Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (35 page)

Chapman throttled back the cruiser’s powerful diesel
engines, slowing the sleek white craft to a virtual standstill
as he moved it between the many yachts at anchor to the
mooring. Out in the bay the local dinghy school was under
full sail and windsurfers were weaving their course through
the ocean. From high up on the sea wall, people were
watching the world go by and enjoying the late morning
sunshine, Mazzarin was one of them, in a light coloured
T-shirt and colourful long surfer’s shorts. And at Annabelle’s
café, business was bristling with tourists clambering at the
counter in search of refreshments.

Mazzarin saw Dillon lean over the side rail and gaff
hook the swinging buoy, and then heave it up to tie the bow
line to it. He went to the stern and did exactly the same
there, returning to the main cabin a moment later. After
five minutes, he came out on to the deck with one of the
large canvas holdalls in one hand. LJ followed him carrying
a silver box under his arm, and then Vince and Chapman
came out with the diving equipment stowed in large black
holdalls. Dillon stayed on board to lock up, while the others
clambered down into the inflatable at the stern. He joined
them a moment later in the small craft, Chapman pulled
the starter cord and, on the third attempt the outboard
fired, white smoke spewed out of the tiny exhaust and then
a loud pop interrupted the usual sounds of the harbour.
He engaged the propeller, and a moment later they were
heading straight towards the beach.

Dillon got out of the dinghy, and taking hold of the
bow line, pulled it partly out of the water and up onto the
wet sand. The others were out of the small inflatable craft
in an instant, and together they walked along the beach in
front of Annabelle’s café and up the slipway towards the
road.

Mazzarin pulled on a dark blue baseball cap that,
with the peak pulled down, partially concealed the upper
part of his face. With dark sunglasses on, he looked just
like any other anonymous tourist strolling around in the
sunshine. He walked back along the sea wall towards the
slipway, reaching it at the same time as Dillon and the others
were coming up the ramp off the beach. At that moment, a
woman hurried out of Annabelle’s Café, calling LJ’s name
and waving an envelope in one hand.

“Oh Mr Levenson-Jones.” It was Kate Jackson,
Annabelle’s manager, who was coming down the steps
towards them.

LJ looked over his shoulder, and then turned to greet
her. “My dear Miss Jackson, good morning. And, what’s so
urgent that you should have to dash out to catch me?”

“It’s this note from Annabelle. I’m to tell you that
she’s flown back to London, because the most wonderful
thing has happened. You see, the hospital’s called to say
that Nathan’s starting to regain consciousness at last.”

LJ, ripped it open, and pulled out a single sheet of
white paper. He took a moment to read the note, and then
immediately handed it to Dillon. The grievous look on his
face, said it all.

“The bastards! How the bloody hell did they get
out of police custody?” Dillon said between clenched teeth,
and looking up at Chapman, added, “Would you believe
it. Those two henchman of Malakoff’s, only tried to attack
Annabelle early this morning at her home.”

“Who? The German and the Frenchman?” It was
LJ who nodded agreement. Chapman quickly added, “But,
she’s alright isn’t she?”

“Oh I think that we can assume that they came off
worse. She apparently, shot the Frenchman in the shoulder
with the Walther I’d given her.” Dillon said smiling, folded
the piece of paper and handed it back to LJ, who placed it
inside his jacket pocket.

As they walked up the hill, leaving the bustle of the
harbour down below, to the Fisherman’s Lodge, LJ said,
“I’ll call Annabelle on her mobile phone when we get back.
Just to make sure she’s okay, and to find out how Nathan
is.”

“Good idea, while you’re doing that, I’ll take a
shower and then pack.” Dillon said.
“Well, if you’ve no further use for me, I’d better
get going, I’ve got to be over at the dig in an hour or so.”
Chapman said as they neared the brow of the hill.
“Okay, oh and Rob. Thanks for all your help.”
Dillon replied. Chapman said goodbye, and continued
along the road towards his sea castle.
Carrying the silver chest safely inside one of the large
holdalls, LJ walked on towards the Fisherman’s Lodge with
Dillon and Vince. The road curved around to the left, to be
joined a little further along by the narrow dirt lane that led
down through tall willowy trees to the lodge.
Kurt paused in the shelter of a disused, and ram
shackle, timber shed and using the two way radio called up
Mazzarin. He answered at once from where he was sitting
on the beach at the bottom of the steps that lead up to
Fisherman’s Lodge.
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Levenson-Jones is almost here with Dillon and the
other one.”
“What, Dillon is with them? You know what he’s
capable of?”
“Listen to me, you coward. Dillon is merely flesh
and blood, just like you and me. We can take him out, as
long as we catch them off guard. Meet me on the seaward
side in five minutes.”
Kurt then called Zola before switching off the tiny
device. Turning, he could see LJ and the others coming
down the lane about one hundred metres away. He broke
cover, moved quickly around to the rear of the lodge, and
once on the seaward side, concealed himself in a thicket of
bushes.
LJ put the chest on the coffee table in the sitting room,
then went into his bedroom and started to get changed into
clean clothes. Dillon had gone for a shower, and Vince was
packing away his computer equipment into their travelling
cases. He should have felt exhilarated, he told himself as he
buttoned up the shirt he’d just put on, but far too much had
happened since his long time friend Nathan Cunningham
had first walked into his office with this amazing discovery.
Nathan was mown down by a mysterious car on a
zebra crossing. He pulled on a pair of trousers, then there
was the frail old lady at number fifty-one. It had been made
to look like death by natural causes, but the pathologist had
found the puncture mark just above the old lady’s ankle, and
then there was the trace of an extremely rare poison that
they’d found in her blood. They thought it most likely that
it had originated from South America. He sighed, opened
his suitcase and found the half empty bottle of single malt
whisky.
He poured a good measure into a tumbler and drank
it down neat, in one gulp. Refilled his glass, and placed it
on the cabinet at the side of the bed. Albert Bishop, an old
man who had never done anyone harm in his life, and then
Guy Roberts. Both murders were far too convenient to be
coincidences. Malakoff had much to answer for. He picked
up his mobile phone, took his drink and went into the sitting
room, and placed the tumbler of whisky on the coffee table
next to the silver chest. Before calling Annabelle, he paused,
staring down at the Nazi swastika across the lid, and then
ran his hand lightly over it. The cold metal sent a shiver
through his body, he walked across the room and stood
staring out of the window, his mood reflective, as he gazed
out across the rear garden to the English Channel. After a
minute or two, he went and slumped down heavily into one
of the old sofas. Leaned back, picked up his drink, and sat
looking up at the painting over the fire mantle.
Mazzarin went apace up the steps, and came to an
abrupt halt behind the wooden fence at the edge of the
garden. He’d immediately spotted LJ staring out of the
double French doors in his direction, and then a moment
later turn away and go and sit down. Staying low and using
the dense foliage along the rear boundary, he made his way
to where Kurt was waiting.
They went straight to the heavy oak stable door, that
opened up into the kitchen. This was located at the side of
the stone building, and there were no windows overlooking
this part of the garden. Very gently, Kurt tried the latch. He
shook his head, and whispered, “No good, it’s locked.”
Mazzarin pointed up to a dormer window, jutting
out of the slate tile roof. Kurt looked up, gave him the
okay sign, and then beckoned Mazzarin to follow him to
the old wood shed. Before rounding the building, Kurt
stood perfectly still, not even his breathing could be heard,
and only after satisfying himself that there wasn’t anyone
else about. Did he move towards the woodshed. Except
for the ocean crashing onto the rocks far below, the only
other sounds were those of their footsteps falling onto
rotting twigs and debris scattered on the ground. There
wasn’t anyone else about, and the garden surrounding the
Fisherman’s Lodge was very luxuriant, shielding it from the
road and the other houses in the immediate area. He went
straight to the ladder that he’d found earlier, most of the
timber had rotted away over the years, but there was still
a good six or so foot that was usable. They carried it back,
and put it up against the wall.
Mazzarin started to climb up, Kurt caught hold of
his shirt, and said, “Be very quiet.” He whispered to the
other man as he took out the Magnum .45 and passed it to
him, “Once you’re in, come down immediately and let me
in through this door.”
Mazzarin tried opening the aged window. When it
wouldn’t budge; he pushed the blade of his divers knife
between the outer and inner frames, prised it, and on
the second try managed to open the window far enough
to squeeze in. He slithered through the small opening,
was inside the attic room in a matter of seconds, and was
immediately overwhelmed by the musty decaying air of a
room that had been locked away for too many years.
He stood for a moment, while his eyes adjusted to
the poor light inside the room. There were a few wooden
tea chests at one end, and a doorway at the other. He moved
with deliberate care around the edge of the attic, knowing
that just one creak from an uneven or loose floorboard
would bring Dillon and the others running up to greet him.
He tried the handle, it opened to his touch, the door moving
with remarkable ease and quietness. On the other side, there
was a small square galleried landing area, he moved to the
edge of the staircase, and craned his head over the banister
in search of anyone below. The Magnum .45 was already in
his right hand as he descended the stairs, and as he neared
the bottom, he became aware of the sound of running water
coming from the shower room. He froze, stooped down
and glanced around the spacious hallway below. Vince
came out of one of the bedrooms carrying a heavy looking
case, went outside and loaded it into the Range Rover, came
back inside and took out two more bulky looking boxes. A
moment later he got into the 4x4 vehicle and drove off.
Mazzarin waited a second, and when he was satisfied
that there was no one else moving around, he went straight
to the kitchen door and opened it.
Kurt moved inside, and took the Magnum from him,
“Where are they?” Kurt whispered.
“Dillon is in the shower, Levenson-Jones appears to
be taking a nap in the living room, and the other one has
just driven off with some boxes. But, I can’t see the silver
chest though.” Mazzarin spoke just above a whisper.
Kurt brushed him aside, and moved quickly to the
doorway that led back through to the hall. Directly opposite
him, was the living room, the door ajar about six inches.
His footsteps fell silently on the thick carpet, and the next
instant he was standing to one side of the doorway, peering
around the frame, could clearly see that LJ was asleep and
snoring loudly on the sofa, the chest in the centre of the
coffee table that was directly in front of him.
Mazzarin joined the big German, who ordered him
to keep watch, while he entered the living room. In one
perfectly executed movement, he moved to the silver chest,
picked it up, and was about to motion Mazzarin to follow
him through the French doors, when LJ stirred and became
instantly awake, aware that they were in the room.
He immediately stood up, the dismay on his face
was instant. Seeing Kurt with the silver chest under his arm,
he didn’t waste time making a futile plea for him to put it
back. Instead he simply flung himself at the big German.
Kurt, pistol whipped him across the side of his face, with
the butt of the Magnum, and when LJ fell to his knees,
viciously kicked him towards the fire place.
“You should have stayed asleep, old man.” He
sneered, and then said to Mazzarin. “Come on, we’ve
got what we came for. Let’s get out of this place before
Dillon comes running.” They hurried out through the
French doors, and in to the garden. A moment later, they’d
disappeared through the back gate and down the steps to
the beach below.
LJ managed to get to his feet, the throbbing pain in
his head and ribs that felt as if they were on fire, almost
made him pass out with every step he took. He staggered
across the room, still a little dizzy, went through the French
doors and outside onto the lawn, just in time to see Kurt
and Mazzarin going through the back gate and then the
next instant disappear down the steps. By the time he’d got
to the cliff’s edge, they were already down on the beach,
pushing the inflatable out into the water. Kurt started the
outboard, the propeller bit, and he spun the craft around,
moving quickly out into open water. It was only then that
LJ, looking across to Gifford Bay, realised that the Solitaire
was no longer at anchor there.
He had never felt so out of control in his entire
life, never so full of hatred and rage. He walked back into
the Fisherman’s Lodge, went to the bathroom, got a hand
towel and dampened it with cold water. As he was pressing
it against his cheek, Dillon walked by, a large white towel
wrapped around him. He had another in his hands, rubbing
his hair dry.
“My God, what’s happened to you?” Dillon
demanded.
“The big German, and one of his sidekicks. That’s
what’s happened. You were in the shower, and I’m afraid
to say it, but I fell asleep in the living room. I woke up, just
as they were sloping out through the French doors. Tried to
stop them, and got this for my trouble. I’m afraid they’ve
taken the chest. Contents and all.”
“Why didn’t you shout for me?”
“No time, old son. They were here one minute, and
gone the next.” He patted his cheekbone, blood had turned
the white hand towel pink, and he held it under the cold
water again, wrung it out and then pressed it back against
his injured face.
Dillon went into the living room, picked up the pair
of binoculars off the table on his way out to the garden, and
standing at the cliff’s edge focused them on the fast moving
inflatable. He could see the craft cutting a near perfect wake
on it’s way out to open water in a south-easterly direction.
Before rounding the headland at Gifford bay,
a curious thing took place. Kurt killed the power to the
outboard, allowing the inflatable to drift with the swell. He
then went and stood in the stern of the craft, picked up the
silver chest and held it high above his head triumphantly.
Dillon stood watching through the binoculars as the big
German laughed and antagonised him from afar. A moment
later the inflatable had disappeared completely from sight.
Dillon stood at the cliff’s edge, brooding, furious at
having been got the better of by a hired thug. LJ came and
stood beside him.
“Rest assured, we’ll get that chest and its contents
back. And, that particular gentleman will get what’s coming
to him.”
“Oh, he’ll get what’s due, alright. I hope he’s prepared
to meet his Maker.” Dillon looked amazed at LJ’s obvious
anger. The Director of Special Projects stood looking out
to sea, puffing on a cigar, and smiling wryly. “But, more to
the point, it’s whether his Maker is prepared for the ordeal
of meeting him, now that’s an altogether different matter.”
When Vince arrived back, Dillon and LJ were in the
living room, both had a large tumbler of whisky in their
hand.
“Bloody hell, Boss. What happened to you?”
“The big German, that’s what happened.” LJ said,
and pressed the towel against his cheek again.
“Where were you, Vince?” Dillon demanded.
“I’ve been over at Rob Chapmans, he’d left some of
his diving equipment in the back of the car. Struth mate,
I’ve only been gone five minutes.”
“Well, they must have watched you leave, knew that
I was in the shower, which only left LJ’s whereabouts to
worry about.” Dillon said, taking a gulp of the single malt
whisky, and then added, “I’d say that they were already
here, waiting for us to arrive back.”
“I agree, old son. They had the inflatable on the
beach, and most likely were up here watching us come back
into harbour. Malakoff is no fool, which begs the question,
where is he now?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s not that far away, Boss.
After all, he’ll want to get his hands on that chest sooner
rather than later. Wouldn’t you agree, Jake?” Vince said.
Dillon scowled, “Malakoff, has been pulling our
strings ever since we arrived on this island. And now, the
cheeky bastard has got what he came for without even
getting wet.” Dillon walked off into his bedroom and got
dressed. Five minutes later he reappeared in the hallway
with a large heavy holdall in each hand, one with his
clothing in, and the other containing the weapons.
“I’ve just phoned Rob Chapman and asked him
to meet us down at Annabelle’s Café in ten minutes for a
farewell drink.” Dillon said, dropping the canvas bags onto
the carpet. “I think we should tell him what’s happened,
and try to come up with a plan to get that chest back.”
“I totally agree, old son. Rob should be told. After
all, he’s got as much of a grudge against Malakoff as any of
us have. Now, if we’re all set, I think we should get going
right away. A good stiff drink at the bar, is just what the
doctor ordered.”
The three men were sitting at a table in the corner
of the café. LJ was enjoying a cigar and large whisky, while
Dillon had wanted to keep a clear head, and had contented
himself with a mineral water. Vince was sipping from a
white china mug, filled with hot chocolate and topped with
thick Jersey cream.