“They’ll then sort out the paperwork and bring him back to the UK for questioning. Of course he’ll immediately face a number of charges relating to aiding and abetting the drugs operation in Dorset, as well as those relating to illegal arms dealing. Forensics are hoping to be able to match weapons that were carelessly left behind at Flackyard’s residence in Canford Cliffs, with those found by Hassan in the cellar of Flackyard’s Riad in Marrakech. I’d say, that any judge worth his salt, will certainly be able to lock him up and throw away the key for a very long time.”
“And Hawkworth?” I asked
“Hawkworth. MI5 want to have a little chat with that gentleman. After which they’ll decide whether to simply lock him up somewhere remote or hand him over to the police and make him a public domain. Either way, he’ll be finished. Personally I like the latter option, its far more messy and the ultimate end for someone like him. Thankfully, gone are the days, when the establishment simply turned a blind eye to keep everything quite and brushed under the carpet, so to speak. No, I wouldn’t want to be in Hawkworth’s shoes at this present time. Not for all the tea in China.”
He got up and went over to the large filing cabinet in the corner of his office. Opening the top drawer he produced an even more enormous file full of documents. Across the front it said “SIS — SPECIAL INVESTIGATION”, and was bulging with months of work that LJ had never even thought necessary to mention to me. “If you’re to stay with Ferran & Cardini, and in particular my department, dear boy, you must understand your role,” he said this in his smug voice. “We didn’t send you down to Dorset just to go diving and have lots of fun, as you well knew. Constantine’s List was always your priority. The official assignment was never to stir things up with Flackyard and Hawkworth and definitely not to discover anything illegal that was going on down there.
But given your past and that ever so annoying trait of yours for tying up loose ends, we somehow knew that you would take things just that little bit further than the brief that you had been given, and in turn provoke them into doing something, foolhardy. But I must say, it was rather sloppy of you to lose Mr Caplin, like that. We’ve had the drug boys crawling all over us. They’re saying that you deliberately let the American get away, and that he’s back in Cuba. Surrounded by bodyguards and no extradition treaty with the United States. Anyway, the Partners want to kick you out on your ear, but I’ve eventually managed to get them to see a degree of reason.”
“How very magnanimous of you,” I said quietly.
“What was that? Magnanimous, no, not really. Even though you are a maverick, you do actually have your uses — some of the time,” he added, shuffling a large pile of papers around on his desk, before adding. “Oh, by the way, that request for two weeks paid leave has been authorised, with immediate effect, of course. Take a holiday, they say Florida is good at this time of year.”
I closed the door gently as I left.
Chapter 43
The next day, I took all the material relating to the assignment down to Adrian Vass for safe keeping at the Central Archive Depository. He signed and stamped the official receipt before asking his assistant to cart it all off to the scanning suite, a quite room where a number of men and women sit methodically scanning all hard copy literature on to portable storage discs.
Afterwards the discs are brought back to Vass’s office to be safely deposited in the enormous walk-in safe within his inner office, known as Fort Knox.
After thanking him for his help once again, I left his office wondering why he was always so happy and smiling, given his mundane and seemingly boring job?
As I drove through the city back to the office, I felt detached from the humdrum of life in the capital; perhaps I’d been by the seaside to long.
“Now you see what it’s like where the real work is done,” said LJ, and went on to make provocative remarks about lying around in the sun. LJ had convened the new training group meeting on my behalf. It was a masterstroke in his battle with Bingham-Carter at M16 for control of the new network. LJ had divided up the various agency representatives equally between Communications and Finance, with the exception of Bingham-Carter. LJ was all elbows and knees. He sat in one of his leather easy chairs and puffed clouds of cigar smoke at Winston Churchill, and said that being successful was merely a state of mind.
Roberts had spread himself all over my office again, but had taken care not to do any of my paper work. The computer monitor screen had strawberry jam on it, and my secretary had been whisked off to another department somewhere in the building while I had been on the Poseidon assignment. I kicked Roberts and his many lever arch files out, and although he protested volubly he set up office elsewhere. “Oh and by the way I’m afraid I’ve used all of your coffee beans, I’ll try and remember to get you another bag tomorrow,” he said as he left.
There were numerous emails waiting for me, according to the screen. The first one was from Fiona Price informing me that Harry Caplin had managed to get away to Cuba. Her disappointment came through loud and clear that the authorities on the island were not prepared to extradite him. How did I fancy two unofficial weeks in Florida Keys with a quick hop over to Cuba one evening?
“Um, sounds like fun but could be dangerous in more ways than one,” I said, smiling.
All the others were just routine correspondence except for the last; this was from the Partners. It was to the point and very brief, confirming the two weeks leave that I was to take immediately, until the Harry Caplin escape saga had blown over. I would be contacted via email at the appropriate time. I left the building.
The weekend came and went in a flash. Tats dragged me off on Saturday to view a friend’s collection of urban landscapes at a trendy art gallery in the West End. On Sunday we simply relaxed, drinking red wine and lazing around on the roof garden of my apartment, watching the boats going up and down the Thames and the world passing by.
My mobile phone rang; it was LJ working on a Sunday afternoon. After twenty minutes, I managed to hang up on him.
“Who was that?” Tats asked dreamily.
“LJ. He phoned to inform me that Oliver Hawkworth was found dead at his home in Winchester early this morning.”
“Hawkworth is dead?” She exclaimed, and then added, “Was it suicide or murder?”
“The local police seem to think it was suicide. Apparently, there was note confessing to his involvement down in Dorset with Harry Caplin, and sleeping pills scattered over his desk. They also found an empty bottle of vodka on the floor.”
“But you’re not convinced, are you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it. But I’d say it all looks a bit contrived if you ask me.”
“Well, look at it like this, Jake. Hawkworth led a full, privileged and opulent life. To go to prison, simply wasn’t an option for him, and by committing suicide. Well, he’s saved the British tax payer an extremely large amount of money.”
“Tats, that’s very harsh.” I said.
“Well, harsh and callous, it may be, Jake. But, all I’m saying, is that for once in his miserable life. He’s actually gone and done something honourable for a change.”
“Well, I suppose you’ve a point there.” I said reclining the back on the wooden sun-lounger, and remembering that last meeting I’d had with Hawkworth.
I closed my eyes and tried to relax, soaking up the tranquillity of the rooftop garden, and enjoying the sunshine. Only the occasional sound of a car horn from the city traffic far below interrupted this.