“Zara, as if I…”
“That’s all Jake.” It seemed a little odd that Zara should ask me to step into her office just to tell me that. As I turned to leave she said, “Please try to look just a little bit surprised when LJ tells you. The poor man is tragically deluded and certainly doesn’t know you as I do.”
“Why thank you for those kind words, Zara,” I said.
“Thank me for what, aiding and abetting his pathetic delusions?”
“Yes of course,” I said, “but thanks anyway.” I said as I closed the office door behind me.
Back in the department, I found Tats who had put her hair into a single French plait looking positively stunning. “You will find on your desk, twenty-two letters to sign along with copies of various memos relating to ‘Poseidon’ that I thought you might like sight of.” Tats said.
I signed the letters and stuffed the memos into my briefcase. I stuck my head into LJ’s office. He was straightening up a large oak framed picture of Winston Churchill austerely standing by a desk, hand clutching the lapel of his pin striped suit, British bulldog at his feet. The small brass plate at the bottom had the words engraved; Blood, Tears, Toil and Sweat 1874–1964.
Looking round LJ said, “Ah, Jake, what do you think of this?”
“Very well painted,” I replied.
“Present from my son. He’s very much into Winston Churchill. Each year on the great man’s birthday we have a little family get together, and all guests have to have a Winston anecdote or quotation ready.”
“How fascinating,” I said. “I do exactly the same when I get given an assignment.”
LJ slid me a narrowed glance.
He took out a cigar and lit it to ease the tension.
“You intend to pursue Poseidon?”
“I want to know why Hawkworth recently sent Harry Caplin a cheque for ten thousand pounds and why he’s renting a luxury house for him by the sea?”
“You think that will explain everything?” asked LJ, still admiring the painting.
“I really don’t know. Perhaps, but I’ll be able to tell you that with more certainty after I’ve talked to a man I know in the highlands of Scotland who has been looking into Caplin’s private affairs for me. As well as his bank account, all unofficially and very discreetly, of course. But I now feel that Caplin is in some way involved and possibly working for or with Hawkworth, not Flackyard as I previously thought. If that proves to be the case, then my gut feeling is that it was Caplin not Rumple whom had the explosives put in your car. But the bit I’m at a complete loss about is why, and in such a public way?”
LJ nodded. “Well, have a good trip to Scotland, I’ve arranged for Phil Allerton to fly you up in the helicopter.” He moved the painting just a little more to the right.
Outside the sun shone between white cottonwool clouds hanging across the sky like balloons. Traffic wardens were issuing tickets and wheel clampers were busy immobilising illegally parked motorists.
Through my headset, Phil updated me on our position, pointing out landmarks along the way. In between my thoughts were on Oliver Hawkworth. I had blocked him for the time being, but I had done it at the expense of making a very powerful enemy. It wasn’t something one could do too frequently without uncomfortable consequences. Perhaps it was something one couldn’t do once without uncomfortable consequences.
I really was near the end of a thin plank over a dark and very deep sea.
I wondered who of those involved with ‘Poseidon’ might be connected to Hawkworth and Flackyard. Who had the pictures of the Gin Fizz and who would benefit the most from obtaining them? What was George Ferdinand’s real role in all of this?
After the warmth of the cockpit, the pure Highland air was exhilaratingly refreshing. Phil had put us down in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by trees. Cows in a field nearby became curious after the rotors had stopped and the noise from the engine had faded away. They hovered together in the dells where odd trees of twisted dead wood were spattered with black blots of huddled birds.
From high up on the hill a Land Rover broke the tranquillity by sounding its horn as it careered down the narrow muddy track towards us. The driver could be seen bouncing up and down in his seat. Barely missing the gateposts on either side, the old battered green vehicle shot through the opening of the field and slewed precariously to a halt within ten feet of us.
The engine stalled and the driver’s door burst open. Two large leather boots swung out onto the grass followed by their owner Angus Macgrath, who was roaring with laughter.
“Och, Jake Dillon you old rogue, it’s good to see you again — alive that is,” said Angus, raising his eyebrows and laughing loudly. I introduced Phil, but forgot to mention to him that this enormous bald headed Scotsman had a handshake like a grizzly bear.
“Now then, we’d better get going, we’ve got that hill to negotiate before we get to my croft.”
Phil said that he’d stay with the helicopter, and that we should be back in the air within a couple of hours.
Past the trees and on up the hill, the going was treacherous as the Land Rover’s powerful diesel engine turned all four wheels through the sticky mud of the track. The higher we got the more barren the landscape; the moor land was bleak and wind-scoured. Through the mist Angus pointed a finger at a crooked castle, the ruins of which had stunted trees growing inside, hunchbacked against the wind.
It suited Angus to live alone like a hermit, but for his computers, numerous gadgets and satellite dish all powered by a large diesel generator. His small crofter’s house had been greatly improved and was clean and tidy. As we opened the heavy oak door of the stone building the draught made the fire flare. There was an oil lamp on a small round table, and its soft green light glowing up onto the ceiling flickered with the sudden rush of cold air. A soot-caked kettle hissed with boiling water. Angus went over and carefully lifted the dented metal container off its hook over the fire, filling a large china teapot to the brim before replacing it.
Seated in front of the fire, we quietly let the heat thaw us for a minute while we sipped the sweet dark liquid. Angus rapidly sank his scalding tea and threw another log on to the flames. Finally, he lit a filthy old pipe and said, “You got my report by email okay then?”
“Picked it up this morning, it was fine,” I said, “but I decided it was far safer to come up to this Godforsaken place you call home and see you personally — if you know what I mean. My problem, Angus is that I know very little about the intricacies of manufacturing and distributing of class A drugs.”
“Ah,” he said, “well, you’ve come to the right place laddie, and as luck would have it, I’ve just finished a wee job for the CIA. They had me, unofficially, delve into the personal files and many bank accounts of a former KGB enforcer, who is now residing in London of all places, is no where sacred anymore? Anyway, I found the trail that leads to his fortune, which I’ve no doubt was made from the illicit profits of trafficking heroin all over the world.”
“And — did you?” I prompted him.
“Och, I have to live, Jake, you know me too well — and there was so much money, just sitting there, it seemed rude not to redistribute some of it in my direction.”
“Was, and redistribute in your direction?” I repeated.
“Well — he won’t miss it and he certainly won’t be able to trace where it went,” said Angus, laughing loudly. “Och, but don’t you go worrying, now, the Swiss are still very discreet, even by today’s standards.”
Chapter 26
“So, Jake, you want to know about class A drugs, do you,” said Angus. “Well now, as you already know there are many different types of hard drugs out there. But if I’m not mistaken, the kind that you’re interested in grows naturally and can then be changed in a laboratory. Opium or cocaine, both originate from plants — which is it to be then.” “Tell me about opium,” I said.