“Perhaps your young DC would like to make us all some strong coffee,” I suggested.
“Sure,” said Fiona.
“I have a feeling that we’re in for a long wait,” I said.
After a lifetime of travelling around, one tries to be prepared for transient discomfort. A good quality jacket will always keep you warm on the coldest of nights, and a pair of soft nubuck shoes always go into the hand luggage, as they can be worn for either comfort or running, should the need arise. I had both of these things
— at my apartment in London.
Fiona and I took one hour each at the binoculars and Stewart took the Toyota to the other end of the marina to cover the side door. I don’t know what he was expected to do if they went out that way, but there he was.
At 3.30am in the morning, or what I call night, Fiona woke me.
“Jake, wake up. A big white van has just pulled up at the entrance gates to the marina berths,” she said. By the time I had got to the binoculars they were moving the aluminium boxes off of Flackyard’s boat, down the pontoon towards the van.
“Do you have a gun with you?” I asked Fiona.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I hadn’t considered the need for one, or the possibility that Flackyard would move the merchandise elsewhere.”
Half an hour later and with the van sagging on its rear springs, the two burly looking men locked the back doors and drove away. We stayed a safe distance behind them as we followed the two men through the Mallorcan countryside, daylight fast approaching over our shoulder. It wasn’t a long drive to the small airfield.
As another Mallorcan dawn rose across the horizon, the tired night sky faded into the hazy pink watercolour of early morning. In the distance the twin engines of a Cessna aeroplane turned its nose south southwest, making its way unhindered towards the horizon.
“A Cessna.” I thought of Flackyard’s personal profile; it had to be a Cessna. The three of us watched from the grass runway because none of the four charter planes were available at this early hour. Jason Stewart beat on the door of the padlocked offices, using the ‘f’ word three or four times, but it got us no nearer to what was in side those cases that were now at three thousand feet and still climbing. It was 5.24am, June 2nd.
Chapter 37
“This is an outrage against civilised behaviour, have you any idea what time it is?” I was asked in true Castilian Spanish.
A rather rotund and stout balding man in a brown habit barred my way.
“Step aside, fatty,” I said; “I haven’t got time for niceties.”
Fiona and Stewart followed me into the cold empty, echoing hallway.
“Go and get your boss out of bed,” I said, “and tell him that his presence is required downstairs urgently, and that doesn’t mean in half an hour’s time.”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?” said the stuffy little man in the brown habit, aggressive, but doubting.
I wrote on the back of an envelope, ‘Jake Dillon. Minutes are vital.’ And waited while he took it upstairs.
My treatment of a brother of the monastery of San Sebastian was causing Fiona Price and Jason Stewart physical pain and the sight of the good father in pyjamas was almost too much for them both.
We were shown into a bright airy room, quite the opposite of the hallway.
Floor to ceiling bookcases made from seasoned oak surrounded us on three sides. Every shelf was filled with books, some rare, some first editions, but all were in alphabetical order. The room was warm from the sunlight streaming through the tall elegant French doors and windows that ran along an entire elevation. Stepping out onto the wooden balcony, the cold early morning air along with a stiff breeze took my breath away. At around 400 metres above sea level the view from this magical place really is magnificent, and the mountain air even in the summer is crisp and fresh.
“Jake Dillon, what are on earth are you doing here on Mallorca?”
“Now, Father, you know that if I told you that I’d have to kill you, and I most certainly have no wish to do that to one of my oldest friends.” Father Pedro Ramon Sancho came across the room and gave me a tight hug as two people who have not seen each other for some time do.
Introductions done, the tall bookcase on the far wall slid back to reveal a hidden panel with an array of colour monitors, keyboards and electronic displays full of listening and recording equipment. These are the eyes and ears of Ferran & Cardini in Europe and can watch and listen virtually anywhere and at anytime using satellites that happen to be in the right place at the right time. This has been particularly useful to the firm over the years, especially with some of the more covert activities of the department. But also when negotiating deals of a more delicate nature or avoiding international currency and stock market fluctuations, Father Pedro Ramon Sancho and his many guiding stars have shown us time and time again the true path to tread.
An American satellite was just coming into range of the coast of Spain and the Balearic Islands. “When did the plane leave the airstrip?” asked Father Pedro as he positioned himself in front of one of the flat screen monitors.
“It was 5.15am. No more the twenty minutes ago,” I replied quickly. “If we assume it has an airspeed of 150m.p.h. and stays on that south-south-west heading, we’d expect it to be half way between here and Morocco. Wouldn’t you say, Father?”
There was a long silence while Father Pedro, looking intently at the monitor watched the satellite rotate its onboard spy camera and give us a bird’s eye view of the Spanish coast line from Barcelona right down to Gibraltar. The North African coast showed clearly at the bottom of the screen. Father Pedro typed in a number of command sequences. An overlay of all the light aircraft flight plans for the region now covered the screen, and one of these thin lines showed darker than the rest.
“The dark line is presumably our Cessna?” I said over his shoulder.
“Possibly, but at this stage it’s difficult to be positive, Jake. I have given the computer all of the information to hand. That is to say, the airstrip where it took off from, the time that it departed and of course the heading that it left on. Now, what we have here is the official history overlay of all light aircraft movement in the area for around that time. Even if your man hadn’t filed a flight path, it would still show up here, as this shows everything that has been and is in the air up to this point in time. Give me a moment and I will have the real time imaging direct from the mainframe of air traffic control at Palma International Airport. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course, father,” I agreed, nodding soberly
The lines moved around the screen. Some altered to new headings while some disappeared completely as they left the Palma control zone.
“The line that is still showing darker than the others, I would say, is most likely to be our Cessna. It fits the profile almost exactly. But wait a minute, it’s changing course.” The small blip was turning, the Father typed more commands, and this time most of the lines disappeared, leaving just half a dozen all heading in roughly the same direction.
“Look here Jake, this is very interesting. Our Cessna has changed course towards the Spanish mainland. It looks like they’re heading into the Seville air traffic control zone. This may get tricky if they keep on this heading. We may even lose them in the thick of all the commercial air traffic in that area.”
“Sorry Father, but that’s not one of the options. Get the satellite image enlarged over that region,” I said patiently.
“Now, merge the flight path of the Cessna on your screen with the satellite image on this screen.” He quickly typed in the command. The dark line now showed on the live satellite image.