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.”