Dillon parked the Porsche and went up to the apartment. He made himself a coffee and then made the call to McNamara, using his mobile phone. The two men knew each other sufficiently well enough to skip the usual niceties.
“Did you manage to get to the file?” Dillon asked eagerly.
“It’s a very sensitive subject matter, Jake. You’ve hit the mark in one respect. The file and all of its extensive sub-files are classified, and both the American and British Governments have given it the highest classification. It looks like a can of worms, mate. And from what I can see, it’s also still very active on both sides of the pond. One of the files that might interest you: satellite images clearly showing the locations of terrorist training camps in India and Pakistan. But more than that. In a sub-file there are bank statements showing transfers of money from a number of obscure and untraceable companies. Some of these are in the UK and the sums of money involved range from one to eight million at a time. That’s it, mate. Apart from one last thing. Watch your step. Because by the looks of it, there are a lot of different agencies from all over the planet working on this. And they won’t want you clambering all over their hard work.”
“Advice taken and duly filed in the caution tray. Be good, Paddy. And thanks for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Jake. Goodbye.”
Dillon hung up and had found out what he’d wanted. That MI5 were telling the truth and that the investigation was on a global scale. He pushed the speed dial button on his mobile and a moment later, Charlie Hart answered the call, but wasn’t sounding his usual self.
“I think it’s time to meet again, Charlie. The sooner the better.”
“I agree. The sooner the better, but it won’t be easy with MI5 all over me like a rash.”
“How long have they been chaperoning you?”
“Almost two months now. But I suppose you already know that as you’ve been working alongside them of late. Have you any suggestions?”
Dillon thought that Hart sounded battle-weary, even resigned, which disturbed him.
“I’m assuming that your very sophisticated security system has a personal panic button located somewhere?”
“Six, actually, one in every bedroom and one in the living room.”
“Good. Because I want you to hit one of them at exactly 9.30 p.m. Bring the local plod running to that very expensive locale of yours.”
“Are you mad? It won’t just be ordinary policemen, you know? It’ll be armed response and most likely dogs as well. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“No. But just do it, Charlie. Trust me, because I’m all you’ve got at this present time.”
“I’ve known that for some time. Anything else?”
“You’re sounding tired, Charlie.”
“It’s the strain. It’s been with me for a very long time.”
“Well, take it easy and just do as I say. 9.30 p.m. exactly, and do not let anyone into the house except me.” Dillon disconnected abruptly.
He went out onto the balcony and stood at the railing. Across the water sailing yachts were coming back home into the harbour, passing Brownsea Island on their way to their marina berths and moorings. From his mobile phone, he called Frank Gardner to ask a favour. It was simple enough: anchor off Brownsea Island, and, from 9:30 p.m. onwards, keep his eyes peeled on Charlie Hart’s property. That organised, he went back inside and stripped down the Glock — not because it needed it, but to fill in time whilst he waited. He made sure the magazines were full, one in the weapon and three spares, all were loaded with hollow-point ammunition. He poured himself fresh orange juice from the fridge. If there was a time to stay sober, this was it. Dillon had realised for some time that the security service would rather kill Hart than let him get to speak with him again, and he had rather belatedly come to the decision that Hart was fast becoming an endangered species.
When it was time to leave, he drove off with plenty of time to spare. It wasn’t the distance he had to travel, but rather he knew that the parking on the roads around Hart’s home would be extremely difficult, even at that time of evening.
He reached the peninsula at 9.10 p.m., driving up and down some of the side roads in search of a parking space. When he couldn’t find one, he headed straight for the Haven Hotel, drove the Porsche into a vacant space and walked into the main reception lobby of the hotel. On spotting the concierge, he went straight over to him and had a quiet word before discreetly handing him a fifty pound note.
He walked slowly back along Panorama Road towards Hart’s house, passing by his driveway, all the time looking casually around for any signs of a surveillance team lurking somewhere close by. It all appeared to be normal — street lights, house lights, a spattering of people, cars pulling up or driving through. He reasoned that security personnel would be sitting in a van staring at monitor screens linked wirelessly to covert surveillance cameras positioned around the immediate area. And there it was parked in a side road — the only giveaway the blacked out windows.
Dillon was wearing a disguise he had found, and which actually fitted him, in the owner’s private dressing room. Because it wasn’t a bad fit it allowed him to wear the Glock holstered under his right arm, concealed by the blue and yellow sailing jacket he was wearing. He walked past the high entrance gates of Charlie Hart’s home, the collar of the jacket tipped up and the woollen beanie hat pulled down over his ears doing a good job of obscuring his face from anyone observing. Casually, he glanced down at his Omega Seamaster and then crossed the road and retreated up the side road where the surveillance van was parked; pushing his luck should anyone be watching him walk by.
He checked the time again. There was still ten minutes to go. It would seem like an eternity. He was satisfied that everything was as it should be, and that the presence of the security service would more than likely consist of two people, three at the most. He walked to the other end of the road which cut through the short distance from the harbour side of the peninsula to the other that met the English Channel, and which took him back to the Haven Hotel. He went past the hotel’s entrance and headed down towards the chain ferry and the water’s edge. He checked the time again. There was still five minutes to go. It was strange that waiting so often went with silence and that every small sound became an increasing intrusion.
He was tempted to go back up to Panorama Road to peer round the corner, but managed to refrain from such an amateurish action.
At 9.29 p.m. he pulled out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone that he had purchased from a man in a pub for twenty pounds, dialled 999, asked for the police, and spoke precisely. “I want to report a robbery that is taking place at Panorama Road.”
Dillon quickly reeled off Hart’s address. “I’ve also heard someone shouting and there are screams and what sounded like gun shots coming from inside the grounds, so you’d better be quick.”
He disconnected before the operator was able to ask him for his name and after switching it off, dropped the untraceable phone into the deep water.
Dillon knew that Hart’s sophisticated alarm system was connected to the nearest police station, and the moment it sounded they would dispatch officers to investigate — the anonymous phone call would merely spur them on. The shrill sound of the alarm started to sound thirty seconds later.
It was as if a small disaster had just occurred. The sound of police sirens in the quiet street shut out everything else. An ambulance turned up a moment later, which even made the security service men jump out of their van to see what was going on, but in doing so, gave away their location.