Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (30 page)

“He was not left wanting and has been increasing his wealth ever since. He left India because he wanted Daniel to grow up and be educated in the country of his origin. There’s nothing odd in that, and he also wanted to be within easy reach of his son’s university. I miss him a great deal. He’s a very fine man.”

Dillon was eager to ask for more detail about the deaths. But decided that to do that would be to cast dispersion on what Zafar had just told him and it could be dangerous to question his word in that way. He was not going to learn anything that he didn’t already know and checking out old press reports or anything concerning the deaths would immediately get back to the little man. But he was right – he had learnt something which only increased his fears. His questions had been answered but he had effectively come up against a solid wall of granite. Dillon was also fully aware that to find anyone who had a grudge or dislike of Hart would be totally impossible. He was fairly sure that anyone who had, was sure to have been eliminated a long time ago.

When Dillon smiled at Zafar , the little man was smiling as if to say, ‘you will never hear a bad word about Charlie Hart.’

But Dillon felt in a more dangerous position than before. If Hart wanted to have him taken out of the equation, then this was most definitely the place to do it.

“You appear to be uncomfortable, Mr. Dillon. And you have not touched your tea.” Zafar laughed in a softly chiding way.

“It’s not poisoned!”

He picked up his own cup and drank from it to prove the point.

Dillon smiled at Zafar but didn’t touch his drink, although he believed Zafar was telling the truth.

“Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Zafar. It’s time for me to leave you in peace,” Dillon said as he stood up.

“Please do not apologise, Mr. Dillon. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. It’s not every day that I get such an interesting and cultured visitor come to my home.”

Zafar eased himself off his chair.

“I’ll let Charlie know we met just in case you do not get the opportunity yourself.”

Dillon was hearing the threat in every innuendo. He leant down, took hold of the tea cup and raised it to his lips and drank.

“Very nice tea, Mr. Zafar,” he said.

“I wonder if I could use your phone to call a taxi.”

Zafar approached with his hand held out.

“It has already been done.”

Their hands met.

Dillon wondered how Zafar had ordered a taxi – there had been no move that he had noticed, no ordering his manservant to do this.

“No doubt you will be flying straight back to the UK?”

Why did that sound like an instruction? But really, it did not matter what Zafar said, Dillon could put no credence to any of it. Zafar struck him as a man who could tell smooth convincing lies in his sleep.

Zafar walked with Dillon towards the large curved door and it was opened by Baskhar just before they reached it. Dillon’s natural assumption was that Zafar must have a communication device on him. What he noticed immediately, which had not been evident when he had first arrived, was that the manservant was now wearing white cotton gloves. There was nothing odd in that, after all he could easily have been polishing the silver. But why have them on as he was leaving? The pressure was being subtly applied without one wrong word being spoken. As criminal minds go, it made Trevelyan look second-rate, at best.

Zafar escorted him all the way to the courtyard garden as far as the outside gate, just as a taxi arrived, as if on cue. Dillon climbed in the back.

“The Shangri-La Hotel,” he instructed. He glanced back at the entrance gate as the taxi drew away, but Zafar and his manservant had already disappeared back into the courtyard. He sat back, thinking over the futility of the trip as the taxi weaved it’s way slowly through the crowds of people in the busy street. It then struck him as he looked over the shoulder of the driver, that he was wearing white cotton gloves of exactly the same type as those worn by Baskhar. Then he noticed the glass partition between himself and the driver like in a London taxi. But this was Delhi and the taxis were virtually all basic saloon cars.

He tried to lower the window, only to find that was stuck fast and would not budge. And the same with the door – locked firmly into place. With resignation he sat back in the seat and cursed himself for having been so stupid. He had been reeled in like an amateur and trapped like one. He accepted the situation without rancour, but with a good deal of self-disgust. There was no point in shouting or trying to kick the windows out, as they were most likely bulletproof. He would have to let the situation take its natural course and try to keep his wits about him – something he had not done since arriving in India.

As he sat back he thought how he had been led around like a lamb to slaughter since stepping off the plane and he now began to wonder at Khan’s part. He had no idea where he was being taken until they took a turning and started to head towards a major motorway and New Delhi. At least he was going that far. When the driver veered away from the general direction of the hotel, Dillon started to feel uneasy.

It was reassuring, and at the same time a little uncomfortable, to feel the Glock tucked into his trouser band in the small of his back. But if he had learnt anything at all about Devdas Shah Zafar, it was that he would already know that he was carrying one. It was not very often that Dillon felt as if he had lost control of a situation, but it had happened. And now he was helpless.

He looked out of the window and was somewhat surprised to see that they were heading in the direction of the airport. Moments later, and the driver was turning into the concourse at Indira Gandhi International Airport and his faith in human nature was restored. The driver pulled into a vacant parking space and immediately spoke into a microphone attached to the sun visor. The speaker was somewhere behind Dillon’s head.

In heavily accented English he said, “The door is now unlocked, Mr. Dillon. There is someone waiting inside the main terminal with your luggage and return travel documents, including your passport. You will only leave the airport on the plane. We have all the exits covered and will kill you on sight if you step outside. There will be people watching you inside until you get on the aircraft. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. You are a lucky man. Please leave your handgun on the seat and get out of the car now.”

He watched Dillon place the Glock on the rear seat and then step outside the car into a wall of heat and the smell of aviation fuel fumes.

The roar of jet engines seemed to be all about him, but suddenly they were like music to his ears. He walked towards the departure bays, knowing that he was being constantly watched and wondering why they were allowing him to leave without so much as a roughing up, or even in a wooden box! There must be a reason – he felt that he was being allowed to leave India because the real danger was back in England. This is where he would be led to a place of execution. To be buried without a trace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Brendon Morgan had once again kept his word. As Dillon stepped off the plane he was met by an airport official and whisked away in a Mercedes 4x4 to the VIP arrivals lounge at London Heathrow airport. He went through passport control and retrieved his luggage, after which he made his way back to The Old Colonial Club.

The moment Dillon was back in his rooms, he phoned Issy to make sure that she was okay and to tell her that the assignment was at the stage where it would soon be drawing to a close. He knew that he had been saying that for some time now, but since her abduction she no longer got angry or argued.

He added, “If you see anyone hanging about outside, don’t worry, he’s simply keeping an eye on you.”

He rang Hart, only to get no reply. He didn’t call Morgan, who obviously knew that he was back in the UK. But he did consider whether there was something that he was holding back. Khan, Morgan’s contact in Delhi, had not added much to what he already knew and had in fact misinformed him about Devdas Shah Zafar.

There was only one other person left to speak to, but he would only be able to contact him by email and would most likely not get a reply for some hours after. Ten minutes later he had sent a brief message to his old friend, Lieutenant Colonel Paddy McNamara, who was still a serving officer and currently assigned to the SAS on special ops in Afghanistan.

Meanwhile, Dillon would have to curb his impatience and wait. He still couldn’t fathom out how easily he had been allowed to leave India. It could only be with Hart’s agreement and he must have a motive for allowing it.

* * *

Morgan was sitting at his desk when Toby Cooper knocked on his office door. Cooper entered and waited a few minutes whilst Morgan demonstrated his seniority by ignoring him as he studied some documents. After thirty seconds of silence Cooper said, “I can see you’re busy, I’ll come back later. I just wanted to report what we’ve found out about Jake Dillon. But you most likely already know.”

He opened the door to leave as Morgan called out, “Sorry, Toby. Need to get these signed off before lunch. Come back and sit yourself down.”

Cooper closed the door and sat back down again without invitation. He was bored of Morgan’s stupid little ways.

“So, what’s this about Jake Dillon?” Morgan demanded.

“Did you know that he owns a derelict theatre in the West End?” Cooper was most pleased to see the obvious irritation that Morgan was feeling at that precise moment.

Morgan leant back and threw his pen on the desk.

“If you’ve come here to tell me something I’ve known all along, you can piss off, Toby. I’m under a lot of pressure and do not need you barging in here and wasting my time. Now what else is there to know that I don’t already have in his file?”

“I was told that you’ve been looking for him. Well, I’ve found out where he’s been staying. His secret bolthole.”

“So where is it?”

Morgan was now fed up with the way Cooper had to always make such a song and dance about this sort of thing. He was nothing short of a silly little pratt who had been passed over on numerous occasions for promotions, and now had an enormous chip the size of a mountain on his right shoulder. Morgan made a mental note to have him reassigned to other duties. He smiled at this thought.

Cooper looked smug knowing that he was telling Morgan something that he did not know but might have tried to discover himself.

“The Old Colonial Club.”

“Well someone would have had to pull out a few stops for him to become a member of that particular establishment.”

“Havelock. He proposed him somehow, and because of that he, or whoever he’s pretending to be, was allowed to become a member. When he’s there though, he keeps to himself and always has room service bring up meals to his suite.”

Morgan gazed across the desk. He did not like Cooper and the feeling was mutual.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“It’s been confirmed. All expense invoices are paid in full immediately.”

“I see.”

Morgan clasped his hands together contemplatively, as if he were going to pray. “Well, it’s something for the file, isn’t it? But of no importance to us now, since I flushed him out of hiding and persuaded him to work with us on this assignment. That’s why I sanctioned his little jaunt to Delhi. Now, be a good chap and make sure the information is placed on file, will you?”

Morgan dismissed the junior officer and sat for a while, thinking about what he’d just been told and smiling smugly to himself. The question was, what should he do with this information, and after another moment he lifted the phone.

* * *

“Paddy? How are you, mate? Do you know that we haven’t spoken since that little excursion into Uruguay back in 2007? Speaking of which, I hope you’ve still got Mendez safely tucked away somewhere uncomfortable?” Dillon said.

“Last I heard, former El Presidente Mendez was extremely uncomfortable. Apparently he’s taken to ice cold showers three times a day. I’ve absolutely no sympathy. Anyway, what’s so important that makes you contact me?”

“How’s your security clearance rating these days?”

“You know exactly what my rating is. What is it you need to know and what’s the aggro factor if I’m caught?”

“The CIA central computer archives at Langley. You’ll be looking for a classified file, most likely named Hell Fire.”

“Just where did you get that from? If it’s classified I doubt whether I’ll get anywhere near it.”

“Hell Fire is short for The Hell Fire Club, which MI5, MI6 and the CIA are all fully aware of. My guess though is that it’s linked indirectly to various terrorist funding activities, both here in the UK and abroad. I won’t bore you with how I got involved. Suffice to say I’m working, albeit loosely, with MI5 on a matter that concerns a threat to our national security, which I believe is also linked with other agencies around the world. What worries me, though, is that as an outsider, they’ve only told me what they want me to know. Do you think that you could take a peek for me when you’re next able to?”

“I’m attending a NATO conference in a day or two. If I get the opportunity I’ll do my best, but that might not be possible. I don’t rate my chances, mate.”

“Okay. If I give you one single item to look for, would that help?”

“I’d still have to dig around for the main directory file and then find the sub-files that any particular information was stored in. You know what the Americans are like, Jake. Paranoid about this kind of thing, so they bury it deep. There’s never anything bloody simple with you.”

“Okay. What if you could get someone at Langley to do it for you? It would cause less suspicion and they’d most likely be able to find it immediately by being inside the building. For England, Paddy.”

“Bullshit.”

“For the greater good of mankind, then?”

McNamara laughed.

“You don’t change, do you? I’ll give it my best shot for you, Jake. But I can’t promise anything. I suppose you want it yesterday?”

“Sooner, if possible.”

“Life and death, I suppose. I’ll do what I can. Now give me the item.”

When Dillon hung up he had an idea of why Morgan wanted to keep a close watch over him. It was all starting to make sense.

On impulse, he jumped into the Porsche and drove down to Bournemouth. He managed to get out of London before rush hour and before the motorways had started to clog up. By the time he’d arrived in Bournemouth it was just starting to get dark. He parked his car in a side street and walked around the corner to the café where Charlie Hart had sat at a window watching for Rosie Poulter to come out from the old rundown building opposite.

Dillon wondered if he was doing the right thing. The temptation was to cross the almost deserted street and ring the bell. But when it came to it, he found he could not do it and the reason centred round Hart himself. He felt the timing was wrong and convinced himself that he had come down to Dorset merely because he had nothing better to do until the next day. And yet he knew it was likely that some of the answers he sought were behind that door.

With the shops closed and far fewer people about he felt isolated and, for a brief moment, thought this was how Hart must feel most of the time. He continued to sit in the café drinking coffee and realised that his reluctance to call on Rosie Poulter was in some indefinable way an attempt to protect Charlie Hart. It was a ludicrous thought and one he pushed out of his mind as he walked back to the Porsche to drive away. He was so wrapped up with his own thoughts that he’d dropped his guard and his awareness of being followed.

He couldn’t be sure. It had started to rain and as the wipers swished in front of him he looked into the rear-view mirror to see a blurred vision of nothing more than dazzling car headlights. Yet his gut feeling told him that there was someone back there, keeping a safe distance so as not to be spotted. What now worried him was whether he had been followed down from London and had been lax enough to miss them.

There was nothing he could do about it on the way to the apartment in Lilliput, and he was not sure that he wanted to. There were so many loose ends to this assignment that it might be more productive to let something happen to him. He knew that he could easily outrun any other car, even around town, but took no evasive action at all on the way back. When he drove into the parking space at the Salterns apartment building he was less sure about the situation he now found himself in. No car had followed him in and when he went to the entrance he could see no one obviously lurking in the shadows. He went straight up to the apartment, thinking that he was becoming more paranoid by the day. That recent events were starting to take their toll on him mentally and that the thought of taking a long holiday with Issy was looking more attractive than ever.

He felt restless and tense. Sleeping was something he never looked forward to at the best of times – tossing and turning fitfully throughout the small hours until morning came. After showering, he considered ringing Hart again but decided against it. The weather had settled with the break of dawn and he decided to have breakfast outside on the balcony. He then drove into Poole to spend some time making a few necessary purchases before driving back down to Lyme Regis. The drive down to the west Dorset seaside town was uneventful and he managed to park in roughly the same spot as before. He camouflaged his car in the same way and when he was satisfied that it couldn’t be seen from the road or the driveway, slipped on a bulletproof vest under his walking jacket. He looked just like any other innocent hiker right down to the lightweight rucksack on his back.

He kept to the wooded area at the front of the house, staying to the cover of the trees for as long as possible. When he was almost upon the house, he paused for a moment, taking a pair of small binoculars to look for any noticeable movement around the property. Sure that it was safe, he removed the Glock from its holster, made sure the safety was off, replaced it, then moved out of cover to the front porch. He gazed around under the porch – nothing seemed to have changed. The police, having found no bodies, had probably lost interest as nothing had actually been stolen. He rang the bell and turned his back to the door, spinning round only when he heard the bolt slide back and the door open.

A woman faced him, and although he hadn’t really seen her he immediately recognised Harry Conner’s wife, Sheila. It was lucky that she didn’t know him, but she was highly suspicious after recent events.

“Is Harry in?” Dillon asked, casting his gaze over her shoulder to the hallway beyond.

A flicker of recognition touched her eyes as she heard his voice. She started to open her mouth to cry out when Dillon said amiably, “Please don’t scream. I’m really not in the mood for using this today.”

Sheila Conner stared down the silenced barrel, in wide-eyed astonishment, at the Glock pointing at her and Dillon thought that she was going to pass out. Instead she lurched forward with her fist drawn back, ready to hit him. He managed to sidestep the blow as it grazed his cheekbone, and before she had a chance to yell out he’d caught her just behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. Not hard enough to knock her out completely, but merely to stun, giving him enough time to push her back inside the hallway.

Whilst she was still dazed, he spun her round against the wall, and gagged her with the tea towel that she’d had tucked into her apron. He pulled out a length of thin rope from the rucksack and quickly bound her wrists, trailing the rope down to her ankles and doing the same to them, so that both hands and feet were joined together with the same piece of rope. He was just pulling the knots tight when Harry Conner called out, “Who is it, luv?”

The voice came from upstairs which Dillon mounted two at a time, slowing down as he neared the landing. He crouched down behind the balustrade as he saw the faintest shadow moving around in what looked like the master bedroom, just to the left of the stairs on the opposite side of the landing.

“Sheila!”

The alarm in the tone suggested that Conner had already guessed that there was trouble. Dillon remained in a low crouch as he moved cautiously towards the doorway. He could see the shadow recede deeper into the room and he now caught the sound of a telephone keypad being used. He knew what was happening and dashed the remaining few steps, burst into the bedroom where he almost caught a bullet in the head. Stopping dead he threw himself flat on the floor. Conner had the phone in one hand and a gun in the other. He was about to fire again, but Dillon was already rolling and aiming, shouting quickly, “Don’t be a fool, Harry. Think of Sheila.”

Conner hesitated, clearly not comfortable with a gun, saw the steadiness with which Dillon held the Glock, felt the gun waver in his hand, and almost burst into tears from the frustration.

“Drop the gun and kick it towards me, Harry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Conner dropped the gun, kicked it across the floor towards Dillon and then put down the phone slowly onto the bed. Dillon slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket and stood up.

“You should be proud of Sheila – she almost had me with a perfect right hook.”

He walked over to a chair and sat down.

“I’m afraid that she’s going to have a bit of a bruise just behind her left ear, but otherwise she’ll be fine. I had to restrain and gag her too. Now get downstairs and I’ll be right behind you. No heroics. If you’re sensible no harm will come to either of you.”

Conner went down the stairs with Dillon following and went straight to Sheila as soon as he saw her on the floor. She was already struggling fiercely to get free, didn’t stop for a second even when she caught sight of Dillon who had little trouble in persuading Conner to be sensible and tell him where the security system switch for the garage alarm was. He wasted no more time, gagged and bound Conner, dragged him, and then his wife, into the living room, and tied them together with the last piece of rope from his rucksack.

He quickly went round the house, checking that all the other rooms were empty. He found the switch for the alarm behind a small panel by the front door and took his rucksack out to the garage where he used a set of picks to unlock the door at the rear, entered and switched on the light. The van was missing.