He drove back to Conner’s house as fast as he could, he could see no other vehicles on the lane up to the house and drove right up to the front door. He knew he was risking their lives, but too many people had already died and he didn’t want Harry and Sheila Conner on his conscience. He came to a sliding halt with the nose of the Porsche pointing back down the drive, running into the house, gun in hand.
Sheila had already reached the hall en route to find her husband, but it looked as though the extra tight knots were still holding. It would be too risky to release Sheila — he knew that she wouldn’t let it rest there. Dillon manhandled her back into the living room and shut the door behind him as she shouted four-letter expletives at him. He then went into the kitchen and untied Conner as fast as he could. He helped him up and held him against the wall.
“Untie Sheila and then get as far away from this place without delay. Are you listening, Harry? Your lives are worth nothing. Hide somewhere, anywhere, until it’s safe for you to get away properly. I’ll leave your gun in the porch — you might just need it.”
Dillon dashed out of the room, almost tripped on the edge of the hall carpet in his haste and went out of the front door at almost a full run, jumped into his car, and tossed Conner’s gun back into the porch. He drove off as fast as he could, leaving a cloud of dust and hoping that he had not left it too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Only when he had reached the main road, did his heart rate start to slow and the tension unravel itself from the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He had not been surprised to discover that the gold bullion and stolen works of art had already been moved to another location. Rather that it merely confirmed the suspicions he’d held for some time. Instead of being elated, he now felt only a deep sense of disappointment that there was very little doubt that Hart was inextricably involved with Trevelyan’s drug smuggling racket — although he had held this suspicion from early on in the assignment. The theory that he was only ever involved in the redistribution of stolen goods never really washed with him. If every crate that he had seen contained the same amount of cocaine, the total street value would be enormous. And if that were to be equated with a similar quantity at each of the other locations along the coast, he had uncovered a network of incredible magnitude.
He felt little or no satisfaction with what he had discovered, although he was now certain of it not really being the real issue. There were plenty of drug operations on this scale and much larger, but it was not what he had been searching for. Dillon usually felt optimistic about his ability to draw in all of the loose ends by the time he’d got this far with an assignment. At that precise moment he was feeling anything but optimistic. It was Hart who had interested him; Hart who had become almost an obsession with him; Hart, the enigma who somehow just didn’t slot into the world of drugs and funding terrorist activities. Clearly he had totally misjudged the man.
He felt deflated and at the same time knew it was far from over. Finding the house in Lyme Regis and the gold bullion in the secret room merely heightened those unexplained issues like why MI5 was involved. Was the gold really from the Brinks Mat robbery that took place more than twenty-five years ago? Or was he just being paranoid again? The security service was not in the business of busting a drug ring unless it was part of some political or a national security threat, and Dillon could still not see one here for sure.
He wasn’t sure when it had registered that he’d picked up a tail, except that he was on the fast stretch of dual-carriageway between Dorchester and Puddletown before he did. This was the second time in as many days that he had become convinced that he had one and thought he was losing his touch. The BMW 6 series had been sitting on his tail about four hundred metres back for some time, but made no move to catch him.
When Dillon changed down a gear and accelerated, the BMW moved with him. There was no attempt to close the gap, but when he moved out into the outside lane to overtake another car, the BMW also overtook. He was feeling irritated more than anything else and was never one to shy away from a spot of evasive driving if the need arose. If it was an attempt to intimidate him, the driver should learn something from Devdas Shah Zafar’s taxi driver in Delhi.
Dillon waited until the last minute and then left the dual-carriageway at the next turning off which led to villages that he had never heard of, and slowed right down. The BMW followed and there was nothing behind it on the quiet country road.
Dillon was now driving so slow that the other driver had no option but to try and overtake him. But as he did, Dillon accelerated hard up the road, spun the steering wheel hard round to the right and came to a sliding halt across the road, facing back towards the oncoming black BMW. The driver swerved, hit the grass bank and ploughed the front passenger side wing through the soft earth in order to move round and miss hitting the Porsche. As the BMW stopped, Dillon climbed out and sprinted over to the other car that was now half on and off the road. By the time he’d reached it he was convinced that it was not Trevelyan’s men who were following him.
“What the hell are you doing, you crazy idiot? You could have killed us both pulling a stunt like that.”
It was the passenger who had opened the car door and who was now yelling at Dillon.
“That is still a possibility if you keep on! You’ve been following me, which means you know where I’ve been and were so sure of it that you didn’t have to wait at the spot and were able to choose your moment to pick me up on the return.”
“You’re bloody barking, matey.”
“Maybe. But I’m sure that when Morgan reads your report he’ll find it very entertaining, if nothing else. Don’t forget to tell him that you completely fouled up because your friend there isn’t much of a driver. I’d get some lessons in basic handling techniques if I were you. Now, time is short and I don’t have all day to stand talking to you two. So if you’d be so good as to step out of the vehicle.”
“Piss off. We’ve got your number, matey. All we’ve got to do is call the police.”
“And tell them what, exactly? After all, you’ve had that option for some time, haven’t you?”
“Step out the car, or I’ll blow your effing heads off.”
As Dillon spoke, he produced the Glock, the reaction was what he’d expected as the two men complied with his request.
“You won’t get away with this, you lunatic. You can’t just wander around with a fucking Glock in your pocket. You’ll go down for this, matey.”
“You’re not very good at this undercover work, are you? ‘Glock’, ‘go down’ — all words used by the police or the security service. My bet is MI5.”
“Piss off.”
Dillon laughed.
“I’ll give you this. You’ve kept up the pretence, albeit not very well,” he said as he moved around to the front of the car and without hesitation fired a single shot into the radiator grill. There was an immediate hissing sound and a moment later, green coolant fluid started to pool on the ground directly underneath. Dillon walked back to the Porsche and drove off. But he was now deeply concerned that they had most definitely followed him down from London. This meant that they also knew about The Old Colonial Club and the rented apartment in Lilliput.
He continued his journey, more concerned about Morgan’s lot following than the amount of cocaine he was carrying in the boot. At Ringwood he pulled off the main road and into the service station, parking the Porsche out of sight of the road, and went inside to call Havelock at his Whitehall office from a payphone.