for Constable Baker.
I’m leaving, before I throw up all over your beautiful
Persian carpet.”