Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (26 page)

Dillon reached the bottom of the stairs at almost running speed, slammed himself into the side of the security cage and wrenched open the access door. As he stepped out into the street he saw that there were now three men coming down the stairs after him. At the same time, two more of them were walking round the corner from the front of the apartment building and were heading straight for him.

Time was fast running out. Dillon had two choices: stay and fight and run the very real risk of being simply shot in the head, or run as fast as he could in the opposite direction and still run the risk of taking a bullet in the back. Time up. He went with his gut instinct. He had shot two of them dead before the others knew what was happening and had darted behind a large metal waste bin on wheels before they’d even managed to get a single round off.

The other three men scattered to the far side of the street in search of cover in doorways. Dillon was thinking on his feet, adrenalin pumping around his body at lightning speed, his senses on high alert. He unlocked the wheel brakes and started to push the metal bin towards the end of the street. Bullets slammed into the side, Dillon returned the fire, which drove them back to cover. He was completely concealed behind the bin and had only to move slowly, keeping his back as tight as he could to the wall of the apartment building. As he passed them on the other side of the street, they could only look on with incredulity at what they were seeing. Dillon knew that his life depended on making it to the end of the street. He kept the Glock in his free hand and trained in their direction, right up until he let go of the bin, and rounded the corner at the end of the street.

Running flat out, he turned another corner and then another, found himself on a main road and raced for a passing bus which he just managed to catch. He’d return later for the Porsche in the hope that the remaining men would have got fed up and left.

He sat down heavily onto a vacant seat, whilst passengers barely took any notice. He was feeling his age – both lungs felt as if they were about to burst and demanded that he breathed in great gulps of air. And just for good measure, he was also sweating and feeling sick. He had no idea if Trevelyan’s men had followed him and if they had, how far behind they were. He hoped that he’d lost them for now and made a mental note to renew his gym membership at the earliest opportunity.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dillon was relieved to get back to the club. He went straight up to his rooms and poured the entire contents of a miniature brandy bottle from the mini bar into a tumbler. He let the amber liquid warm its way right down to the pit of his stomach; the calming effect was almost immediate. He walked across the room, placing the glass on to the bedside table, threw himself on to the bed and, clasping his hands behind his head, gazed up at the ceiling. He had escaped, but was angry with himself for thinking that he could so easily deceive a man who lived by deception. He knew nothing more than what he had already known before. But perhaps the events of the last two hours were not such a waste of time, as he now knew that there was some strange bond between the four men. But what? He should have known better than to have placed himself in such a dangerous situation, and had been extremely lucky to escape without as much as a scratch. It was not enough to convince himself that he had outwitted Trevelyan’s men. He should have informed Vince Sharp, who would have ensured a back-up team outside the apartment building. He’d broken his own rule and should not have placed himself in the position of having to do it in the first place.

He knew that if he pulled a stunt like that again he could expect the worst from both Trevelyan and his boss, Edward Levenson-Jones. He could not go on forever beating the odds. Trevelyan would not only be furious, he would now be even more determined than ever to get him, three more of his men were dead and another two had been wounded, although how seriously, it was impossible to say. He was sure that the three men he had let live would have gone back up to the penthouse and removed their three friends. As for Latimer, he could only guess what would happen to him.

Dillon showered and changed and consoled himself with another brandy. He was satisfied that he had been right about the names and addresses along the south coast. They had to have somewhere to store the gold bullion, and caretakers who were no doubt very well paid to watch over it – that much gold couldn’t be kept in one location. As for the art works, they were being stored, awaiting distribution to ships or more likely smaller boats that would take them across the English Channel to France. He was sure that this was merely a very small section of a much bigger pipeline, but he was still no nearer to understanding the real reason why these four men, all wealthy in their own right, would risk their liberty and fortunes.

He went out to the local delicatessen for a sandwich and a coffee and returned to the club, reluctant to keep placing himself in public view. But all the time conscious that he had to continue the momentum.

He turned on the television and started to flick through the news channels, searching for any reports and was shocked to hear on the local BBC news round-up that Julian Latimer had been found shot dead in his penthouse apartment by unknown gunmen. An official Common’s press photo of Latimer was being shown in the top left-hand corner of the screen. The reporter was standing outside the apartment building speaking to a neighbour, who was telling her that she had seen nothing but how awful it was to have that sort of violence in such a wealthy area of the city. The camera cut back to a high ranking police officer who was just about to make an official statement. He said that the place had been ransacked and valuables stolen to the value of many thousands of pounds, and that the safe had been broken into and cleared out. Dillon stood in front of the screen, not able to believe what he was hearing. Had Trevelyan decided that Latimer had become a liability and that this morning’s fracas was too good an opportunity to miss out on? He’d most likely been shot whilst he still lay unconscious on the living room floor. Trevelyan would not be disappointed anyway – he had probably got rid of an increasing liability and his profits would now be that much higher.

No mention was made of the front door having been holed or the three dead men, so Trevelyan must have sent in a clean-up team before the police got anywhere near. Dillon felt that the odds had just got shorter against him. He wondered if there was any point in driving down to Dorset and Hampshire to investigate the other addresses on the list. If there had been anything hidden in any of them they would almost certainly have been cleared out and moved to other more secure locations by now.

He phoned Vince and asked him to check the home telephone number of Brendon Morgan. It came as no surprise to either of them that he was not listed and even with Vince’s sophisticated software searching all of the Government databases, nothing came up for the MI5 section head. Dillon rang the mobile number that Havelock had given him, hoping that Morgan might be at home and that if he answered he would be happy to meet him there. He knew it was a long shot as he dialled the number, and waited for a reply. The voicemail cut in and Morgan’s voice instructed the caller to leave him a message and he would get a call back. He hung up without leaving a message and immediately called Havelock’s private Whitehall number.

“I’m surprised you’re not taking tea and cakes at this time of the afternoon, Dunstan. I’m trying to find Brendon Morgan’s address – he’s obviously not going to be listed in any of the publicly accessible databases, so I was wondering if you mind getting it for me?”

“For your information, I do not have the time to indulge in tea and cakes on any afternoon. And I can’t simply ask for his address without them finding out. Active personnel details are held on a database that is kept securely in a vault inside their building, as you well know.”

“What about the telephone companies, surely you must have the weight of office to be able to get them to help you?”

“Jake, I sometimes wonder what sort of contacts you think I have. I’m not in the security service or the police or any of those things. You’ve got more chance of Vince Sharp finding out. I really can’t help you.”

He then added quickly, “Or maybe I can. I have a top police contact who owes me a bit of a favour. Ring me back in an hour on this number and we had better hope that this line is not being monitored, because I’m sure the one at home is. Now I must get on. Goodbye, Jake.”

* * *

Dillon sat in the Porsche at the end of the street, parked on double yellow lines across an entrance to some allotments because it was the only space he could find. It was 8.15 p.m., and just starting to get dark. He’d been sitting there for about twenty minutes, and was not wearing a disguise. Morgan could have been at home for some time, of course – it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption that he might have entered his home through a back door. Dillon decided to give it a while longer, because he did not relish the prospect of actually calling on him at his home.

East Finchley appeared to be a quiet affluent area, with few cars or people passing along the road where Dillon was parked. The station was no more than half a mile away and so Dillon had to use his judgement on when to make his move. The street was almost clear of cars; the people in the allotments had left whilst it had still been daylight, and the residents all had driveways and garages. Dillon decided to park closer to Morgan’s house which lay hidden behind a tall beech hedge at the end of a gravel driveway. Before getting out, he looked up and down the street to see if there were any suspicious vehicles around. Satisfied that there weren’t, he climbed out and stood for a moment, by the side of the car.

It was almost 9 p.m., and Dillon was starting to feel dampness in the night air when a car approached, slowed, and then turned into Morgan’s driveway. Dillon quickened his pace as he crossed to the other side of the road. The tail lights of the Mercedes saloon went out and a moment later, the driver’s door opened. Dillon was already crunching his way up the gravel driveway and called to the man as he climbed out of the car.

“Are you Brendon Morgan?”

In the gloom Dillon watched as the figure stiffened and slammed the car door. “I’ve heard that voice before.” He turned to face Dillon.

“Jake Dillon,” Dillon said, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to disturb you at your home. But I need to talk to you.”

“You’d better come inside then,” Morgan said, and walked off towards the front door. A security light came on as they approached the porch, giving Dillon the opportunity to make a quick appraisal of the spook. He was tall and slim, somewhere in his mid-forties with greying hair, was wearing a well-cut light grey business suit and carried a black leather laptop case.

“I’d rather we talk in my car.”

“Okay. I’ll just pop inside and tell my wife, or she’ll wonder where I am.”

“She’ll have to wonder. Come on, let’s get this over with. I don’t have all night.”

“I was told that you’re an unreasonable and surly bugger. It won’t take me more than a few seconds.”

“I know that. But I would imagine that she’s not only a credit to you, but very competent as well. I’m almost certain that she would be raising the alarm as we speak.” Morgan stepped closer – his eyes glinting in the harsh tungsten light, and just for a second there was a hint of aggression, and then it was gone.

“How did you get hold of my home address?”

“I have my sources, but I will admit that I had to use up a few favours to get it. Now, come on, Brendon, don’t make me threaten you, because I’m getting tired of doing that. Just a short chat and I’ll be on my way.”

“All right. May I drop my case in the porch first?”

“Yes. But I’ll be watching.”

“Trusting, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Well don’t worry yourself, I’m not going to summon up a team of agents out of thin air,” Morgan said in derision as he crunched his way to the porch with Dillon two steps behind him.

Morgan placed the case inside the porch and they walked back to the Porsche and got in. Morgan wasn’t used to the low head height and bucket seats of the sports car, caught his foot on the threshold plate and unceremoniously slumped down in the seat.

“Right,” Morgan said. “You have a captive audience. So make it quick and cut to the chase, because my wife will have heard me open the porch door.”

“I would like you to hang on to Isabel Linley for a while longer. But you’re to make sure that she’s told exactly what’s going on and that she’s perfectly safe, and that you are holding her for her own protection. I’ll give you a note to give to her, explaining what’s going on. Oh, and make sure she has five-star comfort.”

“But we’re not holding her, Jake.”

Before Dillon could explode, Morgan added quickly, “But we do know who is and will pass on your wishes in exchange for something back from you.”

“And you have the authority to make deals like this, do you Brendon?”

“Not exactly, but I don’t see any problems as long as you keep to your end of the bargain. We’ll have to know where to contact you, of course.”

“No. I’ll contact you at Thames House.”

“You’re not even willing to trust us now? So why the hell are you here?”

Outside the wind had got up and a light drizzly rain was falling. Dillon didn’t answer immediately, instead turned the ignition key and a second later the Porsche’s three-litre engine fired up. Morgan looked uncomfortable in the gloom.

“I don’t trust you. I’m simply having to compromise. Issy’s safety is my main priority, and don’t forget, I know how you lot work when you don’t get your own way.”

“Oh, come on, Jake. You make us sound like hoodlums in cloaks. When in fact the security service is extremely accountable and one that does not go around kidnapping innocent people or killing them for that matter. Not all of us throw our toys out of the pram when we don’t get our own way.”

“Hoodlums in cloaks. Now there’s a thought.”

“Look, are we going to deal or not? We really do want to help and we’re very interested in what you might know.”

Morgan turned to gaze at Dillon.

“Okay,” he continued, “I’ll lay my cards on the table. We do have your girlfriend and she’s staying in a five-star hotel and enjoying every pampered moment of it. She may know who we are but we would, of course, vehemently deny everything, particularly when we know there are other interested parties who would very much like to get their hands on her. You understand, of course. We had to draw you out into the open and it worked, didn’t it? We hold you in high regard, Jake. But we do want what you know, and even if it galls me to say it. You have achieved in a few days what the police and MI5 have been trying to do over many months. So please, simply trust us on this one.”

Dillon switched off the engine and let the tension build up a fraction more before saying, “We’re talking, Brendon. That’s as good as it gets for now. However, I will give you everything I know, but I may need some help in return. It started five days ago when I came across a document containing a list of names and addresses, all in the south of England. There was no explanation accompanying them, I was curious so I paid one of them a visit. What I discovered was a cache of gold bullion and many wooden crates full of priceless works of art.”

“Where were they? Obviously not in the living room.” Morgan allowed himself a smile at his own weak joke.

“Obviously not. It took time, but I discovered a secret underground room that was located under the garage. There’s a strong possibility that the gold originated from the Brinks Mat robbery staged at Heathrow in 1983. As for the art and other objects, I’ve got my operations controller, Vince Sharp, looking at the FBI’s most wanted stolen works of art database. I’m sure that Tommy Trevelyan, Paul Hammer, and the late Julian Latimer are all behind it, alongside an unlikely yet charismatic, Charlie Hart.”

“That would have been the Lyme Regis incident?”

“How did you find out about that?”

“The local police force. They filed a report and it found its way back to us because someone thought it might have been a possible threat to national security. Not really sure why they thought that – might have been the AK47 they found in the woods close to the house, or possibly the amount of human blood they found spattered, pooled and smeared everywhere, both around and inside the property, that made them just a little bit suspicious. But you must have really stuck your head in the noose down there. Lucky to be alive, I’d say.”

“I admit, it was a close call, that one. And not something I’d want to repeat. But I cannot for the life of me make out what the hell it’s all about or why so many people have already died. The list has been changed many times – some entries have been crossed out completely and new ones entered. I must admit that I’m a little surprised that three of these men are involved, only because of their wealth status. As for Trevelyan, well this is obviously right up his street. There must be some very large sums of money involved to get him to make such elaborate plans for protection and to put out an open contract to have me killed.”

“Did this list come from the late Julian Latimer, the MP? We’ve been interested in him for some time.”

“Yes.” Dillon held up his hands, adding, “Don’t ask how I came by it. That’s really all I have at the moment. So what’s it all about?”

“Let me just say this: It’s much bigger than we at first thought. Latimer used highly confidential information which he discovered had enormous commercial value, contacted Trevelyan who, presumably with Hart, saw the global potential and far wider possibilities than Latimer could have ever dreamt of, and put them to a use. I have to say that we’re still trying to uncover what that is exactly. What you have discovered, which I might add, is an extremely important find. It’s the conduit and revenue generating side to their operation. You’re quite right, of course – it all started with the Brinks Mat gold bullion robbery back in 1983. That’s when Latimer discovered that he could make vast sums of money by selling confidential information to the likes of Trevelyan. The fact that he’s now dead seems to indicate that the arrangement has been cancelled by Trevelyan! The three remaining members are also the founders of a secret society calling themselves The Hell Fire Club – if you’re wondering what all of this is about?”