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.
Dr Rousseau, pealed off the surgical gloves, and went over to a small wash basin in the corner of the room to wash his hands.
“So gentlemen, why is it that you cannot stay away from trouble? Does, Malakoff know that you are here, I wonder? Seeking my expertise, and then there’s the question of who’s going to pay my bill this time? Malakoff or you?”