Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) (4 page)

Darkness brought its own welcome cloak to hide
us with. The next green wave lapped at the boathouse,
Charlie opened the heavy double doors, tied them back
and then effortlessly leaped aboard onto the dive platform.

Rumple saw to the forward and aft lines. I gently
eased the Phantom out into the harbour, both of her
powerful inboard diesel engines gurgling, waiting to be
unleashed. The water foamed at the stern and we headed
out into the English Channel as the twin screws bit the
sea. Once we were in open water I gave Rumple the helm
and went down to the cabin. The jamming device that
had been fitted was hidden from view in a locker, but the
red activate light glowed faintly in the dark. I switched
on the sonar and radar and went back up to Rumple.
“I’ve activated both the sonar and radar, so keep an eye
on them both especially as we approach the dive site. I’ll
be below with the others, so if you need me, just holler.”

Rumple nodded his OK. “The radar also has a
viewing monitor below, sir.”
“You’ll find it in a concealed dropdown
compartment over the dining area.”
“Thank you, Rumple.” I then called Charlie
and Miss Price to join me below for a final briefing.
Afterwards, I took Rumple up a hot chocolate, for which
he was extremely grateful.
We were heading steadily westward, keeping close
to the shore, the green black sea rolled gently beneath us,
only to meet with a violent foaming end as it hissed and
crashed onto the white rocks. Rumple pointed out how
each individual rock or formation that we were passing
has its dangers and its name. We saw Old Harry Rocks,
Dancing Ledge, but I knew the most dangerous rocks
were the ones that are completely covered at high water.
Those enormous flat slabs of stone around Dancing
Ledge were where many a small vessel had been smashed
to smithereens.
I watched the two screens intently for a few
minutes. Charlie was on the aft deck smoking one of the
cheroots he favoured. Miss Price was also there, but she
was huddled in the corner under layers of clothing and
a large waterproof jacket. Rumple had turned the sleek
craft ninety degrees away from the shoreline; we were
now heading straight out to sea towards the Gin Fizz.
We started to pull on our wet suits and arrange the
equipment to hand.
Rumple called down as he swung the boat round
in a large arc. “We’ve missed it, I’m afraid. I’m going
round and across again. I could have put a marker buoy
down yesterday but…”
“No, you did right Rumple,” I told him. “Let’s
keep it discreet.”
Charlie was keeping an eye on both screens yelling
out as we passed over the wreck. Rumple killed the engines
and then immediately reversed the thrust, bringing the
forty-six foot craft to a stop. With the engines idling, the
automatic anchor winch cut in splashing overboard and
Rumple let it go until the multi prongs snagged on the
bottom.
Miss Price adjusted her air-bottles. Under the
wetsuit, her profile showed a slender, fit body tone. I
tapped her arm.
“I don’t want you down there until we’ve retrieved
what it is we’ve come here for, do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear Mr Dillon, I’ll stay on deck with
Mr Rumple. But please remember my own orders are
perfectly clear too. That logbook must return to London
with me, or questions will be asked.”
I turned to Charlie, who was listening, “Check the
anchor line first thing when you descend. Mr Rumple -
Miss Price is under your personal supervision, she goes
down only when and if you say.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Oh, and Rumple any sign of trouble break out
the little toy in the forward rack and alert us immediately
on the comm. please.”
“Very well sir, understood. Good luck down there.”
Charlie eased his feet into the large fins, pulled his
facemask into place and carefully put one leg over the
side of the dive platform. In spite of the sunshine during
the day, the English Channel is always cold, whatever
the time of year. Charlie grimaced behind his mask, then
he gently dropped overboard, waters surging over his
shoulders, and he was instantly gone in the darkness of
the water.
Rumple hit a switch and the entire bottom of the
boat lit up. For an instant, I could make out Charlie’s
blue wetsuit as he swam towards the anchor chain and
then down into the darkness. His lean silhouette shattered
into a dozen blue moving patches as he sank, and a gush
of white bubbles ripped to the surface. In parts of the
Caribbean one can see well over one hundred feet but we
were armed with just a few feet of visibility at most.
Charlie had quickly gone.
The sea was making background music; our boat
was handed from wave to wave like a hospital patient
between specialists. At its highest peak I could just see
the lights of the cross channel ferry making its way over
the horizon towards Poole. Miss Price tried to light a
cigarette, but the gusting wind and movement foiled her
each time until she flicked the long white shape away.
The weather was coming in fast from the West.
Rumple came down towards me and by the look on his
face it was not good news.
“The weather’s closing in, the Met Office is warning
of a force eight blowing up, and by this swell I would say
we only have limited time here.”
From the corner of my eye I caught Miss Price
waving her arms at us frantically and shouting something,
but her words were carried away on the wind. She
pointed at the anchor chain which was juggling up and
down, dark blue patterns danced in the powerful lights
under the boat and then glued themselves into one shape
as Charlie’s blue rubber head broke the surface.
He swam round to the stern and grabbed hold
of the dive platform rail. He unstrapped the big torch
from his wrist and passed it into the boat. He removed
his dark blue fins under water and threw those into the
boat. They landed with a wet thud. Then he grasped the
rail with both of his gloved hands. With one great heave
he came unstuck from the wave-tops and toppled onto
the dive platform. Rumple had the Thermos flask of hot
sloe gin ready, and Charlie emptied the metal container
in one gulp and held it out for a refill. Blood was trickling
down the outside of the wetsuit from a deep cut on his
right hand. Rumple produced antiseptic from the boat’s
first aid box and dabbed at it with cotton wool. Charlie
stamped around the deck with pain as the antiseptic hit
his bloodstream and the dark coloured liquid ran off his
fingers.
After that we all went into the cabin, and Charlie
went off to get out of his wetsuit. He took a hot shower
and changed into a pair of casual cargo pants, an old
rugby shirt and dark blue fleece before returning to where
we all sat listening to the Met report on the radio. He
turned to me and said, “It’s pretty bad down there, the
bottom is just a maelstrom, visibility is zero.”
He said there was no point in Miss Price or I diving
tonight, and lit a cheroot.
Rumple went up to the helm and spun the engines
and wound in the anchor.
Disappointment showed on all our faces. We
were going to have to return and try again the next day.
Weather permitting.

After breakfast Charlie set up the laptop computer
for his presentation, connecting this to the large cinema
screen that came with the house. A secure line video link
was also established to LJ’s office in London to enable
him to get a live OPs report showing the position and
angle at which the Gin Fizz was lying.

“A factor we were not aware of is that the wreck is
perched on the edge of a rock sided trench. There is what
I judge to be a six-knot current pressing the hull into a
vertical formation…”

Charlie was always on firmer ground when dealing
with reports like this. He made arrow marks across the
screen.

“The Gin Fizz is approximately forty foot in length,
and she has a broad beam, which makes her a good-sized
boat. But all this…” On his side view of the craft Charlie
now drew a line along the middle of the virtual image
and indicated the area forward of the main cabin area
and below his line, “…is filled with what looks like small
packages, possibly explosives. They’re floating all over
the place inside this main area. To go inside the boat in
that storm would, I felt, have been almost certain suicide.
But, the hull looks intact, as is the deck areas and control
cabin. There are no bodies down there either which, even
with the strong currents, I feel is very odd. But I suppose
they could have been swept away?” I noticed that the cut
on the back of Charlie’s hand was bleeding again.

I leaned over to him and said quietly, “Why don’t
you let Mrs Rumple take a look at that hand of yours?
She’s very proficient with a needle, you know.”

“LJ, can you hear all of this.” I said.
“Loud and clear, Jake. Dammed strange all these
packages floating about though, I’ll get on to our friend
at the ministry and find out why the hell we were not
advised about this. I was certainly not told about them
being on board. I’ve heard and seen enough for the time
being. Either Tatiana or I will call you back later with
an update on the situation. Charlie thank you for this
information, you’re all doing a good job.”
He broke the connection, but Charlie continued:
“The boat is lying at a slight angle, just as Mr Rumples’
photographs showed. As I’ve already said, it’s lucky for
us that she is intact. But where the current has dragged it
around; some of the deck areas have some extremely sharp
and jagged projections, as I found out to my cost. The way
in is straightforward enough as we can go through the
main cabin hatch. But there is one potentially hazardous
problem. If she has been rolled around the ocean floor in
that storm last night, her hull may have been crushed or
she may now be upside down in the trench. We’ll find out
later, when we dive back down to her.”

We decided to dive during daylight hours. Charlie
and I went down first, and found the Gin Fizz in the
position she had been the night before. Charlie worked
methodically, checking her entire structure for any signs
of further damage. Using our comm, we kept in touch
with Rumple on the surface.

We soon came to the decision that pussyfooting
around and being cautious wouldn’t do, especially with
the potential hazards waiting to greet us.

Charlie went in through the main cabin hatch and
I followed moments later.
On entering the boat, the packages that Charlie
had seen through the portholes the night before were
everywhere, floating like inert jellyfish. I gently pulled one
towards me, for a closer examination; it felt like Semtex,
but I couldn’t be sure through the coarse material covering
it. “I’m taking this one up to the boat for a closer look,” I
said, my voice sounded metallic through the microphone.

On deck Rumple and Miss Price looked on as I
took my knife and proceeded to carefully cut away the
wax covered material that sealed whatever was inside.
I unfolded layer after layer until the contents were
displayed. No one spoke for a full minute, as we took in
what was laid out before us. Miss Price was the first to
speak, in just above a whisper. “Well, Mr Rumple, since
we’ve not been blown into space, would it be safe to
assume that it’s not a highly volatile explosive? So, what
is it?”

“That, Miss Price,” Rumple said matter of factly,
“if I’m not mistaken, is raw opium. Once this dark brown
chunk is processed in a lab and ‘cut’ ready for distribution
onto the streets as heroin, I’d guess this pack would be
worth approximately a million pounds. But that is only a
guess, you understand.”

“I would say that was a fairly accurate guess,
Rumple. There are probably fifty of these inside the main
cabin area. I think someone has some explaining to do
back in London.” I looked up. “Don’t you Miss Price?”

The three of us spent the next half-hour bringing
the waxy packages up to the surface where Rumple
stowed them safely in lockers out of sight. After this was
completed, I located the safe. LJ’s information about
where it was positioned and the entry codes were correct.
Fortunately for me it had a backup battery power source.
I punched in the numeric code but nothing happened. I
took off one of my gloves, tried again and this time my
bare fingers carefully tapped in the numbers correctly. I
could hear the lock mechanism click into place.

Pulling at the door, a large bubble of air escaped
as I strained it open and water gushed inside. I shone
my torch in. We had been told there were two flattish
packages wrapped in what looked like black velvet.
I assumed these were the counterfeit plates - together
with two small white brick-shaped parcels. The cocaine
packs were both in clear waterproof bags, everything was
present and correct, so I placed all the items into the clear
zip top bag that I had with me and hooked it on to my
belt.

The only other item tucked right at the back of the
safe was the boat logbook. Looking around I made sure
that the others had gone back up to the surface, and then
pushed it carefully inside my wetsuit for safe keeping,
and a little light bedtime reading later.

As I pulled myself through the hatch into open
water, Charlie and Miss Price reappeared over my left
shoulder. Over the comm I told Charlie that everything
we’d come for was accounted for.

“What about the log book?” Miss Price broke in.
“Well, it wasn’t in the safe, and I’ve had a thorough
look round the entire boat, but it doesn’t appear to be
here. Be my guest take a look for yourself – you have
exactly ten minutes.”
She slipped through the hatch and inside the boat.
We had one last thing to do, and that was to get rid
of the existence of the Gin Fizz. Charlie started packing
the charges on to the hull as Miss Price swam back out,
searching the surrounding area.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
Charlie was first to respond. “Our instructions are
quite explicit Fiona. We have to blow it, once we have
what we came for.”
“But I don’t have the logbook.” The panic in her
eyes and edginess to her voice said it all. “I must have
that logbook. London will not be happy if I don’t take it
back with me.”
“Miss Price,” I said, “we have looked inside and
out, as you have. We do not have the time to mess about
further, so would you please surface now.”
We watched her ascend, and then turned and
continued to place the charges over the deck area. “By
having the charges on the deck as well as the hull,” said
Charlie, “we should be able to create a blast that will
generate the minimum disruption on the surface, although
there will still be a fair bit of spray. Or that’s the theory,
anyway.”
“If you say so,” I replied.
We broke the surface and I passed the clear bag up
to Rumple, who took it from me, disappearing below. He
carefully placed the contents in an aluminium briefcase.
I changed into a pair of khaki trousers and an open
neck shirt, going back up on deck where the others were
congregated in the cockpit. Miss Price was obviously
not happy at the thought of having to return to London
without the logbook.
Ignoring her I went straight over to Charlie,
“What’s the maximum range on the Detonator?” I asked.
“About half a mile, in these conditions,” he replied.
“Good, that should be far enough away from the
explosion not to attract too much attention from any
other craft that may happen along.”
It was four thirty by the time we had stowed all the
equipment away. The sun was still shining, clouds were
flitting around it like moths around a candle, and there
was a bite in the air whenever the sun vanished.
In the distance, a small powerboat was coming
towards us at speed.
Through the binoculars I could just make out three
occupants dressed in dark clothing behind the windshield.
Rumple had seen it too; he had increased our speed and
altered course by a few degrees as a precaution.
They came straight at us, moving quickly over the
water. Everything happened in a flash as they opened fire
with machine pistols aiming for the cockpit but strafing
bullets everywhere. We all slammed ourselves down on to
the deck as the windows exploded into infinity above our
heads. Glass shattered everywhere; air rushed through
the opening with such a force, the noise was deafening.
They raced past on our starboard side, emptying their
magazines as they went.
“Who the hell is that?” shouted Charlie, his body
pressed tight to the deck, covered in debris.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” I shouted. “What
I said on the beach, remember – goats in a tiger trap.” I
looked up. “Rumple, are you all right.”
He was slumped in a sitting position against
the bulkhead. I carefully moved over broken glass and
splintered timbers towards the helm.
Reaching up I fumbled around for the switch to
activate the autopilot.
“I think I’ve taken a hit in my shoulder, sir.”
He’d gone a ghastly shade of grey, and there was
blood covering his right arm. I crawled over and took a
quick look. Satisfied that it was a clean shoulder wound,
I took off my shirt, ripped off a sleeve and used it as a
tourniquet. “You’re lucky, Rumple, the bullet seems to
have gone right through; you sit here and don’t move.
Miss Price will look after you. Charlie, take over the
helm and steer us back over the dive site, I’m pretty sure
those goons will follow us. I’m going forward to even
up the odds. When I give you the signal, detonate the
explosives.” He nodded his understanding.
The small dart-like craft turned as I was making
my way to the forward rack. The crack of their machine
pistols sounded from not too far away, bullets whizzing
overhead, the occasional thud as one slammed into the
fibreglass structure. Lying face down, I struggled with the
forward hatch shackle, but eventually managed to pull
out what I’d had Rumple so carefully stow on board for
me. The latest toy that the MOD had to offer, on loan
courtesy of a favour I had called in. The KZL300 laser is
capable of blasting a hole right through a tank at a mile.
Charlie was taking us back towards the dive site.
As we passed over the Gin Fizz, I brought my arm up
and down again. The next second, the explosion could
be heard as the other boat came up fast behind us; the
upward pressure plumed seawater high in to the air.
After two seconds, full power was indicated on the
laser’s display. I locked the sight on to the small boat as
they came around from swerving to avoid the great wall
of water that had suddenly appeared in front of them. I
squeezed the trigger very gently; the tiny craft burst in to
a fireball as the beam hit them square amidships. There
was no sound and nothing visual to warn them of what
was coming.
“Inspiring!” I whispered to myself.
Our attackers, who ever they were, had died
instantly. The heat generated by the laser canon and the
explosion from their fuel tank that ensued had been so
intense that there was nothing left on the surface. Charlie
circled the area a couple of times, but there was nothing
to retrieve.
“That was awesome! What the hell is it, and why
is it on this boat?”
Charlie asked, his voice a little shaky. He knew
my fixation with gadgets and that I had a contact at
the Army’s Establishment for Weapons development in
Surrey.
“Um, was rather effective wasn’t it,” I said with
a smirk. “This Charlie, is the little toy I was telling you
about, I asked LJ to phone a friend of mine and ask
if I could borrow it for the assignment; never thought
we would be able to, not in a million years. I wanted it
because it’s as good underwater as it is on the surface.
So that if there had been large rocks to shift out of the
way down there, or blow a hole to gain access, this little
beauty would have made light work for us.”
In silence we cruised back towards Sandbanks and
the rented house.
We arrived back at around six thirty. Mrs Rumple
had been informed by radio that her sewing expertise was
going to be required again the minute we docked. In her
usual expedient manner and without fuss this was taken
care of.
We decided to leave the waxy opium packages
hidden on board the phantom for the night, but to take
everything else up to the house. We secured all hatches
and double locked the boathouse doors. Everyone except
Rumple and Mrs Rumple would take turns in doing a
guard duty, just in case any other unwanted visitors called.

As usual LJ was already at his desk. I’d no doubt
that he was already savouring a cup of piping hot black
coffee to kick-start his metabolism for the day. I sat in
front of the laptop using the built in camera and secure
line video link.

“Good morning Jake, I hope you slept well after
yesterday’s activities.”
“Can we cut the crap, please? We were ambushed;
it’s as simple as that.”
“There is no other way of looking at it. Whoever
those goons were, they had known exactly where we
would be and I suspect what goodies we had just loaded
on board. It could only be our client or this chap in
Bournemouth, Flackyard.”
“OK, old son, you may be right - but please calm
down, – I’ve made a number of phone calls, Hawkworth
categorically refutes any suggestion that the opium found
on board the Gin Fizz was being trafficked for him. It’s far
more likely that this Robert Flackyard is behind the drugs,
and that those three you sent to the bottom of the English
Channel worked for him. Special Branch has confirmed
that he is the subject of an ongoing investigation with
regard to his various activities both here in the UK and
abroad. Further more, Jake, please remember that had it
been a team of let’s say, five, instructed by our client, you
would all be lying on slabs in a mortuary.”
“Great, so we have a Cabinet Minister who has
jumped into bed with a gangster instead. Who also has an
appetite for dealing drugs and killing people? But where
does that leave us, and where do we go from here?”
“Look, the first thing to do is for all of you to
sit tight. I will arrange for the items retrieved from the
safe, to be brought back to London, then the Partners
can arrange the hand-over to their rightful owners. A
dispatch rider will collect them this morning. Your code
name will be used as the greeting.”
“Understood?” I nodded at the screen.
“Good, because once that is taken care of, I can take
my instructions from upstairs so that we can concentrate
on the more important matters such as the Italian Generals
and their Sicilian project. In the meantime, see what else
you can find out locally about this chap Flackyard. If you
turn up anything interesting, call me immediately, at any
time of the day or night, you’ve got my London home
number.”
He broke the link and the screen went blank. At
breakfast, I filled the others in on the conversation I had
with LJ. I gave everyone something to do for the day
ahead; the Rumples were to stay at the house to keep an
eye on things. Fiona Price looked as if she was staying in
Dorset and looked as if she were more than capable of
visiting some of Flackyard’s clubs and wine bars.
“Try and find out as much about his organisation as
possible,” I said, but please try to be discreet. Remember
there’s an active investigation on this character and his
many activities.”
Fiona assured me that discretion was her middle
name, and that she didn’t know I cared so much.
Around 11.30 am Charlie and I decided to take
a look at the local ‘in’ place, a modern café bar by the
water’s edge. Highly polished chrome tables and chairs
lined the marble frontage and overhead large billowy
canvas blinds let shaded sunlight filter through, creating a
relaxed atmosphere where life passes by and time stands
still. We took a table overlooking the Bay. A waitress came
over and took our drinks order. Charlie instantly struck
up a rapport with the talkative girl, asking her if it were
possible to have a chat with the owner. I noticed someone
walking up the road from the direction of the beach. He
was a muscular figure, perhaps a little overweight. His
dark hair was cropped close to his skull and his chest
featured more hair than his head.
A small crucifix dangled from a fine chain around
his neck. He wore a baggy pair of swimming shorts and
carried a towel, which he rubbed against his head as he
walked. It was only the towel and shorts that marked
him as a visitor, for as he approached us an attractive
tanned woman came from behind the bar and waved
enthusiastically at him.
He shouted, “Is that an English rose I see there?”
In response the woman wrinkled her nose and pouted her
mouth. As they met he kissed her on both cheeks and gave
her a friendly hug. “God, you look good today, Georgina.
How do you keep so young and vibrant, working this
bar of yours morning, noon and night?” The woman
ignored this compliment and guided the big American
inside. I could see from where I was sitting, that she was
whispering to him conspiratorially, flicking her eyes in our
direction a number of times during their conversation.
Five minutes later he came over and introduced himself.
“Caplin,” he said, and extended a large hairybacked hand to Charlie.
“Caplin?”
“Yes, Harry Caplin.” He laughed. “I’m from the
United States – I live in the house two doors from you.
Look, that’s it for me today. Say – I know we don’t know
each other and I’m being really presumptuous in asking,
but would you fellas like to join me for lunch? That’s if
you’ve got nothing better to do.”
Look I’ll go back to the house and scramble into
some clothes. Let’s say 12.45 at my place for drinks then
eat around 1.00. It’ll sure be good to have new faces to
talk with. Bring your friends and swim-suits if you like.”
He laughed loudly and went off up the road.
Charlie was all for it, of course, he just wanted to
break the monotony of sitting around waiting for further
instructions from London. He said, “He’s a bulldozer,
that man; he’s the American I mentioned.”
I said, “He’s seems friendly enough, but I’ve got a
strange feeling that his offer of lunch was most definitely,
not off the cuff. Something about him is not right and
how did he know that we weren’t alone? I’ll get Rumple
to check him out this afternoon.”
Fiona was already back at the house when we
arrived to collect our shorts.
“Back so soon Fiona? I thought you’d be gone at
least until late tonight?”
“Mr Dillon, you will find my report on the table
over by the fax machine.”
She pointed across the room. “You should find
it an interesting read. This Flackyard character is on
the face of it whiter than white. But in reality he is into
anything illegal, according to a young waitress with big
ears and a loose tongue who I got talking to in one of
his bars. He runs most of the working girls in the town,
controlling them with what he calls his enforcers. These
are basically paid thugs who collect the money and dish
out any punishment as and when required, to keep the
girls in line.”
“Funnily enough, one thing she did mention was
that there is a rumour going around that three of these
thugs have just disappeared. Apparently Flackyard is
really pissed off and very twitchy about it. He thinks
they’ve stolen certain items of value from him that he
was transporting for one of his associates and that he was
supposed to deliver yesterday. She thinks that it’s almost
certain to be drugs. Unfortunately we were interrupted,
so I left and came straight back here.”
“Sounds good Fiona. I look forward to reading it.
But now, we have a lunch date with a bullish American
two doors away. Would you like to come?”
“Another pair of eyes and ears might prove useful.”
“Sounds too good to miss. Have I got time to
quickly change?”
I picked up the type written report. “Five minutes,
and no more.” I said looking down at the white sheet of
paper in my hand and thinking how I may have judged her
a little to harshly at the outset, and how well written and
detailed her report was. Perhaps she could be a valuable
asset to the team after all.
The three of us arrived at Harry Caplin’s a little
before 12.45. He lived in a magnificent mock Gothic
house; the entrance hall was large and airy with a rich
oak floor running throughout the ground level. The dark
furniture did a heavy dance as we walked across the
uneven plank flooring.
From the entrance hall one could see right through
the house to where the green sea, dark clouds and stone
balcony hung like a tricolour outside the back door.
From the kitchen emerged the aroma of olive oil, onion,
pimento, and fish. A wizened old woman of seventy
something who ‘did’ for Harry was busy preparing salads.
I could detect her feminine hand in the hydrangeas that
filled the borders.
“Hi there, Sofia – this way, folks,” said Harry, “Did
I tell you, that I’m the only American on this peninsula?”
He had fixed the patio with green plants and a parasol.
From his balcony one could see across the harbour
towards one of the many scattered islands.
Harry swirled his drink and looked across to one
of these islands regretfully. “This place is going to be way
outside my tax bracket when they finish developing this
area.”
“How long have you owned this house Harry?” I
asked casually.
“Hell, I only rent this place, costs a fortune, but
what the heck. I was lucky enough to be able to get off
the treadmill, so I said to myself, Harry you’ll soon be
nudging fifty, and what are you? A small-time publishing
exec. making seventy thou. and not much chance of
pushing it past seventy-five.”
“And what are you getting in return? Three weeks
in Florida once a year and a ski trip to Colorado if, repeat
if
, you’re lucky. So what did I do?”
There was a knock at the door, and a minute later
Sofia led a man in his fifties out on to the balcony. He
was thin and neurotic looking. His face, although cleanly
shaven was pitted with pockmarks from his adolescence,
he had fine hair that was parted down the middle, and
one of his long sideburns concealed a small but noticeable
scar around his ear.
“Let me do the introductions,” said Harry. “This
is George Ferdinand, he’s a good friend of mine, from
hereabouts. Hope you’ll join us for lunch George? Sofia
has cooked up the most wonderful dish using local fish
just caught this morning.”
“Thank you Harry, I’d be absolutely delighted
to join you – that is, as long as your other guests don’t
mind?”
After we had all introduced ourselves, we sat down
to eat. However, my appetite had been replaced with an
overwhelming feeling of being fitted up.
This character George Ferdinand turning up out of
the blue and on the off chance was just too convenient, as
well as clumsy, to be believable.
My attention turned back to the meal, and Harry
was quite right; Sofia had indeed cooked a magnificent
feast for us. Charlie sat next to our late arrival who
didn’t seem to talk very much, although at every possible
opportunity he did light up a cigarette and consumed
copious quantities of wine throughout the meal. As she
came by I congratulated Sofia in Italian on a fine lunch.
George had heard me and said in clear and fluent
Italian also, that he had never thought fish could taste so
superb. Harry saw me look over.
“And he speaks German, Spanish and Russian just
as well as you and I speak our mother tongue, don’t you,
George?” He patted him affectionately on the shoulder.
Charlie, Fiona and I all looked at each other. “How
about one of my special cocktails to finish off this perfect
afternoon” said Harry, looking over to Fiona. “Come
and help me fix it up, Fiona.”
They disappeared into the kitchen. George came
and sat with Charlie and me by the water edge. We soon
discovered that he talked only in general terms about
anything, steering well clear of anything personal about
himself.
The tide was turning as I watched the waves moving
down on to the private beach. Each shadow darkened
until one, losing its balance, toppled forward.
It tore a white hole in the green ocean and in falling
brought its fellow down, and that the next until the white
stuffing of the sea burst out of the lengthening gash.
Fiona and Harry emerged from the kitchen with a
big tray of glasses and a jug with frosted leaves around
it. As they came through the door Harry was laughing
and saying, “…it’s the only thing I really miss of the New
York scene to be honest.”
Then Miss Price said in a loud clear voice, “Come
and get it – Harry has just made us the most outrageous
cocktail with…” Harry broke in, his voice taking on
a reprimanding tone, “Now you promised that the
ingredients would remain our little secret, Fiona.” His
hand patted her bottom softly.
“That’s an un-American activity,” said Fiona.
“Oh no,” said Harry, “we still got a couple of
things that have to be done by hand.”
George Ferdinand apologised profusely to Harry
about having to leave early, telling him that he had a little
business to take care of. I caught his attention for just
a fraction of a second. There was something odd about
the way, when under a little pressure, his eyes never
stayed still, flitting in all directions. There was constant
perspiration on his upper lip and forehead.
Since meeting him five hours ago my opinion
hadn’t changed; this man was not to be trusted.
The waves were tripping over, crashing on to
and falling through the foamy, hissing remnants of their
predecessors. I wondered how long before we would
begin doing the same?