Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (21 page)

Marrakech, the old pink city with its narrow streets,
lies coiled in the shadow of the High Atlas Mountains like
a viper on a bed of rumpled hessian. By June the tourist
season is in full swing, although this fantastic city is bestvisited early summertime when the heat is still bearable.
In the bars of the big white hotels of the Ville Nouvelle
district, drinkers steadily ruin their livers, and wallets get
a hammering in the souvenir shops of the Medina, the
heart and soul of this mystical city.

In the afternoon heat the bustling square of the
Djemaa is crowded with people who seek entertainment;
they gather round the many storytellers, acrobats and
musicians. American and European tourists stroll around
the Koutoubia mosque, visible from practically anywhere
in Marrakech.

The call to prayer ricochets down the tortuous
labyrinthine alleys of the old Arab quarter, quivering
through the lemon and orange groves and out across
the dusty walled town. Overhead, interwoven matting
squeezes sunrays like orange pips and transforms the
dried mud into dazzling patterns. Wispy tentacles of
smoke rise through the dusty air from small fires, giving
the beams of sunlight tangible dimensions. Sliced kidney
crackles in aromatic cedar smoke. Men from all over
congregate here, those with black-enamel faces from
Timbuktu crowd together with light-skinned Berbers and
ruddy-faced men from Fez in the narrow thoroughfares.

Outside the riad where we had settled the crowds
moved back as an old black Mercedes saloon came to a
halt. It had darkened privacy windows.

The occupants got out of the vehicle and knocked
hard on the heavy wooden door.
No sooner had our gracious host’s manservant
announced “A gentleman to see you” than he was
unceremoniously brushed aside by a short burst of Arabic.
The three men entered the riad’s courtyard and
through double doors to the palatial room beyond.
Two of them were dressed in black suits and very
dark sunglasses. The third man wore a white linen suit
and soft red fez over a round brown face.
His moustache, although sad, was well cared for,
and a large nose drove a wedge between his small eyes.
He tapped the nose with a silver-topped cane. In fact, as
he stood before us, he looked like something dreamed up
by Hollywood. He spoke:
“My name is Hassan, Youssef Hassan of the
Moroccan Internal Affairs Bureau. I would like to
welcome you and your friends to our beautiful country.
The fruit is succulent and plump on the trees. The date is
moist and the snow is still crisp and firm on the top of our
mountain slopes. We hope you will stay long enough to
take advantage of the many wonders of our land.”
“Yes,” I said. I watched his two colleagues. One
opened the fly screen and spat into the street, the other
riffled through my papers, which lay on the table. I’d had
dealings with Hassan and his department on a previous
assignment. He was not a man to mess with.
“May I ask - Mr Dillon, what is the purpose of your
visit is here in Marrakech on this particular occasion?
Of course you must consider yourselves the guests of my
department. Whatever you wish, it will be arranged and
naturally we hope you will have a most pleasurable stay
in our country.”
“You know what we European capitalists are like,
Hassan, all work, work, work.”
“Without capitalism, Mr Dillon, I would most
certainly be out of a job,” he said while snorting a laugh
down his nose.
One of Hassan’s sidekicks was looking through the
wardrobe and the other was polishing his shoe with a
handkerchief. Overhead I heard the whine of a jet engine.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am, of course, fully aware why you and your
friends are here. You are, how do you say, on the trail
of the multi millionaire entrepreneur playboy Mr Robert
Flackyard. Am I correct?”
“You are very well informed, Hassan, and you
are quite right, we are keen to have a little chat with Mr
Flackyard.” I said.
“So, as with anyone who breaks the law, my country
is most enthusiastic that the criminal is apprehensive.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I said, smiling
to myself.
Hassan turned and walked up to Fiona, “I am told
by your superior, Miss Price, that you intend to make the
arrest of this person and any associates that may be with
him here in Marrakech, is this true?”
Fiona was quick to say, “No, that is not true, Mr
Hassan, but you are right, it is Robert Flackyard that
we have followed to Marrakech. We’re hoping that he
can help us with our enquiries, that’s all. I am currently
investigating an associate of Mr Flackyard, a Mr Harry
Caplin, and American. It is this gentleman that we wish
to apprehend, Mr Hassan.”
“Ah, those famous English words of Scotland
Yard, ‘able to assist those in their enquiries,’” Hussan,
said it again for practice. He stopped twirling his cane
for a moment. He leaned close and said. “Then before
you make your arrest, you tell me because it may not be
permitted.”
“We’ll certainly tell you, Hassan,” I said, “but
Miss Price and Mr Stewart are here under special license
and by the kind permission of your Government.”
“They will be very unhappy if you do not permit.”
Hassan looked perplexed, to say the least.
“So,” he said, “we shall liase again soon.”
“OK,” I said.
“Meanwhile,” said Hassan, “I have transported
your colleague from the airport. Your colleague Mr
Vincent Sharp.”
Hassan shouted some Arabic, and one of the black
suited policemen drew a pistol. Hassan bellowed very
loudly using one or two very rude Anglo-Saxon words.
The young man put away the gun with a shamefaced
expression and went downstairs to get Vince out of the
dusty black Mercedes.
“Your friend is a specialist for the lady
investigator?” he said, tapping his nose with the silver tip
of the cane once again.
“Yes,” I said.
“I think I am recognising his face, your friend.”
Vince came through the door wearing his Australian bush
hat, a billowing bush shirt, as big as a tent covering his
seventeen stone hulk, and trousers with dirt and dust all
over them.
“Then I shall leave you in peace,” said Hassan.
“Allah goes with you,” I said.
“See you around,” said Hassan; he tucked a smile
under his sad moustache.
The Mercedes hooted its way up the narrow street.

As Hassan had said, it was a country full of
wonders. That evening we went to the Medina, searching
out cafés to drink sweet tea and sample some of the local
food. We sat outside wrapping skewered meat, sizzling
hot from the spit, into rich coarse bread and discussed the
various options open to us.

Vince went through a plan that he thought
could be simply put into action the following day and
roughly sketched the layout of Flackyard’s house here in
Marrakech. The crowds had thickened, and the lines of
food stall vendors and cooks advertised their skills like
chanting auctioneers to those seeking sustenance.

Vince explained at length that his plan would
require precise timing, and a head for heights. Storytellers
and musicians had arrived, while fortune-tellers revealed
the secrets of one’s destiny for the price of a cooked meal.

Acrobats, contortionists and clowns entertained
the crowds. Snake charmers, dancers and boxers
performed for gathering knots of passers-by. But amidst
the cacophony of noise and the rising tide of odours,
sweet and foul, to assail the nostrils of the medieval town
square, our beds and the need for sleep beckoned.

The next day Fiona and I visited Robert Flackyard.
He wasn’t a cheerful criminal like Harry Caplin, or
a sad fanatic like George Ferdinand. Here was a man who
had a special kind of manipulative and devious brain. An
intellect that had no bounds, and a conscience that did
not exist.

Flackyard’s residence was a traditional Riad, in
the old Arab quarter of Marrakech. The narrow lane
that led to it was barely five feet wide between the other
ancient dwellings that pressed in on both sides. We
entered through a mysterious door set in the age-worn
and blank white wall. Once inside the hidden courtyard,
high wrought iron gates made shadow pictures on the hot
tiles. A small red and yellow songbird high on the wall
sang a short cadenza about how it wanted to escape from
its tiny bare wooden cage.

Inside was cool and calm. Flackyard sat crosslegged on a fine antique carpet reading a copy of the Times
newspaper. Other carpets lined the walls and behind them
bright-coloured tile work shone with complex Arabic
calligraphy. Here and there were large leather Berber
cushions and through the dark doorway, just visible at
the end of the corridor, a cool green patio; the slim leaves
turning to silver swords as the breeze moved them under
the hot sun.

Flackyard’s features were different, thinner, but he
wasn’t thinner; he wasn’t even different, when I had seen
him before he was the part of a wealthy English playboy.
But here, in this place he no longer had to portray himself
to the world.

“Mr Dillon, Miss Price,” he said, continuing
to study his newspaper. “Your letter, Miss Price said,
‘investigating’”

His voice was booming in the sparsely furnished
room.
“Investigating what, exactly?”
“Class A drug manufacturing and distribution in
Sandbanks, Mr Flackyard,” Fiona told him.
He laughed a course spiteful laugh that was rich
with gold.
“Ah, so that’s it,” he said. His eyes stayed
completely calm and still.
“Miss Price works for the Government, Flackyard.
She’s assisting Scotland Yard which is involved with an
ongoing European investigation in conjunction with
Interpol,” I said, with the hint of a sneer, “into serious
criminals, just like you and Caplin. The arrests so far
have been impressive to say the least.”
“So what, Mr Dillon – you wouldn’t dare try…”
It was my turn to laugh.
“They sound like famous last words,” Fiona said.
He shrugged. “What a ridiculous notion, it will be
quite impossible to connect me to any illegal activities in
any way, Miss Price.”
Over Flackyard’s shoulder I could see through the
window across the patio.
The red and yellow bird was singing. Over the edge
of the flat roof came a foot, slowly, waving from side to
side looking for a foothold.
“Tell me, Miss Price, who is behind this outrage?”
His voice had become hard with a razor sharp edge.
“Perhaps it’s the Partners of Ferran & Cardini.”
“Have they forgotten about the arrangement I have
with them regarding a certain currency transaction. After
all I’m the only person who can make that possible.”
“At Hawkworth’s suggestion?” I asked.
Flackyard shrugged. “The fool has it all wrong. He
just wouldn’t leave it to me to sort out. He always has to
interfere.”
“I know exactly what he’s like,” I said.
Fiona, seeing the dangling foot, said. “Please
forgive me, Mr Flackyard, but I’ve not had anything to
drink since breakfast, is there any chance of some coffee?
I just love the way in which they make their coffee here.”
Flackyard clapped his hands twice, the door that
we had been shown in through opened, and a servant
entered immediately. “Please arrange refreshments for
our guests. Of course, I have friends both here, and in
England who are very powerful, you know,” he added.
“By here you mean Hassan?” I said.
The servant brought a big brass bowl and an
ornamental kettle. He set the bowl at Fiona’s feet and
poured water over her hands slowly and efficiently, then
he repeated the process with me. It is still the Muslim
custom before food is eaten. I hoped the servant wouldn’t
turn to Flackyard too quickly. I washed my hands slowly
and efficiently. The figure that I had seen on the roof was
now suspended from the parapet by both hands.
“Actually, Hassan came to see us yesterday shortly
after we arrived,” I said casually, trying not to look out of
the window. The feet came a few inches lower.
“But, as I told him, I’m here purely as an observer,
it’s Miss Price who comes here on behalf of the British
Authorities. There are few governments that will hinder
her, either.” The feet sought and found the grille of the
first floor window.
“Really,” said Flackyard. “How fascinating.”
“Absolutely,” I said. Flackyard smiled. I finished
my hand washing as DC Jason Stewart disappeared
through the window above. The servant took the brass
hand washing bowl over to Flackyard.
“You are an intelligent man,” I said to Flackyard.
“You must have known what Caplin and Ferdinand were
up to at the house in Sandbanks.”
Flackyard nodded.
I said, “So tell me, what were your impressions of
Harry Caplin - and of George Ferdinand?”
Flackyard removed his simple but expensive gold
wire spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose with
forefinger and thumb. “Harry Caplin, well let me see, he’s
witty, physically a little over-aware of himself. Naturally
charming in a brash and brutishly unsophisticated way.”
“His business?”
“Managed with great care.” Flackyard answered
immediately, and then paused. “He obeyed what I imagine
are the basic rules of the drug trade.”
“Really,” I said, “What are they?”
“Nations the world over have to be seen to take a
hard line against the illegal trading of drugs. But in reality
they’re all guilty of being two faced about the narcotics
industry,” he said, adding. “Few law enforcement agencies
ever get to arrest those individuals who purchase drugs
and then export them to another country. The rules are
very simple, Mr Dillon: The first is that you should never
sell them in the same country that you buy. Secondly, one
should never process in the country where you sell. And
the third rule, is to never sell in the country of which you
are a citizen.”
Given these rules, my thoughts were with Harry
Caplin. Fiona was right, he’d fed me a complete pile of
bullshit that night in his cellar. The worse thing about it
was that I’d fallen for it all. He wasn’t using the under
belly of the cross channel ferry to bring the raw material
in. He was exporting pure heroin over to France.
“Personality?”
“He was to my mind an idealist gone sour,” said
Flackyard. “To be an idealist in this day and age, it is
as well not to be born in America. Men like Caplin go
through life acting like criminals, but deceive themselves
into believing that they are being persecuted for their
ideals.”
“What about Ferdinand?” I asked,
Flackyard smiled. “I’m tempted to say that men
like George go through life acting like idealists but find
themselves treated like criminals; but it would not be
exactly true. George was a patriot, and he fell apart when
the one thing he loved more than anything else in the
world cast him out of the fold, for one indiscretion. Of
course I’m referring to his army career and his subsequent
court martial and dishonourable discharge. Anything
that he finally became was due to the environment
through which he passed. He was neither good nor bad;
his misfortunes have always been due to the fact that he
was always prepared to listen to the other side of the
argument. Not a very grievous fault, I would say.”
I agreed.
Flackyard said, “And now you want to know
why I did nothing to stop these two men plying their
disgusting trade. That is why you have followed me, or
rather followed my boat.”
I nodded.
He said, “My cruiser made extremely good time
from England. But you already know that because of
your satellite tracking, I’ve no doubt.”
“Unfortunately I knew that a boat of that size
would cause a little excitement when it docked, and that’s
why I chose Puerto Pollensa. It’s an area used to seeing
luxury craft of that size. But I’d not taken in to account
having Miss Price hot on my heels.”
Fiona bowed her head.
He said, “I knew that there was a risk of it, but…”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I require the articles in the crates to enable me to
fulfil certain obligations.”
“What is it that you really want, Mr Dillon? No,
please do not answer. Let me guess what it is, and why you
have followed me across Europe - Constantine’s List?”
“Ah, Constantine’s List. Well there’s no denying it
Flackyard, a lot of very important people would sleep a
whole lot better at night if that list were not in existence.
But, I’m not so sure now; perhaps there is a much bigger
picture to consider?”
I paused. “You say the cases you had unloaded
from your boat will enable you to fulfil certain obligations.
what are those obligations, Flackyard?”
I paused while I took out of my jacket pocket a
folded sheet of paper.
“Yesterday I sent London a number of images
taken of those crates on board your boat. They show
them being opened and examined by you and your two
associates.” I paused, just long enough to allow a little
more tension to build up, and then added.
“I received a reply by email this morning. Let me
read you their findings...”
“...no let’s skip to the interesting bit - here we
are, says…
‘Image 2 received shows military equipment
being examined. These weapons are of the laser-guided
tank busting type. However it must be stressed that
without further evidence to corroborate this, it can only
be speculation, although this is based on an in-depth
knowledge of this particular type of weapon. Image
4, an exposed crate with packing material removed.
Digitally enlarged by four hundred per cent we find that
it is without doubt holding automatic machine pistols
and ammunition, and image 5, open case, unconfirmed -
packages are similar to those used for transporting plastic
explosives’
”
I carefully folded the paper, and placed it inside my
jacket, taking great care not to let him see the message.
“You come to the point very quickly,” said
Flackyard. He smiled a great self-satisfied smile and
then added, “The military aspects do not interest me at
all. The financial investment represented in those crates
however is considerable and involves the type of people
who you cannot even begin to imagine. Not even in your
wildest dreams. So I congratulate your analysts back in
London for spotting the weapons. How careless of my
associates and me to leave them on show like that. But
no matter how interesting this may all be, your digital
photographs can be manipulated and changed, so they
are completely inadmissible in any court anywhere. This
you both know only too well. I will, needless to say,
refute most strenuously through my team of lawyers any
insinuation or accusation that I am, or my companies are,
involved with illegal drug or arms trading.” He closed his
eyes, rotating his neck back and forth, side to side, in an
attempt to relieve his tension.
The servant had brought sweet pancakes with
almonds and sugar inside.
He placed them in between the three of us, and
Flackyard tucked into the plateful. I was wondering how
to handle the next part while keeping an eye open for DC
Stewart’s exit.
Flackyard leaned towards me. “You’ve come a long
way to see me,” he said. Flackyard chewed into a honey
cake. “I appreciate that, and I’m duly flattered. I’m given
to understand in fact, that your peers, Mr Dillon, hold
you in high regard. Well, whether you come here offering
good or threatening ill does not change the compliment
you pay me. I shall however give you a piece of advice to
take back to your superiors: To meddle in my business
is an extremely hazardous pastime.” I thought of taking
that message back with me. I imagined walking into LJ’s
office and saying to him, Flackyard wants you to know
that meddling in his business will be extremely bad for
your health.
He continued to eat the honey cake, and when he’d
finished he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a silk
napkin. Looking up, he spoke at both of us.
“It has taken over twenty years to form my
connections at the highest level.”
“I’m not talking about the here today, gone
tomorrow politicians. They are two a penny, and very
easy to bribe. No I’m talking about the real people who
matter, and who actually run the British Government.
People who are able to influence and manipulate easily,
because of who or what they are, people like me who see
what is happening to our great country.” His eyes became
almost unfocused as he stared in to nowhere.
“By people, you mean other fascists,” Fiona said
with rancour.
“The people I’m talking about Miss Price, are
those who actually run the country. People with culture
and taste, not jumped up trade unionists or rabblerousers. These are men of breeding who have power
running through their veins.” Flackyard was looking
beyond Fiona in a fixed way. I dared not look round. His
sharp, bony fingers were interlocked in front of him and
his words were laden with spittle. “You dare to call me a
fascist…”
“No,” Fiona said nervously, “I called you nothing
of the kind.”
He hadn’t waited for a reply. “Perhaps I am,” he
shouted, “perhaps I am a fascist! If you think that people
like me are fascists, then I’m proud to be what I am.”
Two servants were hovering at the door. These
were twice the size of the scrawny one that had served
us the pancakes! I noticed that these were well over six
foot seven of toned oiled muscle dressed entirely in black
robes.
“Seize them,” Flackyard suddenly commanded.
The two burly servants moved the short distance
from where they had been standing, with lightening
speed, and pulled us roughly up from the floor.
“Take them down to the cellar,” he shouted. “Tie
them up and make them very uncomfortable. Perhaps
I’ll give you six lashes each. Maybe it will teach you
to enter my home with a little more respect, and fewer
accusations.”
His mouth was a foaming mousse of anger.
I said gently, “You’re an intelligent man of culture,
and you know as well as I do that imprisoning us will
serve no useful purpose. It will only calm the anger you
feel now. You’re not a barbarian.”
Flackyard stretched himself to a regal height. “I
will take your message back to those concerned, but I can
only do that if we’re allowed to leave here unharmed,” I
coaxed. He looked through me for a moment or so and
then gradually brought me into close focus.
He said, “And it’s only because of this that you
shall leave here unharmed, Mr Dillon.” He was speaking
a little more quietly now. I caught the scrawny servant’s
eye and he gave a slight twitch of the shoulders that may
have been a shrug.
After being released from the grip of the black
robed manservants, Flackyard came over and shook
my hand gravely. He said, “I apologise for my sudden
outburst. It is unforgivable that I lost my temper. Please
accept my sincere regrets at such behaviour. Perhaps it
would be possible for me to see the message that your
London office sent you?”
“The message? I’m afraid not. But you can have a
look at this if you like.” I pulled out from my inside jacket
pocket the folded piece of paper that I’d used earlier and
handed it to Flackyard.
He took it from me and walked away to the other
side of the room, unfolding the small square of paper as
he went. As he turned to face me, I saw the fire in his eyes
flare, but the self-control was securely in place as he came
and handed it back, folded once again. Without another
word, we were shown out into the brilliant sunshine of
Marrakech.