Flackyard dismissed the middle aged man and then continued. “In the case of you and your friends, however, I am of the opinion that your motives are not entirely honourable.” He paused, and then said, “I’m hoping to provoke a reply, of course?”
“Of course. Your English, by the way is excellent.” I said.
“How astute you are Mr Dillon. My mother was a Moscow prostitute. My father a wealthy Russian aristocrat who defected to England when I was just ten. After changing the family name I was packed off to one of the top public schools in the country and then ended up at Oxford. But you avoid my question.”
I didn’t reply immediately. Instead I sat in thoughtful silence for a brief moment, “I’m not sure how your ideas of honour could be expected to key in with mine. You and I are complete opposites, it would seem.”
“That may be so, Mr Dillon, but the fact remains that you were sent here to retrieve items belonging to a friend of mine as well as to myself. Now, however…” His voice trailed away. The sun had disappeared over the hill now, leaving only a few fiery trees to mark its passage. Flackyard got up and went over to his desk. “The Partners have returned these items, and both my friend and I are very grateful to them for this service that they have performed with your help, of course.”
As he spoke he walked slowly across to the corner of the room, the rich Persian carpet switching off the soundtrack of his footfalls. One wall was filled with books from floor to ceiling. He reached up and slid his hand into the shelf of loosely packed books and removed about six between compressed palms. In the space behind the books was a brown paper parcel about half the size of a cigar box. He returned to where I was still sitting and put it on the coffee table in front of me. I didn’t touch it.
Coffee came in the only way it could travel in a house like that: in a silver pot attended by the finest china cups and saucers. On a side plate were a selection of small cakes and biscuits. Flackyard forced three of them on me in quick succession.
“I like to think that the people I conduct business with are honest and straightforward,” he said as he poured the coffee. He pushed the package towards me.
“Please, Mr Dillon open it, I would appreciate your opinion.”
I sipped at my coffee and he lit a Turkish cigarette. The package was quite light. Pulling apart the brown wrapping the contents soon became apparent.
“As counterfeit money goes, the standard of these Euro notes is exceptionally high, Mr Flackyard. Even the paper feels right.”
“That is because the paper, Mr Dillon, is very genuine.” he said triumphantly.
“Fascinating, but why are you showing me? Surely it’s Declan Ferran and Richard Cardini who should be seeing these. For all you know I could be working for some sort of secret Government agency.”
“That is highly unlikely, Mr Dillon,” he laughed. “I have had my people check you out. You once had a brilliant Army career operating in numerous countries for the Intelligence Corps, attaining the rank of Captain. That is before you were discharged under some dubious and certainly clandestine circumstances. You then surfaced within a Whitehall department. Your job description there was to say the least a bit vague, and finally you joined Ferran & Cardini International. But that is of course only part of it, isn’t it? An extension of your military career perhaps? All in all, Mr Dillon, you are shrouded by mystery and intrigue — are you not?”
So that was it, the man who had followed me that Sunday in the black Mondeo was not working for the minister as we thought, he was part of Flackyard’s security team, instructed to find out about me.
“As interesting as it maybe, however, I have not had you brought here to discuss your past career, or to thank you. The other items that you found on board that boat belong to an associate of mine and he wants them back — Mr Dillon — all fifty of those small packages. I sincerely hope that no harm has come to them, and that they are safe and sound or, I am afraid you will be the one to pay the price.”
“I’m sorry, but what exactly are we talking about here, Flackyard?”
He got up and went over to his desk again. “Please do not insult my intelligence. I know that you and your friends pulled up a large quantity of the finest raw opium from the Gin Fizz. Furthermore, you will ensure that they are available for collection by midday tomorrow at the latest. I sincerely hope that I’m making myself clear. You will be contacted in the morning to arrange the details of the hand over. I think that concludes our conversation, Mr Dillon.”
“My driver will take you back to your own car. Oh, and please remember this; you really do not want me as your enemy.” For just the briefest of moments I sensed the hatred that he felt towards me, but his self-control was impeccable, and soon there was only calm in his eyes.
Back at the house I poured myself a large vodka, and downed another before I felt anything like relaxed and before anyone had summoned the courage to ask me what I had learned to our advantage. “Flackyard knows that we have the opium, and that his associates, whoever they maybe, want it returned by midday tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow, Charlie, you and I both return to London. Fiona, I think it best if you also get back to whatever it is you normally do.”
That night I lay awake turning over and over in my mind, how Flackyard could have known about the opium or how the mysterious George Ferdinand could have found out about my pistol. The only way that either of them could have known was if someone had told them.
But who, and to what end?
Chapter 8
I woke early the next morning from a restless night’s sleep, angry with myself for allowing LJ to ever get me involved with this assignment. Also, I was still wondering; who had a motive for leaking information and whether it had been one of the team in Dorset who had tipped off Flackyard, but for what reason, and what gain? These questions kept going over in my head. I used my mobile phone to call Tats who was still in bed. “What time is it?” she said in a hazy voice.
“Just gone six o’clock. Thought I’d give you a wake up call. How are you?”
“I’d be a whole lot better if you’d have let me wake up organically, especially on a Saturday. You know I’ve never been good with alarm calls.”
I could hear her stretch and yawn; I imagined her naked body warm from sleep under the sheet.
“How’s the seaside. You must be nearly through down there, aren’t you?”
“Nearly, but not quite. We have a small problem to sort out first. That’s the other reason for my call, I want you to do a check on the Rumples, Charlie McIntyre, and Fiona Price. Dig as deep as you can and see if any of them have ever had any contact with Robert Flackyard, no matter how trivial, because I want to know about it. Call me back on this number as soon as you can. Oh and Tats — see you soon.” I hung up, got dressed and went down to breakfast.
Outside the day was starting dull, the grey wind was breaking the points off the waves and white spray was thrashing the big rocks of the headland.
Apart from me, the only other person at the table was Charlie. My phone rang. It was LJ. “Jake, I want you to go along with whatever Flackyard wants. I have taken instructions from upstairs, the Partners feel that for the good of the bigger picture and the assistance that he is offering, you are to hand over the packages as requested.”
Without acknowledging or answering I said, “Someone is leaking information to Flackyard.” At this revelation, Charlie’s head came up from his cornflakes.
“What do you mean, a leak? That’s impossible. Everyone involved with this assignment has been thoroughly vetted.”
“That may be, but last night an acquaintance of his escorted me at gun point to Flackyard’s house for a little chat. He knew far too much, and as far as I’m concerned it can only be someone involved that’s feeding him with information. I’ve not got a shred of evidence, of course.” I paused to let LJ absorb this fully. “Oh, and I’ve asked Tatiana to run further checks, this time concentrating on any possible connections with Flackyard.”