Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (15 page)

Dillon controlled the light flexible fencing foil with
a calculated coldness, striking the button tip of the weapon
into the chest of his opponent with ruthless precision. The
buzzer sounded, and Dillon stepped one pace back, bringing
the foil up, so that the tip was pointing skywards. He then
bowed to his opponent who returned the gesture. In the
changing room he had showered and was changing back
into his street clothes, when his mobile phone started to
ring.

He listened to Edward Levenson-Jones, give him a
brief account of what had happened at the hospital, and
how the police guard had been murdered by someone
impersonating a doctor, and asking questions about the

U-boat’s location.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Dillon snapped the
phone closed, and put it in his jacket pocket, picked up
the holdall and went straight to the club’s underground car
park to collect the Mercedes.
A moment later he emerged out of the gloom of the
car park, driving the brand new convertible up the ramp
at speed and immediately filtering into the early evening
traffic. By the time he reached Docklands the majority of
people who worked there during the day had gone home.
Dillon stopped at the junction for a moment looking
left and then right, and saw Annabelle stepping out of the
rear door of the black cab. She started to walk the short
distance towards the Ferran & Cardini building, and Dillon
then saw something else. Slater and Black getting out of the
red Ferrari fifty metres up the road, and then start to walk
behind her.
From where he was positioned he couldn’t actually
see who it was, but the bright red Italian sports car was
enough. He swore out loud, and the tyres of the Mercedes
screeched as he pulled away from the junction and
accelerated up the road.

Annabelle was feeling somewhat happier, since LJ
had phoned her back with the news that her father was safe
and unharmed in his hospital bed. She crossed the road and
entered the narrow side street that led to the Special Project
Department’s private entrance.

The last remnant of daylight was almost gone,
and with darkness fast approaching, she briskly walked
between the tall buildings. Stopping briefly under one of
the dockside lamps. She unzipped her bag, and rummaged
around in amongst all of the other stuff for a lipstick. It was
then, that she heard the movement behind her. Turned and
found, Slater and Black standing there menacingly.

“What do you want?” She demanded, mustering up
as much courage as she possibly could, and then started to
edge away.

“Keep your hair on luv, there’s no need to panic,”
Slater said. “All we want from you is one simple answer to
one simple question, that’s all.”

Annabelle instantly recognised the man’s voice as
that of the fake doctor at the hospital, and she turned and
started to run towards the entrance, but Black was far too
quick. Grabbing hold of her from behind he twisted her
arm, and almost lifted her off the ground. She let out a
scream which he stifled with his other hand.

“Annabelle, isn’t it?” Black said, as he grappled with
her.
“If you promise not to struggle I’ll let go, but you
try and run away, I’ll break both your arms and both your
legs, just for good measure. Do I make myself clear, missy?”
Annabelle nodded her head, and Black let go. The fear that
she now felt had knotted itself in her stomach, and as he
stepped away her legs gave way and she ended up sitting on
the grimy cobbled surface. Slater came over, and roughly
hauled her back up onto her feet like she was a rag doll. He
still had a menacing look on his face, as he pinned her up
against the wall.
“So, Miss Cunningham I’ll ask you once again,
where is the U-boat located?”
She stared defiantly, looking him square in the eye,
“Whoever you are, your breath stinks and you’re hurting
my arm.”
“I like that in a woman, a bit of spirit, well I’ve got
just the thing to loosen up your tongue.” Slater reached into
his jacket pocket with his free hand, and pulled out a switch
blade knife. The long six-inch blade appeared instantly,
glinting in the semi-darkness.
“Now, for the last time. Answer my bloody question
you stuck up bitch, or I’ll make sure you never talk again.”
The distinctive sound of a match being struck from
somewhere in the shadows caused Slater and Black to both
look over their shoulders at the same time. The flame flared
as Dillon lit the cigarette.
“I’d step back, and leave the lady alone, if I were
you,” he called. Stepping out from the shadows he started
to walk towards them, Black turned, and went to meet him.
“Looking for trouble are we? Well you’ve got it,
you poncy git.” Black looked like a street fighter, of that
Dillon was in no doubt, but from the way he stood to the
immediate throwing of the heavy punch to the head, Dillon
also knew that it was just bravado.
He ducked, and then swayed to one side, coming up,
and catching his opponent with a solid kick to the crotch.
The effect was instant, Black stood there, with a pained and
contorted expression on his face. Time froze, as he cupped
both hands over his genitals, and then after a brief moment,
sagged down onto his knees. Tears rolled down his face with
the agonising pain that he felt. Dillon had been the better
of him. As he walked passed the still kneeling man towards
Slater, who was still holding onto Annabelle. Black looked
up, and said arrogantly. “I’ll get you, you flash tosser.”
Dillon stopped, turned and stood facing the sobbing
man who had recovered enough to stand up, but was still
holding on to his private parts.
“Well what are you waiting for big man?” Dillon
said matter of factly, and then immediately struck Black’s
nose with a head butt that smashed the bone, and rendered
the other man unconscious. Black went down onto the
cobbled street almost in slow motion as his legs gave way,
and he ended up in the gutter face down.
Slater, threw Annabelle to one side, and took the
Walther PPK pistol from his trouser waistband. Dillon
moved in fast, knocking him off balance as he slammed into
his side with a rugby style tackle.
The butt of the Walther came down hard on Dillon’s
back, and at the same time Slater brought his knee up in an
attempt to make contact with his opponent’s face. Dillon
instinctively moved with the blow which sent him reeling
backwards, grabbing on to the other man’s leather jacket,
and swinging him around.
The Walther went off, the noise deafening, bullet
and sound ricocheting up through the empty street until
both were expended somewhere into the brickwork of one
of the tall buildings. The former army intelligence officer
half turned and grabbed hold of the other man, throwing
him judo style onto the ground. Slater, landed heavily on
his back with the wind knocked out of him, and Dillon
immediately brought the heel of his Italian leather shoe
down hard onto his chest to the sound of cracking ribs.
Before he had time to recover Dillon squatted over
him, and drove a clenched fist hard into his face. Slater
writhed around on the pavement in agony, free flowing
blood poured from his broken nose and onto his clothing.
Dillon picked up the Walther, and held it in his hand.
“Well, I suppose if it’s good enough for James Bond, then
it’s good enough for me.” He knelt down beside Slater,
and pressed the end of the barrel to his temple. “So tell me
asshole, who’s your boss?”
“Piss off,” Slater said between clenched teeth.
Dillon grabbed hold of a handful of Slater’s hair, and
roughly pulled him up into a sitting position. He jabbed the
muzzle of the Walther under his chin which made the other
man scream with the pain. His face was already looking
like a contorted cocktail of congealed blood, and bluish
purplish bruising from the beating he had just received.
“I’ll ask you again low life, who are you working
for? Tell me, before I get artistic, and create an abstract
with your tiny brain all over that wall.”
Slater’s eyes rolled back as he momentarily lost
consciousness, and Dillon thought he’d lost him, but then
they opened again. He flicked the safety catch to the off
position.
“I will kill you, be in no doubt of that.”
Slater had recovered enough bravado to say, “Go on
then, do it. But you haven’t got the bottle have you?”
Dillon’s response was lightening fast, bringing the
muzzle of the Walther up level with Slater’s ear. He gently
squeezed the trigger, the bullet whizzed passed Slater’s
earlobe with only a hair width to spare.
Firing the weapon at such close quarter, deafened
the man, and he screamed at Dillon. “Okay you bastard, I
believe you.”
Slater held up one hand in defeat. “It’s a Frenchman,
his name is Malakoff, Hugo Malakoff.”
“Malakoff?” Dillon said.
“Yeah, he’s the one.”
“How interesting, and where would I find him?”
Dillon jabbed the Walther’s muzzle a little harder under
Slater’s chin.
“He has a château just outside of Paris.”
“And the break-in at Belgrave Mews. Was that you
who planted those nasty little bugs there?”
“Yeah, that was me.” Slater said, his voice was
subdued but still had that East End arrogance about it.
Dillon stood up and placed the Walther into his
jacket pocket. Slater stayed where he was, sitting at the side
of the road on the pavement, his head tilted back in an
attempt to stem the blood still trickling out of his nose.
Black was slowly coming round from the whack to the head
that Dillon had given him.
Before turning to walk away, Dillon said, “Take
this as a warning gentlemen. Should our paths cross again
you may not be so lucky as to walk away with merely a
broken nose and a few scratches.” He walked over to where
Annabelle was stood, and put his hand on her shoulder
reassuringly.
“And tell, Monsieur Malakoff, that the same applies
to him.” Annabelle stared at him blankly in a daze. “Come
on, let’s get you inside.” Dillon said gently.
As they walked up the narrow street Slater called,
“You bastard, I’ll get you. I know who you are, Mr Jake
Dillon.”
“I really don’t think so,” Dillon said, he stopped
and turned around to face the two small time crooks, “My
advice is that you, Malakoff, and your creepy little friend
over there slither back under the stone from where you all
came.”

Entering through the private side entrance they
waited for the lift that would take them down to the Special
Projects Department.

“How are you feeling, Annabelle? I hope that didn’t
frighten you too much?”
“I’m fine really, but did you have to do that to those
men?”
“Oh believe me, they were about to do something
much worse to you.”
The lift doors opened and they got in.
Edward Levenson-Jones was sitting at his desk
listening impassively while Dillon told him about the
incident outside in the street. Afterwards he got up and
started to pace around the office deep in thought. He was
thoroughly shocked to hear how Slater and Black had
threatened Annabelle with violence, if she didn’t tell them
the whereabouts of the U-boat.
“Hugo Malakoff.” he said out loud. “Why is he
involved, and what is the connection between him and the
U-boat, I wonder?” Turning around he spoke more quietly
to Annabelle who seemed to still be in shock. “My dear,
this puts a completely different light on the whole matter.
I really do think that it would be for the best if you had a
bodyguard while this U-boat thing is going on.” Annabelle
started to protest, but LJ stopped her before she had a
chance to voice her opinion.
“Before you say no, my dear I must tell you that this
is non-negotiable. After all, I’ve known you far too long, to
allow any harm to come to you. And believe me when I say
that these two unsavoury characters will almost certainly
try and get to you again.”
“But I don’t understand, why do they think that I
know where the U-boat is?”
“Because Annabelle, as Nathan’s daughter they’re
assuming, and in my mind, quite rightly so, that he would
have confided this information to you of all people. They
of course, do not know your father like we do. Now then,
I’ll assign one of our best people, she’ll stay with you at all
times until this matter is cleared up.”
“I also think that a change of accommodation is in
order. I’ll have Roberts arrange for you to stay at one of the
firm’s apartments overlooking the Thames, and quite close
to the hospital. You’ll be quite safe there, my dear. Jake, I
want your full written report on my desk before you leave
this evening if you wouldn’t mind. Oh, and a copy for the
Partners please.”
Dillon did mind, in fact any kind of paperwork was
inessential as far as he was concerned. His dislike of such
mundane tasks was on a par with his distrust of politicians
and civil servants. But on this occasion he decided to keep
this thought to himself. He walked back to his own office,
and sitting down started to type up the report.

It was just after nine o’clock that evening when
Slater and Black entered the Harley Street consulting rooms
of eminent plastic surgeon, Dr Claude Rousseau.

They had parked the Ferrari at the rear of the
imposing Georgian property, and let themselves in as
arranged through the delivery entrance. Slater gripped
the arms of the reclined examination chair with whitened
knuckles as Dr Rousseau tended to his broken nose. He
made no effort to be gentle or to conceal his annoyance
at having been dragged away from an important dinner
function, to administer his considerable savoir-faire on the
two East End ruffians.

Half an hour later and they each sported a neat
plaster across the bridge of there reset noses; a purplish
bruising had already started to appear under the eyes of
both men.

This was quite natural, the doctor told them,
although it had been made much worse because of the
considerable force with which Dillon had struck them.
Slater would have preferred to go to a local NHS hospital,
but that would have been far to dangerous, and meant some
awkward questions being asked, or worse, someone may
have recognised them both. Especially as their cropped hair
was once again bleached blonde.