“I agree, Captain,” Malakoff leaned back in his chair, and laced his fingers together, before adding, “But, I still think that Commander Cunningham must have confided to his daughter about the location. Unfortunately she has a guard with her twenty-four hours a day, so our opportunities to get close are none existent. No matter though, we will keep Mr Dillon company instead. Let him know that the chase is on, I think.” He smiled across at the big German. “What do you think, Kurt?”
“It will be my personal pleasure, Mien Herr. To look after Mr Dillon.” Kurt replied.
“That’s good.” Malakoff looked at, Armand. “Pierre is OK, but what about the other two crew members?”
“I have personally chosen the other crew, Monsieur. For their special talents. Mazzarin and Zola, are both experienced and very able divers. They’re also extremely competent with weapons and explosives. As well as having seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq as hired mercenaries.”
“Can they be trusted, Armand?”
“Without a doubt, Monsieur.”
“And what arrangements have you made for our arrival in Jersey?”
“We can drop anchor in St Brelade’s Bay this evening. I hope that this meets with your approval, Monsieur?”
“No, I don’t think so Captain. Take the Solitaire to the northern side of the island, and drop anchor in Gifford Bay. This will be a most suitable anchorage for our purposes, and it’s next door to Bonne Nuit.” Malakoff finished his coffee and stood up.
“Now Gentlemen, I have telephone calls to make, so I’ll bid you both a good afternoon. Captain Armand, let’s get this boat moving.”
Dillon took his time walking the short distance up the road to the rented lodge. He was seeing for himself, the reason why Nathan Cunningham had moved from London to the natural beauty of the island. The picture postcard scenery that surrounded the few luxury properties perched above him on the hillside, had spectacular views overlooking the small bay below and was breathtaking.
He rounded a corner, and came to a narrow gravel track that led him to the front gate of the former Fisherman’s Lodge which would be his home for the foreseeable future. Five minutes later the Range Rover pulled up in the driveway. Dillon unlocked the front door, spoke briefly to Vince, and then walked off around the outside of the single storey building leaving his team mate to settle in.
On the seaward side, the vegetation in the garden was extremely lush, protected by willowy trees that gently swayed with the light breeze coming off the English Channel. He paused at the cliff’s edge, taking in the uninterrupted view over the harbour, and decided that was far better than he could have wished for. Looking down he noticed that although overgrown, steps had been cut into the rocks, and appeared to lead all the way to the water’s edge below. More importantly, Rob Chapman’s place, could be seen, sitting sentry like on top of a rocky outcrop with easy access to it along the pebble beach.
Taking a pair of binoculars from his holdall he took a closer look at the unusual round building. As he would have expected, there were bright blue diving suits hanging over the safety railings of an upper terrace. A black double cab pick up truck with air bottles lined up in the back was parked at the front, and the only real indicator that there was someone at home. Otherwise the place looked empty and desolate.
At the other end of the bay, he could see that the harbour was now bustling with holidaymakers milling around and taking photographs. Along the high sea wall, and protected behind a high concrete walkway running its entire length, a dozen or so tiny wooden fishermen’s huts stood huddled like stationary railway carriages. The shutters of a few were thrown open, and some of the local fishermen were sitting on small wooden stools outside evidently enjoying the fine weather while methodically checking and repairing their nets, in readiness for the next day.
Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost three-thirty, he started to turn away to go inside when he saw movement over at Rob Chapman’s place. Through the binoculars he could see a man lifting the air bottles out of the back of the black pickup truck. It was Chapman in shorts and tee shirt very tanned with spiky blond hair. Dillon recognised the man instantly from a photograph that Annabelle had shown him, just before he left London. After a few minutes he walked through a gateway in the wall, and disappeared from view.
Unzipping the holdall, Dillon replaced the binoculars, and stood for a brief moment at the cliff edge staring out to sea, deep in thought. The spell was only broken when there was a knock and the next moment Vince came ambling through the French doors with a large gin and tonic in his hand. Kate Jackson came through just behind him, complete with a wicker picnic basket under her arm. Dillon turned to greet her.
“I hope you don’t mind Mr Dillon? But Annabelle asked me to drop by with this.” She placed the basket onto the small circular patio table. “It’s only a few items of food that you might find useful until you get to a shop.”
Dillon walked across the garden, and lifted the lid with one hand and peered inside. “That girl’s got good taste, Miss Jackson.” He picked up the bottle of Bollinger, and handed it to Vince. “Go, and put this on ice, Mr Sharp.”
Vince automatically assumed his role of the dutiful employee, and sloped off inside with the Champagne. Kate Jackson walked to the end of the garden, and stood watching the waves roll gently over the jagged rocks in mesmerising relays. The sandy beach below, becoming a maelstrom of churning sand and foam as each one in turn tripped over itself in the rush to be dragged back out to sea.
“In times of old, this bay like many others was used by smugglers, Mr Dillon,” She said looking straight at him.
“There are hidden caves all along this side of the island, you know?”
“I’ve not really seen much of the island yet, Miss Jackson. But I’m very pleased to hear you say that. Especially as I intend to dive quite a lot while I’m here,” he commented casually.
“Well in that case you must take a look at Wolf’s Caves. They’re just around the headland towards St. John’s Bay. Oh, and don’t forget Devil’s hole at Les Reuses. But I assume that you’re an experienced diver, Mr Dillon? Because the waters hereabouts are some of the most dangerous in the world.”
“Oh, I’ve been diving for many years. And, I’m fully aware of just how dangerous these waters can be. that’s why I’m going to have a chat with Rob Chapman. Annabelle, told me that he was one of the best divers on the island, and knows these waters like the back of his hand. Is that true, Miss Jackson?”
Dillon felt her eyes scrutinising him in an odd sort of way. He didn’t like it, and yet she had aroused his curiosity, and an uncertainty about her. A nagging question as to why she was making small talk, especially after her earlier outburst toward him. Also, her body language had stiffened, and had become almost wooden at the mention of Rob Chapman’s name.
“Well I’m sure that if Annabelle has said that about Mr Chapman, then it must be correct. But no matter how experienced you may be Mr Dillon, many divers have lost their lives in these waters. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be getting along. The café reopens shortly for the evening trade.”
Dillon showed her out through a gate at the side of the lodge, watching her as she walked away up the gravel lane. Wondering why she should be so concerned for his safety.