“Have no doubt, Kurt. They’ll have it. Dillon will not have failed in retrieving that chest, because he doesn’t know what failure is.”
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.” “Well, that’s the most marvellous news.” LJ said. And then added, “And the envelope?”
“Oh yes, nearly forgot.” Kate Jackson, handed LJ the envelope, and then hurried off back inside the busy café.
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.