A moment later he was back on board the inflatable. “Everything okay?” Kurt asked.
“I’ve placed the device inside one of the stowage lockers.”
“Good, now for Chapman’s dive boat, the Wave
Dancer.” Kurt said and turned the inflatable towards it. Hugo Malakoff was sitting in the main day cabin of the Solitaire, wearing a khaki linen suit and sipping green tea out of a fine bone china cup when Kurt came in.
He’d changed and wore a silk maroon coloured shirt and matching tie, and a hand made black Italian suit that made him look rather aggressive.
“Did everything go to plan?” Malakoff asked. “Yes, Mien Herr. There is now a tracking device on board Dillon’s powerboat and another on Chapman’s dive boat, as you requested. Captain Armand informs me that we can now track them from up to five miles away. Dillon has booked a table at Annabelle’s place for eight o’clock this evening.”
“So they’re eating at Annabelle’s, are they? That can only mean one thing, Kurt. Dillon hopes to meet up with
Chapman, what a cosy scene that makes. I think it might be rather amusing to join them.”
Captain Armand entered at that moment. “Your orders for this evening, Monsieur?”
“Yes, Captain. Organise some female company for
Pierre, Mazzarin and Zola. Bring them aboard, and let them all have a drink on me. You may break out a case of
Krug for them and then later this evening, when they’ve had their fun, bring the three of them ashore. They can let off a little more steam at Annabelle’s if you follow me?” “Absolutely, Monsieur.” Armand smiled and went out.
It was just after seven-thirty, and Annabelle Cunningham was feeling happy sitting at her father’s bedside on the fifth floor of the city hospital. Her spirits had been lifted on her arrival, by the doctors informing her that Nathan was well on the way to recovery.
On her way in, she’d picked up a handful of newspapers, and had been reading the articles aloud to him for the past two hours. She got up and walked around the room to stretch her legs, restless from being cooped up for most of the afternoon in the small private side ward. Her eyes glanced down at Nathan’s old brown leather attaché case that she’d brought with her to the hospital. She’d been slowly going through his documents and the numerous old scraps of paper, which he habitually scribbled on. Sitting down in the chair, she reached down and picked up the case off of the floor, placing it on her lap.
There were copies of plans and correspondence to the planning office. These all related to the proposed refurbishment work to Annabelle’s café, which she’d given to Nathan to read just before he’d left to come up to London. A street map of the city was tucked inside a pocket, and as she pulled out the soft backed booklet a folded piece of paper fell out from inside. She picked it up off of the floor and unfolded it.
Nathan had always been a prolific doodler, and the sketch that Annabelle was now looking at on the creased scrap of paper, made her look twice. So surprised was she, that she stood up and held it at arms length. Turning it on its side and then upside down, viewing it from every possible angle to make sure that what she was interpreting was in fact correct.
She flushed with excitement, “Oh my God, why didn’t I think of that before?” She said out loud. “Pops, you old rogue. I do believe you’ve just given me a clue to your U-boat mystery!”
She gently stroked a hand across her father’s forehead, brushing the hair back with her fingers. And bending down she lovingly kissed his cheek; there was a knock at the door. It was the police officer stationed outside Nathan’s room, who stuck his head inside to ask if she’d like a coffee or tea brought in. Annabelle declined, and then informed him that she would be leaving very shortly.
Stepping outside she looked up, the evening sky had turned a wonderful shade of pink with only a smattering of wispy clouds trailing off over the rooftops. Annabelle eased herself into the rear seat of chauffeur driven Mercedes, and as she settled into the luxurious leather she made a mental note to phone LJ straight after dinner.
Edward Levenson-Jones was sitting on the terrace of Annabelle’s café, looking out across the harbour. The dark sky was streaked with pink and orange as the sun disappeared over the horizon.
“Never ceases to fill me with a sense of hope.” LJ said as they sipped a glass of Pimms.
“A day without sunshine is like night, isn’t that how the saying goes?” Dillon said.
The waves lethargically rolled onto the sandy beach, and tiny bats darted around the night sky just above the cliff tops. LJ got up and moved to the edge of the terrace.
“I must say, that’s very profound, Jake.”
Dillon took a sip of his drink. He grinned boyishly, and said, “Well perhaps I feel profound. You know what it’s like, you look at your life and how it’s passing you by. I mean, here I am still playing action man hero at forty.”
“Oh dear, old son. Sounds like you’re coming down with a nasty dose of melancholy. You know as well as I do, it never pays to look back with regret. Not in our business, anyway. Next thing you know, you start getting a conscience, and then that’s the end of it. That’s no good to anyone, including yourself. I trust you realise that?”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I know it doesn’t pay to dwell on the past, and I’m not as you put it, feeling melancholy.”
“Good, because we have this wretched man Malakoff to contend with. And what still concerns me the most, is what his next move is likely to be?”
“That’s what bothers me.” Dillon said.
“Well, would you look at that, I think the answer to that question is coming towards us right now.” Vince said.
“What?” Dillon asked.
“Walking this way up the beach.”
Dillon and LJ both looked round at the same time. Hugo Malakoff jumped down from the inflatable, walked along the beach and up the steps, followed closely by Kurt, who as always, was one step behind his employer. He looked around the terrace, saw Dillon and the others, and came over. “Mr Dillon? Hugo Malakoff.”
“I know who you are, Monsieur,” Dillon replied in excellent French.
Malakoff raised an eyebrow. “You speak like a Frenchman, Monsieur,” he replied in his native tongue, “such fluency in an Englishman is extremely rare.” He turned to LJ and added in English, “A pleasure to see you in Jersey, Mr Levenson-Jones. Have a pleasant evening and an enjoyable dinner, gentlemen. The food here is quite exquisite.” He then turned and went through into the restaurant followed by the German.
“The audacity of the man, he knew who we were, and that we’d be here this evening.” LJ exclaimed.
“So it would seem.” Dillon stood up. “Let’s have dinner, I’m absolutely starving.”
The food was excellent, just as Malakoff had said, and LJ had thoroughly enjoyed himself. They started with pan fried sea scallops followed by roasted guinea fowl and locally grown vegetables that were accompanied by Jersey new potatoes tossed in butter. LJ devoured everything with zealous enthusiasm.
“To be honest, old son, I prefer good old fashioned British bred red meat. But I must say, that was a most enjoyable meal and one of the best that I’ve had in a long time.”
“So, it wasn’t too much of an endurance for you, then?” Dillon inquired.
“If by that remark, you’re insinuating that my palette is not adventurous. Then you are very much mistaken. As a matter of fact, I’ve eaten both exotic and even bizarre dishes during my life long travels.”
“Such as?” Dillon pressed.
LJ poured himself another glass of wine before answering. “Okay, let me see.”