The President’s Daughter

TWO

Rain swept in across London from the west during the night, driven by a cold wind, hard and relentless. By morning, the wind had dropped, but when the prison officer in a navy blue mackintosh opened the gate to the exercise yard at Wandsworth Prison, the rain itself was more relentless than ever. The officer was called Jackson and sported a clipped military moustache, which was hardly surprising as he was a former Grenadier Guard.

He pushed Dermot Riley forward. “On your way.”

Riley, dressed only in prison denims, peered out. The yard, surrounded by high brick walls, was empty.

“I’ll get soaked,” he said in a hard Ulster accent.

“No, you won’t. I’m being good to you.” Jackson held out a small folding umbrella.

“I’d rather go back to my cell,” Riley said morosely.

“One hour’s exercise a day, that’s what it says in regulations, then we bang you up for the other twenty-three. Can’t have you associating with honest crooks, can we? You know how much they’d like to get their hands on a piece of IRA scum like you. That bomb in the West End last week killed sixteen people and God knows how many injured. You’re not popular, Riley, not popular at all. Now get on with it.”

He shoved Riley into the rain and locked the door behind him. Riley pressed the button on the folding umbrella and it opened. He took a tin of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one with a cheap plastic lighter, and started.

Funny how walking in the rain gave him a lift and the cigarette tasted good. On the other hand, anything was better than the solitary life he led for twenty-three hours a day in that cell. So far he had endured six months of it, which only left fourteen and a half years to go. Sometimes he thought he was going mad when he considered the prospect of those years stretching into infinity. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d sent him back home to a prison in Ulster. At least he’d have been serving his time with old comrades, but here at Wandsworth…

At that moment the door opened and Jackson appeared. “Get over here, Riley, you’ve got a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Riley said.

“Yes, your brief.” Riley stood there in the rain, the umbrella over his head, and Jackson added impatiently, “Your brief, your lawyer, you stupid Irish git. Now move it.”

Jackson didn’t take him to the general visiting hall but opened a door at the end of a side corridor. There was a table, a chair at each end, and a large barred window. The man who stood there peering out of it wore a fawn Burberry trenchcoat over a dark brown suit. The white shirt was set off by a college-type striped tie. He had black curling hair, a pleasant, open face and horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked around forty.

“Ah, Mr. Riley. I don’t know whether you will remember me. I was in court the day you were sentenced. George Brown.”

Riley played it very cool indeed. “Oh, yes.”

“I’ve been retained by the Defense League to go into the question of an appeal on your case. There were certain irregularities, statements by witnesses which might well have been tainted.” He turned to Jackson, who stood by the door. “I wonder if you’d mind stepping outside, Mr…?”

“Jackson, sir.”

“I think you’ll find if you check Section Three regulations, that where a question of appeal is being considered, a lawyer and his client are entitled to privacy.”

“Suit yourself,” Jackson said.

The door closed behind him, and Riley said, “What the hell is going on? I’ve never seen you in my life before, and I’ve already had any hope of an appeal turned down by the Public Defender.”

Brown took a leather cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered him one. “Fifteen years,” he said as he gave Riley a light. “That’s a long time. Bad enough here, but they’ll be sending you to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight soon. Toughest nick in Britain and the hardest cons. Like the coffin lid closing when they get you in there. I know about these things. I am a lawyer, although naturally, my name isn’t Brown.”

“What’s your game, fella?” Riley demanded.

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Riley did as he was told and Brown carried on. “I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse, just like the Godfather.”

“And what might that be? A fresh appeal?”

“No.” Brown walked to the window and peered out. “How would you like to be free?”

“Escape, you mean?” Riley said.

“No, I mean really free. Slate wiped clean.”

Riley was stunned and his voice was hoarse as he said, “I’d do anything for that – anything.”

“Yes, somehow I thought you might, but there’s even more to it. Do as I tell you and you’ll not only be a free man once more, you’ll have twenty thousand pounds in your hand to start fresh again.”

“My God,” Riley whispered. “And who would I have to kill?”

Brown smiled. “No one, I assure you, but let me ask you a question. Do you know Brigadier Charles Ferguson?”

“Not personally, no,” Riley said, “but I know of him. He runs an intelligence unit specializing in antiterrorism. They call it the Prime Minister’s private army. It’s got nothing to do with the SIS or MI5. I know one thing; it’s given the IRA a bad time in the last few years.”

“And Sean Dillon?”

“Jesus, is that bowser in this?” Riley laughed. “Sure and I know Sean like my own self. We fought the bloody war together in Derry back in the seventies, and little more than boys. Led those Brit soldiers a right old dance through the sewers, but the word is Sean works for Ferguson these days.”

“Tell me about him.”

“His mother died giving birth to him and he and his dad went to London. Sean had a genius for acting. He could change himself even without makeup. I’ve seen him do it. The Man of a Thousand Faces, that’s what Brit Intelligence called him, and they never managed to put a finger on him in twenty years.”

“His father was killed by British soldiers on a visit to Belfast, I understand,” Brown said.

“That’s right. Sean was nineteen, as I remember. He went home, joined the Movement, and never looked back. At one time he was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA had.”

“So what went wrong?”

“He never liked the bombing, though they say he was behind that mortar attack on Ten Downing Street during the Gulf War. After that, he cleared off to Europe and offered himself as a sort of gun for hire to anybody who’d pay, and he was even-handed. One minute he’d be working for the PLO, the next blowing up Palestinian gunboats in Beirut.”

“And where did Ferguson come in? I’ve heard the story, but I’d like it confirmed.”

“Well, among his other talents, our Sean can fly just about anything that can fly. He was running medicine for children into Bosnia and got shot down. It seems the Serbs were going to shoot him and Ferguson turned up and did a deal of some sort, blackmailed Sean into going to work for him.”

“Set a thief to catch a thief,” Brown said.

“That’s about it. It hasn’t made him too popular with the Provos back home.”

“Well, it wouldn’t, would it?”

There was a pause. Finally, Riley said, “Look, what do you want?”

“Sean Dillon, actually.” Brown smiled and offered him another cigarette. “Or to put it another way, the people I represent want him.”

“And who might they be?”

“None of your business, Mr. Riley, but I think I can guarantee that if you do exactly as I say, you’ll have your freedom and we’ll have Dillon. Does that give you a problem?”

“Not in the slightest.” Riley smiled. “What do I have to do?”

“To start, you apply to see the Governor and ask for Ferguson. Say you have important information for his ears only.”

“Then what?”

“Ferguson is certain to want to see you. There’s been a series of small doorstep bombs in Hampstead and Camden during the past two weeks. It’s a known fact that the IRA have at least three Active Service Units operating in London at the moment.” He took a piece of paper from a wallet and passed it across. “You tell Ferguson he’ll find an Active Service Unit at that address plus a supply of Semtex and fuses and so forth.”

Riley looked at the paper. “Holland Park.” He looked up. “Is this kosher?”

“No ASU, just the Semtex and timers, enough to show you were telling the truth. Not your fault if there’s no one there.”

“And you expect Ferguson to get my sentence squashed for that?” Riley shook his head. “Maybe if he’d been able to nick an ASU.” He shrugged. “It won’t do.”

“Yes, he’ll want more and you’re going to give it to him. Two years ago, an Arab terrorist group called the Army of God blew up a Jumbo as it was lifting off from Manchester. More than two hundred people killed.”

“So.”

“Their leader was a man called Hakim al Sharif. I know where he’s been hiding. I’ll tell you and you tell Ferguson. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get his hands on that bastard, and he’s certain to use Dillon to pull the job off.”

“And what do I do?”

“You offer to go with him, to prove you’re genuine in this thing.” Brown smiled. “It will work, Mr. Riley, but only if you do exactly as I tell you, so listen carefully.”

Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defense overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man with a shock of gray hair, wearing a crumpled fawn suit and a Guards Brigade tie. He was frowning slightly as he pressed his intercom.

“Brigadier?”

“Is Dillon there, Chief Inspector?”

“Just arrived.”

“I’ll see the both of you. Something’s come up.”

The woman who led the way was around thirty and wore a fawn Armani trouser suit. She had close-cropped red hair and black horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not so much beautiful as someone you would look at twice. She could have been a top secretary, a company director, and yet this was Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, product of an orthodox Jewish family, M.A. in Psychology from Cambridge, father a professor of surgery, grandfather a rabbi, both hugely shocked when she had elected to join the police. A fast-track career had taken her to Special Branch, from where Ferguson had procured her secondment as his assistant. In spite of her appearance and the crisp English upper-class voice, she had killed in the line of duty on three occasions to his knowledge, had taken a bullet herself.

The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was small, no more than five feet five, with the kind of fair hair that was almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. His eyes seemed to lack any kind of color and were very clear and he was handsome enough, a restless, animal vitality to him. The left corner of his mouth was permanently lifted into the kind of smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously, perhaps never had.

“God save the good work, Brigadier,” he said cheerfully in the distinctive accent that was Ulster Irish.

Ferguson laid down his pen and removed his reading glasses. “Dermot Riley. He ring a bell for you, Dillon?”

Dillon took out an old silver case, selected a cigarette, and lit it with a Zippo lighter. “You could say that. We were not much more than boys fighting together in the hard days in the seventies in the Derry Brigade of the Provisional IRA.”

“Shooting British soldiers,” Hannah Bernstein said.

“Well, they shouldn’t have joined,” Dillon told her cheerfully and turned back to Ferguson. “He was lifted last year by Scotland Yard’s Antiterrorist Squad right here in London. Supposed to have been a member of one of the Active Service Units.”

“As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.”

“True,” Dillon said, “but when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.”

“And good riddance,” Hannah said.

“Ah, well, now, everyone has their own point of view,” Dillon told her. “To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Ferguson said. “I’ve just had a call from the Governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.”

“Really?” Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. “Now why would he want to do that?”

“Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? If you had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.”

“And you want me?” Dillon said.

“Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, too, Chief Inspector. I’d like your input.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,” and he led the way out.

They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.

Riley said, “Sean, is that you?”

“As ever was, Dermot.” Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to him.

Riley grinned. “You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?”

“We did indeed, old son, but times change.”

“Well, you’ve certainly changed,” Riley said. “And from one side to the other.”

“All right,” Ferguson broke in. “So you’ve had the old pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?”

“Out, Brigadier.” Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. “Six months is enough. I can’t face anymore, I’d rather be dead.”

“Like all those people you killed,” Hannah said.

“And who might you be?”

“A Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch,” Dillon told him, “so mind your manners.”

“I was fighting a war, woman,” Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.

“And now you’ve had enough of the glorious cause,” Ferguson said. “So what have you got for me?”

Riley appeared to hesitate and Dillon said, “Hard as nails this old bugger, Dermot, but very old-fashioned. A man of honor, so tell him.”

“All right.” Riley raised a hand. “You people always thought there were three Active Service Units operating in London. There was a fourth and a different kind of setup. Nice house in Holland Park. Three guys and a woman, all with good jobs in the City. Another thing – all handpicked because they’d been born in England or raised here. Perfect for deep cover.”

“Names?” Ferguson demanded.

“It won’t do you any good. Not one of them has a police record of any kind, but here goes.”

He rattled off four names, which Hannah Bernstein wrote down in her notebook. Dillon watched impassively.

Ferguson said, “Address?”

“Park Villa, Palace Square. It’s on old Victoria Place in a nice garden.”

“So you had dealings with them?” Dillon asked.

“No, but a friend of mine, Ed Murphy, was their supplier. He got a little indiscreet one night. You know how it is with the drink taken. Anyway, he told me all about them.”

“And where’s Murphy now?”

“Rotated back to Ireland last year.”

Dillon turned to Ferguson and shrugged. “If it was me, I’d be long gone, especially after Dermot was lifted.”

“But why?” Hannah demanded. “There’s no connection.”

“But there always is,” Dillon said.

“Stop this bickering,” Ferguson told them. “It’s worth a try.”

He banged on the door, and when it opened and Jackson appeared, took an envelope from his pocket. “Take that to the Governor and get it countersigned. It’s a warrant for this man’s release into my custody. Afterwards, take him back to his cell to collect his things. We’ll be waiting in my Daimler in the courtyard.”

“Very well, Brigadier.” Jackson stamped his booted feet as if back on the parade ground and stood to one side as they filed past.

A number of people were waiting in the rain outside the main gate for prisoners on release. Among them was the lawyer who had called himself George Brown, standing beside a London black cab, an umbrella over his head. The driver looked like your average London cabbie, which he was, a very special breed, dark curly hair flecked with gray, a nose that had at some stage been broken.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” he asked.

At that moment, the gates opened and several men emerged, the Daimler following.

“I do now,” Brown said.

As the Daimler passed, Riley, sitting beside Dillon and opposite Ferguson and Hannah, glanced out and recognized Brown at once. He looked away.

Brown waved to a Ford sedan on the other side of the road and pointed as it moved away from the curb and went after the Daimler.

Brown got into the cab. “Now what?” the driver asked.

“They’ll follow them. Ferguson’s got to keep him somewhere.”

“A safehouse?”

“Perhaps, but what would be safer than having him stay at Dillon’s place in Stable Mews, very convenient, for Ferguson’s flat is just round the corner in Cavendish Square. That’s why I’ve made the arrangements I have. We’ll see if I’m right. In the meantime, we wait here. I chose visiting day because I was just one of two or three hundred people and no one at reception will remember me, but the prison officer who took me to Riley will. Jackson is his name.” He glanced at his watch. “The present shift should have just finished. We’ll wait and see if he comes out.”

Which Jackson did twenty minutes later and hurried away along the street to the nearest tube station. A keen snooker player he was, in a tournament at the British Legion that evening, and wanted to get home to shower and change.

The tube was as busy as usual, and as he entered, the black cab pulled in at the curb and Brown got out and went after him. Jackson went down the escalator and hurried along the tunnel, Brown close behind, but keeping a few people between them. The platform was crowded and Jackson pushed his way through and waited on the edge. There was the sound of the train in the distance, and Brown slipped in closer as the crowd surged forward. There was a rush of air, a roaring now as the train appeared, and Jackson was aware of a hand against his back, the last thing he remembered in this life as he plunged headfirst onto the track and directly into the path of the train.

The black cab driver waited anxiously. He’d already had to turn down several fares, was sweating a little, and then Brown emerged from the tube entrance, hurried along the pavement, and got in the back.

“Taken care of?” the driver asked and switched on his engine.

“As the coffin lid closing,” Brown told him and they drove away.

Ferguson said, “You’ll stay with Dillon at his place. Only five minutes’ walk from my flat.”

“Very convenient,” Riley said.

“And try and be sensible, there’s a good chap. Don’t try playing silly buggers and making a run for it.”

“And why would I do that?” Riley said. “I want to walk away from this clean, Brigadier. I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

“Good man.”

At that moment, the Daimler turned into Stable Mews, negotiating a gray BT van parked on the pavement, a manhole cover raised behind a small barrier. A telephone engineer wearing a hard hat and a distinctive yellow oilskin jacket with the BT logo printed across the back worked in the manhole.

Ferguson said, “Right, out you get, you two. The Chief Inspector and I have work to do.”

“When will we make the hit?” Dillon asked.

“Sometime tonight. Sooner rather than later.”

The Daimler moved away and Dillon unlocked the door of the cottage and led the way in. It was small and very Victorian, with a scarlet and blue Turkish carpet runner up the hall. A door stood open to a living room, polished wood block floor, a three-piece suite in black leather, oriental rugs scattered here and there. Above the fireplace was an oil painting, a scene of the Thames River by night in Victorian times.

“Jesus,” Riley said, “that’s an Atkinson Grimshaw and worth a powerful lot of money, Sean.”

“And how would you be knowing that?” Dillon asked.

“Oh, once I had to visit Liam Devlin at his cottage at Kilrea outside Dublin. He had at least six Grimshaws on the walls.”

“Five now,” Dillon said and splashed Bushmills whiskey into two glasses on the sideboard. “He gave that one to me.”

“So the old bugger is still alive.”

“He certainly is. Eighty-five and still claiming seventy.”

“The living legend of the IRA.”

“The best,” Dillon said. “On my best day and his worst, the best. To Liam.” He raised his glass.

Outside on the corner of the mews, the man working in the manhole got out, opened the door of the van, and went inside. Another man dressed as a BT engineer sat on a stool manipulating a refractive directional microphone, a tape recorder turning beside it.

He turned and smiled. “Perfect. Heard everything they said.”

And at nine o’clock that evening, Palace Square in Holland Park was sealed off by the police. Ferguson, Dillon, and Riley sat in the Daimler at the gate of Park Villa and watched armed police of the antiterrorist squad smash the front door down with their hammers and flood inside.

“So far so good,” Ferguson said.

Dillon took the car umbrella, got out and lit a cigarette, and stood there in the pouring rain. Hannah Bernstein emerged from the front door and came toward them. She wore a black jump suit and flak jacket, a holstered Smith & Wesson pistol on her left hip.

Ferguson opened the door. “Any luck?”

“A stack of Semtex, sir, and lots of timers. Looks as if we’ve really nipped some sort of bombing campaign in the bud.”

“But no Active Service Unit?”

“I’m afraid not, Brigadier.”

“I told you,” Dillon said. “Probably long gone.”

“Sod it!” Ferguson told him. “I wanted them, Dillon.”

Riley said, “Well, I kept my side of the bargain. Not my fault.”

“Yes, but not enough,” Ferguson told him.

Riley was really working very well. He added a little anxiety to his voice. “Here, you won’t send me back, not to Wandsworth?”

“I don’t really have much choice.”

Riley switched to panic. “No, not that. I’ll do anything. Lots of things I could tell you and not just about the IRA.”

“Such as?”

“Two years ago. The Jumbo from Manchester that blew up over the Irish Sea. Two hundred and twenty dead. That Arab fundamentalist lot, the Army of God, was behind that, and you know who was in charge.”

Ferguson’s face had gone very pale. “Hakim al Sharif.”

“I can get him for you.”

“You mean you know where that murderous bastard is?”

“I spoke with him last year. He was also supplying arms for the IRA.”

Ferguson raised a hand. “That’s enough.” He looked up at Hannah. “Get in, Chief Inspector. We’ll go to Dillon’s cottage and pursue this further.”

The kettle in Dillon’s kitchen was the old-fashioned kind that whistled when it boiled. Ferguson was on the telephone checking in to the office and Riley was on the couch by the fireplace, Hannah Bernstein at the window.

She got up as the kettle sounded, and Dillon said, “None of that. It wouldn’t be politically correct. I’ll make the tea.”

“Fool, Dillon,” she told him.

He made a large pot, put it on a tray with milk and sugar and four mugs, and took it in. “Barry’s Tea, Dermot,” he said, naming Ireland’s favorite brand. “You’ll feel right at home.”

Hannah poured and Ferguson put the phone down. He took the tea Hannah offered and said, “All right, let’s start again.”

Riley said, “Before I was lifted here in London last year, I was pulled in by the Chief of Staff in Dublin as a courier. I had to fly to Paris, visit a certain bank where there was a briefcase in a safe deposit. All I know is it was a lot of money in American dollars. I never knew how much. I understood it was a down payment against an arms shipment to Ireland.”

“And then?”

“I had exact instructions and I followed them. Flew to Palermo in Sicily where I hired a car and drove across to the south coast of the island, a fishing port called Salinas, a real nothing of a place. I was told to phone a certain number and simply say: ‘The Irishman is here.”’

“Go on,” Ferguson urged.

“Then I was to wait at this bar on the waterfront called the English Café.”

The story was so good that Riley was almost believing it himself, and it was Dillon who said, “And they came?”

“Two men in a Range Rover. Arabs. They took me to this villa by the sea about six or seven miles out of Salinas. Nothing else around. There was a jetty, some sort of motorboat.”

“And Hakim al Sharif?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, yes. Very hospitable. He checked out the cash, gave me a sealed letter for the Chief of Staff in Dublin, and made me stay the night.”

“How many people?” Dillon asked.

“The two fellas that picked me up were obviously his minders, then there was an Arab couple in a small cottage next door. The woman cooked and her husband was a general handyman. It seemed as if they looked after the place when he was away.” He drank some of his tea. “Oh, and there was a younger Arab woman who lived with them. I think she was there to make Hakim happy on occasions. That’s how it seemed, anyway.”

“Anything else of interest?” Ferguson asked.

“Well, he wasn’t your ordinary Muslim. Drank a great deal of Scotch whiskey.”

“So he opened up?” Dillon said.

“Only to the extent that his tongue loosened. Kept going on about the jobs he’d pulled and how he’d made fools of the intelligence services of a dozen countries. Oh, and he told me he’d had the villa for six years. Said it was the safest base he’d ever had, because all the local Sicilians were crooks of one sort or another and everybody minded their own business.”

“And he’s still there?” Hannah asked.

Riley managed to sound reluctant. “I don’t see why not, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

There was silence. Ferguson said, “God, I’d love to get my hands on him.”

“Well, if he is there, and I think there’s a fair chance he is,” Riley said, “you could get what you want. I mean, it’s another country, but you knock people off from other countries all the time, don’t tell me you don’t.”

“It’s certainly a thought.” Ferguson nodded.

“Look, send Dillon,” Riley said. “Send whoever you want and I’ll go with them, put myself on the line every step of the way.”

“And make a run for it first chance you get, Dermot boy,” Dillon said.

“Jesus, Sean, how many times do I have to tell you? I want out of this clean. I don’t want to be on the run for the rest of my life.” He turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier?”

Ferguson made his decision. “Take him out for a meal or something, Dillon. I’ll phone you in two hours.” He turned to Hannah. “Right, Chief Inspector, we have work to do.”

He went out, she raised her eyebrows at Dillon, and followed.

Dillon went to a drawer in the sideboard, opened it and took out a silenced Walther, which he tucked into the waistband of his cords at the rear under his coat.

“Like they say in those bad movies, Dermot, one false move and I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t, Sean, because I’m not going to make one.”

“Good, then it’s the King’s Head on the other side of the square. Great pub grub. They do a shepherd’s pie like your mother used to make, and after six months in Wandsworth I’d say you could do with.”

Riley groaned. “Just show me the way.”

They hadn’t been back at the cottage for more than five minutes when the phone rang. Dillon picked it up.

“Ferguson,” the Brigadier said. “This is the way of it.”

Dillon listened intently, then nodded. “Fine. We’ll expect you at nine o’clock in the morning.”

He put the phone down and lit a cigarette. Riley said, “Is it on?”

Dillon nodded. “Ferguson’s been in touch with the Marine Commando Special Boat Squadron at Akrotiri, the British sovereign base area in Cyprus. A Captain Carter and four men have been given the job. They’ll leave for Sicily by boat posing as fishermen. Weather permitting, they should make it to Salinas by early evening tomorrow.”

“And you and me?”

“Ferguson will pick us up at nine with Hannah Bernstein and take us out to Farley Field. That’s an RAF proving ground. You and I, plus Bernstein, fly in the department’s Lear jet to Sicily. We drive to Salinas. Carter will make himself known on arrival. The Lear will fly on to Malta.”

“Why Malta?”

“Because that’s where we go after Carter and his boys snatch Hakim. You and I go in with them, by the way.”

“Just like old times.”

“Short sea voyage. Do you good after Wandsworth.”

Riley nodded. “Would you anticipate any problem with Hakim at Malta?”

“None at all. They’re on our side. I mean, it isn’t Bosnia. A shot of something to subdue him, and the Lear, after all, bears RAF rondels. By the time Hakim has stopped being sick, he’ll be in London.”

In the BT van, the man at the directional microphone nodded to his friend, then turned off the tape recorder.

“I got everything. You close the manhole cover and clear up while I call in.”

A moment later, he was speaking to the man called Brown. “Right, see you soon.”

He switched off the phone and got out of the van and went round to the driver’s seat. A moment later, his friend joined him.

“Perfect,” the one behind the wheel said. “Couldn’t be better. Our people are already waiting in Salinas, and Riley and Dillon will be there tomorrow evening.”

“What happened?”

The driver eased out into the square and told him. When he was finished, his friend said, “Special Boat Squadron. They’re hot stuff.”

“It will be taken care of. All in the plan, exactly as Judas envisaged. He’s a genius, that man – a genius.”

He turned out of the square into the main stream of traffic and drove away.

THREE

The Lear jet they were using stood on the apron in front of one of the hangars. It was very official-looking, with RAF rondels, and the two pilots who stood waiting by the cabin door wore RAF overalls with rank insignia.

As the Daimler stopped, Ferguson said, “All nice and official. It should make things easy at Malta.” He took a small leather case from his pocket and gave it to Hannah Bernstein. “You’ll find a hypodermic in there, ready charged. Just give our friend Hakim a shot in the arm. He’ll stay on his feet, but he won’t know what time of day it is, and here’s a passport I got Forgery to make up for him. Abdul Krym, British citizen.” He took another from his inside pocket and passed it to Riley. “There’s yours, Irish variety. I thought it would go better with the accent. Thomas O’Malley.”

“Now isn’t that the strange thing,” Riley told him. “And me with a cousin once removed called Bridget O’Malley.”

“I haven’t the slightest interest in your family connections,” Ferguson told him. “Just get on board, there’s a good chap, and try doing as you’re told.”

They all got out and approached the Lear. Flight Lieutenant Lacey, in command, was an old hand and had been attached to Ferguson’s section for two years now. He introduced his fellow pilot, a Flight Lieutenant Parry.

Ferguson said, “How long to Sicily, then, Flight Lieutenant?”

“Headwinds all the way today, Brigadier. Can’t see it taking less than a good five hours.”

“Do your best.” Ferguson turned to the others. “Right, on you go and good luck.”

They went up the steps, one by one, the door closed. Ferguson stepped back as the engines started and the Lear taxied away to the far end of the field. It thundered along the runway and lifted.

“Up to you now, Dillon,” he said softly, turned, and walked back to the Daimler.

It was all a dream, Riley decided, and he might wake up in his cell at Wandsworth instead of sitting here on the leather club seat in the quiet elegance of the Lear. It had all worked out as Brown had promised.

He watched Hannah Bernstein, glasses removed, take some papers from her briefcase and start to read them. A strange one, but a hell of a copper from what he had heard, and hadn’t she shot dead that Protestant bitch, No-rah Bell, when she and Michael Ahern had tried to assassinate the American President on his London visit?

Dillon came through from the cockpit area, slid into the chair opposite. He opened the bar cupboard. “Would you fancy a drink, Dermot? Scotch whiskey, not Irish, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll do to take along.”

Dillon found a half bottle of Bell’s and splashed some into a couple of glasses. He passed one to Riley and offered him a cigarette.

“Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women, isn’t that what the song says, only not for the Chief Inspector. She thinks I’m taking years off my life.”

She glanced up. “And so you are, Dillon, but you go to hell in your own way.”

She went back to her work and Dillon turned to Riley. “The hard woman, but she loves me dearly. Tell me, was that a fact about you having a cousin called O’Malley?”

“Jesus, yes,” Riley said. “Didn’t I ever mention her? My mother died when I was five. Derry, that was, and I had a ten-year-old sister, Kathleen. My old man couldn’t cope, so he sent for my mother’s niece, Bridget O’Malley, from a village called Tullamore between the Blackwater River and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A drop of the real old Ireland that place, I can tell you.”

“And she raised you?”

“Until I was eighteen.”

“And never married?”

“She couldn’t have children, so she could never see the point.”

“What happened to her?”

“Her father was a widower. Her eldest brother had died fighting for the Brit army in the Far East somewhere, so when her father passed away, she inherited the farm outside Tullamore.”

“So she went back?”

“A small place, but her own.”

“Did you keep in touch?”

“She put me up more than once when I was on the run, Sean, though she doesn’t approve of the IRA. Mass three times a week, that’s Bridget. It’s only a small farm, forty cows, a few pigs, goats, a small herd of sheep on the mountainside.”

“And you liked it when you were laying low there?”

“Liked it?” Riley’s face was pale. “She always said she’d leave it to me. She only has a couple of retired old boys from the village to help out, so there was plenty to do. There I was, the stench of the war zone still in my nose, up the mountain to see to the sheep in the rain with that Alsatian of hers, Karl, snapping at my heels. And you know what, Sean? I loved it, every minute of it. Isn’t that the strange thing?”

“Not really. Roots, Dermot, that’s what we all need, and your roots are in her.”

“And what about you, Sean, where are your roots?”

“Maybe nowhere, nowhere at all. A few cousins scattered here and there that I haven’t seen in years and probably frightened to death of me.” He smiled. “Take my advice, old son. Once out of this, get back to Ireland and that farm outside Tullamore. You’ve been offered a miracle. From death in life at Wandsworth Prison to your present situation.”

“I know,” Riley said. “It’s like the stone being rolled aside from the mouth of the grave on the third day.”

“Exactly.” Dillon yawned. “I’ll have a little snooze now. Give me a push in an hour,” and he closed his eyes.

Riley watched him for a while. A good stick, Sean, one hell of a comrade in the old days fighting the Brits in Derry. On one memorable occasion when Riley had taken a bullet in the left leg, Dillon had refused to leave him, had hauled him to safety through the sewers of the city.

He glanced at Dillon, sleeping now. Sorry, Sean, he wanted to say, but what would have been the point? He couldn’t face going back to Wandsworth and another fourteen and a half years of living hell, so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep himself.

At around two o’clock in the afternoon they came in over the sea, Palermo to one side, and landed at Punta Raisi. Lacey obeyed orders from the tower and taxied to a remote area at the far end of the airport, where a number of private planes were parked. There was a small man in a cloth cap and old flying jacket standing in front of the hangar, and a Peugeot was parked to one side.

“And who might he be?” Riley asked.

“Don’t let appearances deceive you, Mr. Riley,” Hannah said. “That’s Colonel Paolo Gagini of the Italian Secret Intelligence Service. He’s put more Mafia godfathers inside than anyone I know, and he’s an old friend of ours.”

Parry got the door open and Lacey went after him, the rest of them following.

Gagini came forward. “Chief Inspector, nice to see you again, and you, Dillon. Still around and still in one piece? Amazing.”

Dillon took his hand. “This is Tom O’Malley, a colleague.”

Gagini looked Riley over and laughed out loud. “A colleague, you say? Ah, well, it takes all sorts.”

“Stop playing policeman, Paolo,” Hannah told him.

“Anything for you, Chief Inspector. I’ve always found beauty with brains more exciting than beauty on its own, and anything for my old friend Charles Ferguson. I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t want to know, only try to keep it out of the papers.” He turned to Lacey. “And what can I do for you, Flight Lieutenant?”

“I need to refuel and then it’s Malta next stop.”

“Good. Let me dispose of my friends here first.” He turned and led the way to the Peugeot. The driver got out, a small, eager dark-haired man in a check shirt and jeans.

“Colonel?”

Gagini put a hand on the man’s head. “Luigi, I made you a sergeant because I thought you had a certain intelligence. This lady is a Chief Inspector, so treat her accordingly. Mr. Dillon and Mr. O’Malley are colleagues. You drive them across the island and drop them at Salinas. Afterwards, you return.”

“Yes, my Colonel.”

“And if you cock this up in any way, I’ll have your balls.”

Luigi smiled and held open the rear door. There was a bank of two seats. “Chief Inspector.”

Hannah kissed Gagini on the cheek and got into the rear seat. Dillon and Riley sat in the other. Gagini smiled through the open window. “Good hunting, my friends.”

He stepped back and Luigi drove away.

It was some saint’s day or other, and as they passed through Palermo they slowed to a crawl as the traffic became snarled up with various religious processions. There was an enormous catafalque being carried by hooded men in robes, an ornate statue of the Virgin standing on top.

“Would you look at that?” Riley said. “A religious lot, these people.”

“Yes,” Hannah Bernstein said. “But no ordinary Virgin. Haven’t you noticed the knife in her heart?”

“That’s Sicily for you,” Dillon said. “Death is like a cult here. I don’t think your cousin Bridget would like it at all, Dermot.”

“She would not,” Riley said forcefully but looked out of the open window all the same, fascinated.

They moved out of Palermo into the heart of the island, following the route usually taken by tourists driving across to Agrigento on the south coast, and the scenery was spectacular.

They passed peasants on donkeys, vegetables for market in panniers, old men in tweed caps and patched suits, usually with a lupara, the short-barrelled shotgun favored by Sicilians, slung from a shoulder.

There were women in black, working in the fields or walking in a line at the side of the road, baskets on their heads, seemingly impervious to the sun and the villages, buildings that were centuries old, open drains down the center of the street, the smell of urine strong in the sun.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but give me Ireland any day of the week. This is a poor sort of place,” Riley said.

“Still very medieval,” Hannah Bernstein observed.

Luigi spoke for the first time and in excellent English. “These are poor people ground down by poverty. Great landowners and the Mafia have sucked them dry for years, and in Sicily there is only the land. Olive groves, vineyards and, these days, the tourists.”

“Soaked in blood over the years,” Dillon said. “Everybody’s had a piece, from the Arabs to the Normans. Did you know Richard the First of England was once king here?” he asked Hannah.

She showed surprise. “No, I didn’t. You learn something new every day.”

“Isn’t that a fact?” Dillon said and lit a cigarette.

At the same moment in Corfu, Marie de Brissac was walking down the cliff path from the small cottage she had rented on the northeast coast of the island.

She was a slim woman, twenty-seven at the time and looked younger. She wore a tee shirt and khaki shorts, and a straw hat shadowed a calm, intelligent face with high cheekbones. Her fair hair was tied into a ponytail, and she carried a cold box in one hand, her easel under the arm, and in the other hand was her paint box.

The horseshoe beach was delightful and gave her views across to Albania on one hand and to Greece on the other. A folding chair was where she had left it behind a rock, and an umbrella. She positioned them to her satisfaction, then set up her easel and started.

Watercolors were her favorite, much more than oils. She did a quick charcoal sketch of the scene before her, catching a fishing boat as it passed, then faded it down and started to paint.

She still hadn’t got over the death of her beloved mother. The cottage had been a refuge, at least in her mind. No staff, just a peasant woman who arrived on a donkey three times a week with fresh bread and milk and firewood. Time to reflect on the meaning of life and its purpose and to paint, of course.

She opened the cold box. Amongst the other things in there was a bottle of Chablis, ice-cold. She uncorked it and poured a glass.

“Strange,” she said softly, “but everyone seems to die on me. First Maurice in that stupid Gulf War, then the general, and now Maman. I wonder what I’ve done?”

She was not aware of any sound of approach, only the voice saying, “Excellent, I particularly admire that blue color wash and the way you soak it in to the shoreline.”

She glanced up and found him standing there. Probably about her own age, with blond hair and a strong, tanned face. He wore jeans and an old reefer jacket. His English had a slight accent that she couldn’t place.

She said, “I don’t want to sound unwelcoming, but this is a private beach.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, just as I’m aware that you are the Comtesse de Brissac.”

She knew then, of course, that this was no casual interloper, that there was purpose here. “Who are you?”

“What’s in a name.” He smiled. “Let’s say David Braun.” He took the bottle of Chablis from the cold box and examined the label. “Interesting.” He poured a glass and sampled it. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Strange, but she felt no sense of fear. This was no casual encounter, no threat of rape.

He whistled and called out, not in English this time, and a young man came down the path to join him and she recognized the language at once.

“Hebrew,” she said. “You spoke in Hebrew. I’ve been to Israel. I recognize the language.”

“Good.” He finished his wine. “Now, then,” he said in English, “pack up the lady’s things and follow us up to the cottage.”

“What’s this all about?” she asked calmly.

“All in good time, Comtesse.” He gestured with one hand. “After you, if you please.”

A Ford station wagon was parked outside the cottage. The other young man put her painting things in the rear and she saw that it was also filled with her suitcases.

“This is Moshe, by the way,” David Braun told her. “He started packing up the moment you left. The cupboard, as they say, is bare. I know you’ve only been using taxis while you’ve been here, so the old woman, when she turns up on her donkey, will think you’ve just up and left.”

“To where?”

He opened the rear door. “Your carriage awaits, and an interesting plane ride. What could be better?”

She hesitated, then did as she was told, and he got in beside her. As Moshe drove away, she said, “And the final destination?”

“Ah, now you’re expecting too much. Just enjoy the ride. The view over there, for example.”

She turned automatically, was aware of a prick in her bare right arm, turned and saw a plastic medical hypo in his hand.

“Damn you!” she said, “What was it?”

“Does it matter?” He tossed the hypo out of the open window. “You’ll sleep now – a nice long sleep. You’ll actually feel better when you waken.”

She tried to reply, but her eyes felt heavy, and suddenly he just wasn’t there anymore and she plunged into darkness.

In Sicily, the Peugeot was really into the high country, Monte Cammarata rising six thousand feet to one side.

“That looks like rough country,” Riley said.

Luigi nodded. “Salvatore Guiliano made his home up there for years. The army and the police couldn’t catch him. A great man, a true Sicilian.”

“A great bandit, he means,” Hannah said to Riley, “who paid the rent for some poor old woman now and then and liked to see himself as Robin Hood.”

“God, but you take a hard line, woman,” Dillon said. “Guiliano wasn’t such a bad ould stick.”

“Just the kind of man you would approve of.”

“I know, it’s wicked I am.” At that moment, they entered a village and he added, “A pit stop, Luigi. I could do with the necessary and so could all of us, I suspect.”

“Of course, signor.”

They paused outside a trattoria with a few rough wooden tables and chairs under an awning. The proprietor, an old, gray-haired man wearing a soiled apron, greeted them. Luigi whispered to him, then turned.

“The toilet is at the back, Chief Inspector.”

“On your way,” Dillon told her cheerfully. “We’ll take turns.”

She followed Luigi, who went to the bar area to order the drinks. It was dark in there and the smell of the toilet was unmistakable. Dillon and Riley lit cigarettes as some kind of compensation. The only concession to modern living was an espresso machine.

Luigi turned. “Coffee okay?”

“Why not,” Dillon said.

Hannah emerged from the shadows and made a face. “I wouldn’t linger, gentlemen. I’ll wait outside.”

Dillon and Riley found the back room, which was in an appalling state. Dillon went first and shuddered when he came out. “Make it quick, Dermot. A man could die in there.”

Luigi was still getting the coffees and Dillon moved to the beaded entrance, pausing to light another cigarette. There was a cry of indignation from Hannah. He stepped outside and dropped the cigarette.

She was seated at one of the tables and two young men had joined her, poverty-stricken agricultural workers from the look of it, in patched jackets, scuffed leather leggings, and cloth caps. One sat on the table, a shotgun slung over one shoulder, laughing, the other was stroking the back of Hannah’s neck.

“I said stop it!” She was truly angry now and spoke in Italian.

The man laughed and ran his hand down her back. Dillon punched him in the kidneys, grabbed him by the collar, and ran him headlong to one side so that he stumbled over a chair and fell. In virtually the same movement, he turned and gave the one sitting on the edge of the table the heel of his hand, feeling the nose go, knocking him to the ground.

Dermot called, “I’m with you, Sean,” and came out through the bead curtain on the run. The one who had gone down first sprang a knife in his right hand as he came up, and Dermot grabbed for the wrist, twisted, and made him drop it. The other pulled the sling of the lupara over his head and stood, his face a mask of blood. As he tried to cock it, Dillon knocked it to one side and gave him a savage punch to the stomach, and the man dropped the lupara.

There was a single shot as Luigi arrived and fired into the air. He suddenly seemed a different man, the pistol in one hand, the warrant card in the other.

“Police,” he said. “Now leave the lupara and clear off.”

They shambled away. The old man appeared, strangely unconcerned, four espressos on a tray. He placed it in the center of the table.

“Sorry for the fuss, grandad,” Dillon said in excellent Italian.

“My nephew and his friend.” The old man shrugged. “Bad boys.” He picked up the lupara. “I’ll see he gets this back and there will be no charge. I’m sorry the signorina was molested in this way. It shames me.”

He went inside and Dillon took one of the coffees. “He’s ashamed. It was his nephew and a friend…”

“I heard what he said,” Hannah told him. “My Italian is as good as yours.”

Dillon turned to Riley. “Thanks, Dermot.”

“Nothing to it,” Riley said. “Just like the old days.”

“You move quick, signor,” Luigi said.

“Oh, he does that all right,” Hannah said as she drank her coffee. “Boot and fist, that’s our Dillon, and you should see him with a gun.”

Dillon smiled amiably. “You have a way with the words, girl dear. Now drink up and let’s be moving.”

As they moved down toward the south coast, things changed, the landscape became softer.

“During the war, the Americans came through here on their way through the Cammarata to Palermo. The Italian soldiers fled after receiving a Mafia directive to support the Americans against the Germans,” Luigi told them.

“And why would they do that?” Dillon asked.

“The Americans released from jail in New York the great Mafia don, Lucky Luciano.”

“Another gangster,” Hannah said.

“Perhaps, signorina, but he got the job done and the people believed in him. He went back to prison in America, but was released in nineteen forty-six. On the pardon, it said: For services to his country.”

“And you believe in such fantasy?” she asked.

“During the campaign, my own father saw him in the village of Corleone.”

Dillon laughed out loud. “Now that’s a showstopper if ever I heard one.”

As the landscape softened, there were flowers everywhere, on the slopes knapweed with yellow heads, bee orchids, ragwort and gentians.

“So beautiful.” Hannah sighed. “Yet centuries of violence and killing. Such a pity.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “Just like the Bible. As for me, I’m just passing through.”

He closed his eyes and Riley glanced at him and it was the plane all over again and he felt as guilty as hell, but there was nothing he could do after all. Salinas soon, and it would all be over. Some comfort in that.

Marie de Brissac surfaced in a kind of instant moment, one second nothing, dark as the grave, the next pale evening light. The first thing she was aware of was that she felt fine in herself, no headache, no heaviness, and that seemed strange.

She was lying on a large four-poster bed in a room with a vaulted ceiling and paneled walls of dark oak. There was oaken furniture, heavy and old, and a tapestry on the far wall with some sort of medieval scene on it. What seemed to be the outer door was also oak and studded with iron bands. There was another door beside the bed itself.

There was a large window, barred, of course, a table, and three chairs beside it. The man who had called himself David Braun sat there reading a book. He glanced up.

“Ah, there you are. How do you feel?”

“Fine.” She sat up. “Where am I?”

“Oh, in another country, that’s all you need to know. I’ll get you some coffee, or tea if you prefer it.”

“No, coffee would be fine, strong, black, and two sugars.”

“I shan’t be long. Look around.”

He opened the door and went out and she heard a key turn in the lock. She got up, crossed to the other door, opened it, and found herself in a large old-fashioned bathroom. The toilet, basin and bath with a stand-in shower looked straight out of the nineteenth century, but on the shelf beside the wash basin there was a range of toiletries. Soaps, shampoos, talcum powder, deodorants, a selection of sanitary napkins. There was even an electric hairdryer, combs and hairbrushes, and it occurred to her that all this had very probably been procured for her.

Her belief was further reinforced by her discovery on the desk in the bedroom of a carton of Gitanes, her favorite cigarette, and a couple of plastic lighters. She opened a pack, took a cigarette and lit it, then went to the window and peered out through the bars.

The building, whatever it was, was situated on the edge of a cliff. There was a bay below with an old jetty, a speedboat moored there. Beyond that was only a very blue sea, the light fading as dusk fell. The key turned in the door behind her, it opened, and Braun entered carrying a tray.

“So you’ve settled in?”

“You could call it that. When do I get some answers?”

“My boss will be along in a few minutes. It’s up to him.” He poured coffee for her.

She picked up the book he had been reading. It was in English, an edition of T. S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets. “You like poetry?” she asked.

“I like Eliot.” He misquoted: “In our end is our beginning and all that. He says so much so simply.” He walked to the door and paused. “He won’t want you to see his face, so don’t be alarmed.”

He went out and she finished her coffee, poured a second cup, and lit another cigarette. She paced up and down for a while, trying to make sense of it all, but the truth was that there wasn’t any sense to it. Behind her, the key rattled in the lock, and as she turned the door opened.

David Braun came in and stood to one side, and it was the man following him who shocked her. He seemed about six feet tall, with good shoulders, and wore a black jump suit. The shock was the black knitted ski mask he wore, through which his eyes seemed to glitter. All in all, as sinister-looking a creature as she had ever seen in her life.

His voice, when he spoke, was good Boston American. “A pleasure, Countess, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“My God, you’re American, and I thought you were Israelis when I heard Hebrew spoken.”

“My dear Countess, half the men in Israel speak English with an American accent. That’s where most of us received our education. Best in the world.”

“Really?” she said. “A matter of opinion.”

“Yes, I was forgetting. You went to Oxford and the University of Paris.”

“You’re well informed.”

“I know everything about you, Countess – everything. No secrets.”

“And I know nothing about you. Your name, for example.”

She could see his teeth through the slot for his mouth and it was as if he smiled. “Judas,” he said. “Call me Judas.”

“Very biblical,” she said, “but, alas, an unfortunate connotation.”

“Oh, yes, I know what you mean, Judas betraying Christ in the Garden.” He shrugged. “But there were sound political reasons. Judas Iscariot was a Zealot. He wanted his country free of the Romans.”

“And you?”

“I just want my country free of everybody.”

“But how does that concern me, for God’s sake?”

“Later, Countess, later. In the meantime, David will see to your every need. You’ll have to eat in here, naturally, but if there’s anything special you’d like, just ask him. Plenty of books on the shelves, and you’ve got your painting. I’ll speak to you again.”

Braun opened the door for him and followed him out. Judas pulled off the hood and ran his fingers through close-cropped, copper-colored hair. He had a strong face, high cheekbones, blue eyes, and there was a restless vitality to him. He looked around fifty years of age.

“See to her, David,” he said. “Anything she wants for the moment.”

“Consider it done.” Braun hesitated. “She’s a nice woman. Do you really intend to go through with it if you don’t get what you want?”

“Certainly,” Judas said. “Why, are you weakening on me, David?”

“Of course not. Our cause is just.”

“Well, keep that in the front of your mind. I’ll see you later.”

As he turned, Braun said, “Any news from Aaron and the other two?”

“He called in from Salinas on his ship’s radio. It marches, David.” The man who called himself Judas smiled. “It’s going to work. Just keep the faith.”

He walked away along the stone-flagged corridor, and Braun unlocked the door and went in. She turned from the window.

“There you are. So the big bad wolf has gone?”

He ignored the remark. “I know you’re not a vegetarian. On the menu tonight is vichyssoise, followed by fresh sea bass, grilled, potatoes, a mixed salad, and an assortment of fruit to follow. If you don’t care for the fish, there are lamb chops.”

“You sound like a waiter, but no, it will suit very well indeed.”

“Actually, I’m the cook. Would you care for a white wine?”

“No, claret would calm my nerves, and I’ve never subscribed to the idea that you should drink red or white because the food dictates it. I drink to suit me.”

“But, of course, Countess.” He half-bowed in a slightly mocking way and moved to the door.

As he opened it, she said, “And David?”

He turned. “Yes, Countess.”

“ ‘As you like Eliot so much, here’s a quote from The Waste Land for you.”’

“And what would that be, Countess?”

“ ‘I think we are in rats’ alley where the dead men lost their bones.”’

He stopped smiling, turned, opened the door, and went out, closing it. The key clicked in the lock, and suddenly she was afraid.

FOUR

Salinas was a scattering of houses, a harbor enclosed by two jetties and jammed with small fishing boats. Luigi drove along the waterfront and stopped outside the establishment with the sign over the door that said English Café.

“God knows why it has this name,” Luigi said.

“Perhaps they serve a full English breakfast,” Dillon said. “English tourists like that.”

“What tourists?” Luigi said and shrugged. “Anyway, here you are. I’ll just turn round and drive back to Palermo.”

They got out and Hannah shook his hand. “Grateful thanks, Sergeant. One cop to another.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek and he drove away.

Dillon led the way up the steps. The night was warm, and as darkness fell, there were lights on some of the boats out there in the harbor. He opened the door and went in. Half a dozen fishermen were at the bar, and it was a poor sort of place, very hot, and the ceiling fan didn’t seem to be working.

He waved to the barman and turned to the others. “It’s a dump. Let’s sit outside.”

They did just that, taking a table by the veranda rail, and the barman appeared. “What have you got to eat?” Hannah asked him in Italian.

“We only do one main dish each day, signorina. Tonight it’s cannelloni ripieni. The way our chef does it, there’s a special stuffing of savory meat and onions. You could have a salad with it.”

“Good, and bring us a bottle of wine,” Dillon told him. “Something cold.”

He explained the meal prospects to Riley, and the barman appeared with three glasses and an ice-cold bottle. He splashed some into a glass and Dillon sniffed it.

“This is the stuff. Passito. Strong, very strong. Three glasses and you’re on your back.” He grinned at Hannah. “I’d make it lemonade if I were you, girl dear.”

“Go stuff yourself, Dillon.”

At that moment, the barman came out, followed by a stout lady who carried a tray with three plates on it and a basket of bread. He deposited all this on the table and he and the woman departed.

The meal was, in fact, excellent, and Riley cleaned his plate. “God help me, but that bread was the best since I last tasted my cousin Bridget’s baking.”

“It was good, I’ve got to admit that,” Dillon said, “although I’m not too certain that it was strictly kosher.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Hannah told him coldly. “The Bible doesn’t tell me to starve myself in difficult circumstances. Now I’ll take another glass of wine.”

As Dillon poured, a quiet voice said in good public-school English, “Chief Inspector Bernstein?” They all turned and looked at the man who stood at the bottom of the steps. “Jack Carter.”

He was of medium height and wore a salt-stained sailor’s cap, reefer coat with tarnished brass buckles, and jeans. His face was tanned and he was younger than Dillon had thought he would be. Perhaps twenty-five and certainly no more.

Hannah made the introductions. “This is Sean Dillon and Thomas O’Malley. They’re…”

“I know very well who they are, Chief Inspector. I’ve been well briefed.”

He joined them on the veranda and Dillon offered him a glass of wine, but Carter shook his head. “I’ve already made inquiries about our friend Hakim’s villa when we first arrived, discreetly, of course. There’s not much like it in this area, so it was easy to find. We took a run past it.”

“Was that wise?” Hannah asked.

“No problem. A lot of fishing boats around here, and the motor launch we’re using doesn’t look much different, not with a few nets draped around it. Further discreet inquiries at the village store indicate that Hakim is in residence. His two goons were in for supplies this morning.”

“Very efficient,” Dillon said. “So when do we go in?”

“Tonight around midnight. No sense in hanging about, and the Lear’s waiting at Malta. We’ll go down to the boat and I’ll show you how I intend to make our move. Needless to say, I’m going to need Mr. Riley’s input…”

“Mr. O’Malley,” Dillon said.

“Yes, of course. Then I’ll need Mr. O’Malley’s input. He, after all, has actually been inside the place.” He turned to Hannah. “You’ll hold the fort here until we return, Chief Inspector. They do have rooms upstairs.”

She nodded. “I’ll walk down to the boat with you, just to see for myself. Then I’ll come back and book in.”

It was quiet on the waterfront, water lapping against the breakwater, music playing from somewhere, cooking smells. The boat was a forty-foot cruiser festooned with nets, as Carter had indicated. Two men in knitted caps and reefer coats worked on deck forward of the wheelhouse.

“I know it doesn’t look much, but she can do twenty-five knots,” he said, and called, “Only me,” and added to Hannah, “I’ve two more with me, but they’re ashore at the moment. This way.”

He went down the companionway and into the main saloon. There were a couple of charts spread across the table.

“Here you are,” he said. “Salinas, and there’s the villa to the east. I’ve circled it in red.”

They all leaned over the table, and Riley found that he was sweating and felt a distinct need to throw up. It was Hannah who broke the tension.

“Nothing more for me here, so I’ll go back to the English Café, book a room, then I’ll phone Ferguson on my mobile just to bring him up to date.”

She went up the companionway, the others following. When they reached the deck, Dillon said, “Grand legs you’ve got on you, girl, and well shaped. Must come from pounding the beat when you were a constable.”

“Mind your manners, Dillon,” she said severely, but put a hand on his arm. “Try and stay in one piece. You’re a bastard, but for some reason I can never fathom, I like you.”

“You mean there’s still a chance for me?”

“Oh, go to hell,” she said and walked away along the jetty.

“We’d better go and have a look at that chart again,” Carter said and led the way below. Dermot followed, his heart pounding, for he knew this must be it.

Dillon leaned over the table, and Carter said, “By the way, are you carrying, Mr. Dillon?”

“Of course.”

“Your usual Walther?”

It was then, as some instinct, the product of twenty years of the wrong kind of living, told Dillon he was in very bad trouble indeed, that Carter produced a Browning.

“Hands on head, old chap, nothing silly.” He felt in Dillon’s pockets and found the Walther in one of them. “There we are. Hands behind your back.”

Dillon did as he was told, and Carter took some handcuffs from the table drawer and handed them to Riley. “Cuff him.”

Dillon shook his head. “Naughty, Dermot, very naughty.”

“Arnold, get down here,” Carter called in Hebrew.

Dillon, having once worked for Israeli intelligence, recognized the language at once. It was not one of his best, but he knew enough to get by.

One of the seamen appeared in the entrance. “I’m here, Aaron. You’ve got him, then?”

“What does it look like? You and Raphael make ready for sea. I’ve got to go after the woman.”

“Will you kill her?”

“Of course not. We need her to communicate to Ferguson in London. Go on, get moving.” He turned to Riley. “You stay here and watch him.”

“What about my money?” Riley asked thickly.

“You’ll get it when we get there.”

“Get where?”

“Just shut up and do as you’re told,” and he went up the companionway.

Dillon said, “You might as well tell me, Dermot.”

Which Riley did in finest detail, Brown and the visit to Wandsworth, details of the plot as it had been put to him – everything.

“So good old Hakim isn’t up the coast at his villa?”

“I wouldn’t know. I never even heard of him till Brown told me his name.” He shook his head. “You’ve got to realize, Sean, it was Brown who came up with everything, the false ASU arms dump in London, this bloody Hakim fella.”

“And you never communicated with him once after leaving Wandsworth?”

“He said there was no need; that he’d always be on my case.”

“So how did he know we were coming?”

“I asked him about that. He said directional microphones were a wonderful invention. He said you could be in the street and still hear what went on in a house.”

“The BT van in the mews,” Dillon said. “The clever bastards.”

“I’m sorry, Sean, but you’ve got to see it from my point of view. All those years facing me in prison. Brown’s offer was something I couldn’t refuse.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dillon told him, “and get out my wallet.”

Dermot did as he was told. “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

“You’ll find five thousand dollars in assorted bills in there and you’re going to need it, old son. It was my operating money.”

“But they’re paying me twenty thousand pounds,” Riley said. “I don’t need it.”

“Oh, yes, you do, you poor bloody fool,” Dillon told him.

Hannah was shown to a bedroom by the woman who had brought the food on the tray. It was small and simple, a window open to the night so that she could see the harbor. There was a single bed, and a toilet and shower in what was little more than a cupboard. She put her overnight bag on the bed. She was wearing a traveler’s purse on a belt around her waist. It carried her operating money and a Walther, which she took out and checked expertly. Then she went downstairs.

She felt restless and strangely unsure of herself, thinking of Dillon and the job in hand. She didn’t approve of Dillon, never had. All that killing for the IRA and the work he’d done for just about every terrorist group there was. Of course since working for Ferguson, he’d compensated. But her knowledge of his earlier misdeeds simply wouldn’t go away.

She did an unusual thing for her, went to the bar and ordered a cognac, then she went outside and sat at the small corner table.

“Damn you, Dillon!” she said softly.

Something cold nudged her in the nape of the neck and the man who had called himself Carter said softly, “Don’t turn around, Chief Inspector. I should imagine you’re carrying, so take the weapon from your bag in your left hand and hold it up.”

She did as she was told. “What is this?”

He took the gun from her. “Let’s say all is not what it seems. By the way, we got Hakim for you. Consider that a bonus, but everything else was a means to an end. Poor Dermot, his conscience is killing him, but he did as he was told simply to get out of Wandsworth.”

“But to what purpose?”

“We needed Dillon. Oh, we’ll send him back quite soon and all will be revealed. Tell Ferguson we’ll be in touch and he’ll have to manage without him for a while. Now put your hands on your head.”

There was a short silence. She said, “But why? And what happened to the real Carter and his men?”

There was no reply, and when she turned cautiously he had gone. She went down the steps and hurried along the waterfront, but as she reached the jetty she heard an engine start and then the boat eased away. There was one man in the wheelhouse, another coiling lines in the stern. Nothing to be done, and she turned and hurried along the waterfront.

Carter went down the companionway and found Dillon seated on a bench seat, Riley with a glass in his hand, sitting morosely on the other side of the table.

“Ah, you found the whiskey,” Carter said.

“You saw the Chief Inspector?”

“Yes, and gave her a message for Ferguson.”

“That was kind of you. You were talking Hebrew earlier. I don’t speak it, but I recognize the language. If you’re Israeli, that’s the grand English public-school accent you’ve got.”

“My father was a diplomat in London. I went to St. Paul’s.”

“Not bad. Dermot has revealed all, by the way. So Hakim was just a fantasy?”

“Not at all. The villa exists and Hakim was in residence.”

“You say was?”

“We did you a favor. I dropped in with my boys last night and knocked him off.”

“Just him?”

At that moment, the engines rumbled into life. “Oh, no, we killed all of them.”

“Including the two women?”

Carter shrugged. “No choice, it had to be all of them. The Arab nations are at war with us, Dillon, so it’s all or nothing. As an old IRA hand, I’d have thought you’d appreciate that.”

Dillon said, “What about the real Carter and his men? Did you kill them, too?”

“No need. They got in this afternoon and tied up on the other side of the jetty. Moshe swam across and waited until they all went below for a meal or perhaps a conference. He boarded with a canister of Calsane and released it down the companionway. It’s a nerve gas that knocks you out for twelve hours. Only temporary, no ill effects afterwards.”

“As far as you know.”

Carter smiled. “Got to go. We’ll have words later.”

He went out and Dillon turned to Riley. The boat wasn’t moving very fast, obviously easing out through the small fleet of fishing boats. Riley poured another whiskey, looking hunted.

Dillon said, “So you don’t know who they are?”

“I swear on the Virgin, Sean. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I want my money and I want out.”

“Really? And when do you go over the side with a bullet in the head?”

Riley looked shocked. “Why in the hell would they do that?”

“Because they don’t need you anymore. You’ve served your purpose. Christ, Dermot, are you thick or something? You heard Carter. You’re dealing with thoroughly ruthless people.” Dillon was actually feeling angry. “They not only stiffed Hakim and his two goons, they also killed the caretaker and his wife and the daughter. They simply don’t take prisoners, and I don’t care what they say, Calsane gas is still experimental and there’s a high chance of permanent brain damage.”

“Holy Mother of God!” Riley moaned.

“So who needs you, Dermot?”

“Sean, what do I do?”

“It’s staring you in the face. You’ve got my five thousand dollars operating money, you’ve got a passport. Over the side with you before we’re out of the harbor, but be quick about it.”

Riley seemed galvanized into action. “By Christ, and I will.” He hesitated. “I can’t take you with me, Sean, the handcuffs.”

“Oh, get on with it,” Dillon told him.

Riley opened the door at the top of the companionway cautiously and peered out. One of the men was on the prow. Carter and the one he had called Arnold were in the wheelhouse. The boat was edging forward, threading its way between the little ships of the fishing fleet. Riley dodged across the deck, went over the rail, hung there for a moment, then eased into the water. It was surprisingly warm and he swam under the stern of a fishing boat, turned and watched the lights of the boat move out of the harbor entrance.

“Good luck, Dillon, you’re going to need it,” he said softly, turned and swam to some steps, then hurried along the jetty. He had the money and the passport. Palermo next stop and a plane to Paris and from there to Ireland and safe amongst his own people again. He couldn’t get there fast enough.

As the boat moved out to sea, Carter went down the companionway and found Dillon still in place on the bench seat. He frowned. “Where’s Riley?”

“Long gone,” Dillon told him. “After hearing how you dealt with Hakim and company, it occurred to him that you might just find him as disposable.”

“Oh, you persuaded him? I’m surprised, Mr. Dillon, after the way he betrayed you.”

“Come off it, old son, he didn’t have much choice. I’d have done the same faced with that kind of prison sentence, and Dermot and I go back a long way.”

Carter called in English, “Arnold, get down here.”

He opened a drawer and found a leather case, removed a hypodermic, and filled it from a small bottle.

“What do I call you?” Dillon asked.

Carter smiled. “Why not? It’s Aaron, Mr. Dillon, and this is Arnold,” he added, as the other man entered. “Turn Mr. Dillon over, Arnold.”

Arnold did as he was told. Dillon felt a hard finger tap on the back of his right hand, then the needle.

“I hope this one isn’t as experimental as Calsane.”

“A derivative of Pethidine, but it lasts longer.”

“No sense in asking where we’re going?”

“None at all.” Aaron nodded to Arnold. “Take him to the cabin and lock him in.”

Dillon managed to make it along the corridor, was aware of the door being opened, the bunk bed, but after that, nothing.

Hannah got through to Ferguson with no trouble at all, using her satellite-linked mobile phone. He was at his flat in Cavendish Square, sitting beside the fire in the drawing room, and he listened patiently while she filled him in.

“My God, but they really shafted us on this one, whoever they are.”

“But what would they want with Dillon, sir? And what about the real Carter?”

“God knows, but we’ll know soon enough. They said they’d be in touch and they also said Dillon would be back. We’ll just have to wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll contact Lacey at Malta and tell him to fly back to Palermo to pick you up in the morning, and I’ll ask Gagini to send the car back for you.”

“I’d be grateful,” she said.

“Just come home, Chief Inspector, nothing else to be done at the moment.”

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while, then phoned Wandsworth Prison and asked to speak to the head of security.

Dillon came half-awake in the darkness of the cabin. His handcuffs had been taken off and it was very dark. He tried to make sense of the luminous dial of his watch, which appeared to indicate that he had been out for about eight hours. The motion of the ship indicated a reasonably fast speed and he stood up, felt by the door, and found the light switch.

The porthole was bolted tight and painted black. His mouth was bone dry, but there was a small corner basin and a plastic cup, which he filled with water several times, sitting on the edge of the bed. A key turned in the door, it opened, and Aaron came in. A different man was behind him carrying a tray.

“I thought you’d be up and about by now,” Aaron said. “This is Raphael, by the way, bearing gifts. There’s a razor and shaving cream and shampoo. You’ll find a little shower room through that door. More importantly, a flask of tea, milk and ham sandwiches.”

“Ham?” Dillon said. “And you a nice Jewish boy?”

“Yes, disgraceful, isn’t it, but then, as I told you, I went to St. Paul’s. We’ll see you later.”

They left and Dillon started on the sandwiches, which were excellent, then had a cup of tea. He felt surprisingly good considering the drug, and afterwards, stripped, had a shower and a shave and dressed again. Afterwards, he got his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. There were books on a shelf. He glanced through them and found an old copy of From Russia with Love by Ian Fleming. James Bond. Somehow it seemed appropriate, and he got on the bunk bed and started to read.

It was a couple of hours later when the key turned and the door opened. Aaron came in, with Arnold at his back.

Dillon held up the book. “Did you know this is a first edition? They’re bringing a fat price at the auctions these days.”

“I’ll remember that,” Aaron said. “Sorry to be a bore, but it’s time for bed again, Mr. Dillon. Hand out, please.”

And as there wasn’t much Dillon could do about that, he complied. Aaron tapped the back of the hand and applied the needle.

“You’re sure I won’t end up a vegetable?” Dillon asked.

“No chance, Mr. Dillon. You’re a very important man. In fact, you’d be surprised at how important a man you are.”

But Dillon was already falling back against the pillow, the sounds fading.

At that moment, Marie de Brissac, seated by the window of her room, painting, glanced up as the door opened and David Braun came in carrying a tray. He placed it on the table. There were cakes and a jug of coffee, and he stood back to look at the painting.

“Excellent. My sister used to paint in watercolors. It’s a difficult medium.”

“You say she used to?”

“She’s dead, Countess. I had two sisters. They were killed when an Arab terrorist blew up a student bus in Jerusalem.”

She was shocked and it showed. “I’m very sorry, David, truly sorry,” and she reached for one of his hands.

His reaction was electric and most disturbing, particularly the realization of the effect this wonderful woman had on him. He pulled away hastily.

“It’s all right. Five years ago. I’ve learned to cope. It’s my mother I’m sorry for. She never got over it. She’s in a psychiatric unit.” He managed a ghastly smile. “I’ll see you later.”

He went out and Marie de Brissac sat there, wondering, and not for the first time, whether God had had an off-day when he’d decided to create the world.

This time when Dillon surfaced he was in a room very similar to Marie de Brissac’s, paneled walls, four-poster bed, a vaulted ceiling. He felt surprisingly clear-headed and checked his watch, which indicated a time lapse of some twelve hours since leaving Sicily.

He got up and went to the barred window, saw very much the same view Marie had – the cliffs, the beach, the jetty – the only difference being that the motor launch was now tied up on the other side from the speedboat. He visited the bathroom, and it was on the return that the door opened and Aaron entered.

“Ah, up and about.”

He stood to one side and Judas entered in the black hood and jump suit. He was smoking a cigar and his teeth gleamed as he smiled. “So, Sean Dillon. They tell me you were the best the IRA had. Why did you change?”

“Well, as a great man once said, as the times change, all men change with them.”

“A point, but a man like you would need a better reason than that.”

“Let’s say it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Afterwards, you worked everyone. ETA in Spain, the PLO, then the Israelis. You blew up Palestinian gunboats in Beirut harbor.”

“Ah, yes,” Dillon agreed, “but for that I was very well paid.”

“You certainly don’t take sides.”

Dillon shrugged. “Now that really doesn’t pay.”

“Well, this time you’re going to take my side, old buddy.”

“Go stuff yourself,” Dillon told him. “Let’s face it, I don’t even know you.”

“Just call me Judas.”

“Jesus, son, and now you must be joking.”

Aaron said in Hebrew, “Why waste time?”

Judas replied in the same language. “We need him, and don’t worry, I know how to handle him.” He turned to Dillon and said in Hebrew, “And I really do know how to handle you, don’t I?”

Although Dillon’s Hebrew was far from perfect, he understood but decided not to advertise the fact.

“Look, I don’t understand a word.”

Judas laughed. “Of course not, just trying you out. I’ve seen your record in Mossad files, and they’re thorough. That account of the job you did for them in Beirut. Fair Arabic, but no Hebrew.”

“I know what shalom means.”

“Well, shalom to you, and now you can follow me.”

“Just one more thing,” Dillon said. “Excuse my insatiable curiosity, but are you a Yank?”

Judas laughed. “I’m really getting tired of being asked that. Why do you all assume that an Israeli can’t be an Israeli if he speaks good American English?”

He turned and went out, and Aaron gestured with one hand. “This way, Mr. Dillon.”

The study was huge and spacious, with an enormous stone fireplace and tapestries on the walls. Leaded windows stood open, the scent of flowers from some gardens beyond. Judas sat down behind a large cluttered desk and gestured to a chair opposite.

“Sit down. You’ll find cigarettes in the silver box.”

Aaron leaned against the wall beside the door. Dillon took a cigarette and lit it from a desk lighter. “When the boy here spoke Hebrew to his chums on the boat, I at least recognized the language.”

“Yes, I noticed that on your Mossad file. A talent for languages. Everything from Irish to Russian.”

“It’s a kink in my brain, languages,” Dillon told him, “like some people can calculate quicker than a computer.”

“Then why not Hebrew?”

“I don’t speak Japanese, either. I only worked for Mossad the once, as you know, and if you know as much as you say, you’ll be aware that the Beirut operation was an in-and-out job. Three days and I was away with the check on a Swiss bank clutched in one greedy hand. Anyway, who in the hell are you and what’s this all about?”

“Well, you know we’re Israelis, but we’re patriotic Israelis willing to go to any lengths to preserve the integrity of our country.”

“Like shoot Prime Minister Rabin?”

“That was none of our affair. Frankly, we have more important things to do.”

“So what are you, some sort of latter-day Zealots?”

“Not really, old buddy,” Judas said cheerfully. “They wanted the Romans out and were strong patriots, but we go back to an earlier tradition. My country under Syrian domination, the Temple defiled, our religion, our whole way of life threatened.”

“Just like today, is that what you think?”

“We are constantly under threat. I’ve lost relatives to Hamas bombs, Aaron there had a brother, a pilot, shot down over Iran. He was tortured to death. Another of my men lost two sisters in the bombing of a student bus. We all have our stories.” He relit his cigar, which had gone out.

“So what’s this earlier tradition you mentioned?”

“The Syrians were defeated by Judas called Maccabeus, which means the Hammer.”

“Ah, light dawns.”

“His followers were known as Maccabees, ardent nationalists who wished for national independence for our country. Under the leadership of Judas, they fought a guerrilla war with such success that they defeated Syrian armies much larger than their own, took Jerusalem, cleansed and reconsecrated the Temple.”

“I know the story,” Dillon said.

“From the redoubtable Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein?”

“Now she does speak Hebrew,” Dillon said. “Anyway, she told me once what Chanukah was about.”

“Celebrated every year in memory of what the Maccabees achieved. A small country became independent again.”

“Until the Romans came.”

“True, but we will not allow that to happen this time around.”

Dillon nodded. “So you see yourself as Judas Maccabeus, and your followers, the fellas who knocked me off, for example, are twentieth-century Maccabees?”

“Why not? In your game, codenames are a necessity, so Judas Maccabeus does very well.”

“Leading an army of Maccabees.”

“I don’t need an army, just a small group of dedicated followers.” Judas raised a hand. “No, believers, and a few hundred scattered around the world, Jews like myself who believe above everything else that the State of Israel must survive and are prepared to go to any lengths to ensure it.”

“I’d have thought Israel has done a pretty good job of that. When the U.N. withdrew in nineteen forty-eight, you defeated six Arab countries. In the Six-Day War in nineteen sixty-seven, you defeated Egypt, Syria, and Jordan.”

“True, but before my time. Yom Kippur was my war, in seventy-three, and we’d have lost it if the Americans hadn’t poured in fighter planes and weaponry for us. Since then, nothing but trouble. We live on the edge. Our settlers in the north never know when they’re going to come under attack, Hamas constantly wages bombing campaigns. Scud missiles in the Gulf War showed our vulnerability. It can’t go on.”

Almost reluctantly, Dillon said, “I can see that.”

“Even in Britain there are Muslims who call for the annihilation of Jews. Syria, Iran, and Iraq will never be happy until we are crushed. Saddam Hussein proceeds with the further development of chemical weapons, the mullahs in Iran call for war against America, the Great Satan. The bombing attack on the U.S. barracks in Dharan was only the start. It is a known fact that Iran is working on the production of a nuclear bomb. They have numerous training camps for terrorists. There are also nuclear research establishments in Syria.”

“Common knowledge for years,” Dillon said. “So what else is new?”

“Missiles purchased from Eastern Europe since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and as we saw in the Gulf War, Israel is vulnerable to such weapons.”

Dillon reached for another cigarette, and Judas picked up the lighter near his right hand, leaned across, and gave him a light. It was tarnished silver, a black bird of some kind in bas-relief, with jagged lightning in its claws, obviously some military motif.

Dillon said, “So – you’ve made your case. What’s the solution?”

“It’s time to bring a stop to it, once and for all. Iraq, Syria, and Iran brought to heel for all time.”

“And how in the hell do you achieve that?”

“We don’t. The Americans will achieve it for us, under the inspired guidance of their President.”

“Jake Cazalet?” Dillon shook his head. “Sure, and the good old U.S. of A. has always been willing to retaliate when pushed – the Gulf War proved that – but to take out three countries?” He shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

“What I’m talking about are surgical airstrikes,” Judas said. “Total destruction of nuclear research sites for a start, and all chemical weaponry sites. Also nuclear power stations, and so on. Total destruction of the infrastructure. Ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads can also take out targets such as the Iranian Navy at Bandar Abbas. Army headquarters in all three countries are known targets. No need for a ground war.”

“A holocaust?” Dillon said. “That’s what you mean? You’d be willing to go that far?”

“For the State of Israel?” Judas nodded. “I can do no other.”

“But the Yanks would never go for it.”

“Now there you may be wrong. In fact, such a plan has existed at the Pentagon since the Gulf War. They call it Nemesis,” Judas told him. “There has never been any shortage of people in high command in the American military who would love to put it into action.”

“So why haven’t they?”

“Because as Commander-in-Chief, the President must sign the operational order, and he’s always rejected it. It’s been presented every year since the Gulf War to the President’s secret committee – the Future Projects Committee, they call it. Bizarre, isn’t it? It meets again next week. And this time, something tells me the result will be a little different.”

“You think Jake Cazalet will sign?” Dillon shook his head. “You must be crazy.”

“Special Forces in Vietnam,” Judas said. “Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, two Purple Hearts.”

“So what?” Dillon said. “He’s worked harder for peace than any President in years. The kind of Democrat that even Republicans love. He’ll never sign a thing like Nemesis.”

“Oh, I think he could when he hears what I have to say, and that’s where you come in, old buddy. Brigadier Ferguson has access to the President, courtesy of the British Prime Minister. You’ve actually met the President. Foiled a bomb plot by Protestant para-militaries to assassinate him when he was in London, and you’ve been of great assistance in helping out over one or two tricky bits as regards the Irish peace process or lack of it.”

“So what?”

“You can go and see him for me, you and Ferguson, if you like. All very hush-hush, of course. It has to be that way.”

“Like hell I will,” Dillon told him.

“Oh, I think you could be persuaded.” Judas got up and nodded to Aaron, who took a Beretta from the pocket of his reefer coat. “Let me show you.”

“And what’s that come down to? Do you wire up what my old aunty Eileen would have called my extremities to a very large battery?”

“No need. Time for you to reflect, that’s all. Now if you’d be kind enough to follow me?”

He opened the door and went out, and Dillon shrugged and followed, Aaron bringing up the rear.

They went along the corridor and down a series of wide stone steps, three levels in all. Dillon could hear someone calling out, high and shrill, a woman’s voice filled with terror.

As they reached a lower level, Arnold and Raphael appeared from another corridor holding Marie de Brissac between them. She was struggling madly, obviously badly frightened, and David Braun came up behind and tried to soothe her.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Listen to him, Countess,” Judas said. “He’s telling the truth. This is Mr. Dillon, by the way. I’ve brought him down here to show I mean business, and I always keep my word. Watch and learn, then you can go back to your nice warm room.”

Aaron unbarred a great oaken door, opened it, and led the way in, switching on a light. It was an ancient cellar, stone block walls wet with moisture. There was a well in the center, a low, round brick wall and a bucket on a rope suspended from some kind of lifting mechanism.

Judas picked up a stone and dropped it down. There was a hollow splashing. “Forty feet and only four or five feet of water and mud,” he said. “Hasn’t been used in years. Kind of smelly and pretty cold, but you can’t have everything. Let the countess take a look.”

She was shivering uncontrollably as Raphael and Arnold tried to pull her forward, and Dillon said to Judas, “What are you, a sadist or something?”

The eyes glittered in the black hood and there was a pause that was broken by David Braun. “I’ll take her.” Arnold and Raphael stepped back and he put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right, I’m here. Trust me.”

He moved her to the well and Judas picked up another stone and dropped it. “There you go.” There was a splash and then a kind of eerie whining. He laughed. “That must be the rats. They love it on account of the lower sewer that runs through. Isn’t this fun?” He turned to Dillon. “Or it will be when you stand in the bucket and we put you down.”

In that one single moment, Dillon knew that he was facing madness, for Judas was enjoying himself too much, but he kept his cool.

“I’ll tell you one thing. You obviously don’t know the first thing about sewers.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you swallow human pathogens, you stand a great chance of dying, and if a rat bites you down there, you stand an even better chance of catching Weil’s disease. Only a fifty-fifty chance of dying from that when your liver packs in, so it strikes me you aren’t too concerned about keeping me around.”

Judas exploded in rage. “Fuck you, you clever bastard. Now stand in the bucket or I’ll blow your head off.”

He snatched the Beretta from Aaron and leveled it, and Marie de Brissac cried out, “No!”

Dillon smiled at her. “I don’t know who you are, girl dear, but don’t worry. He needs me too much.”

He got his feet into the bucket, and Raphael and Arnold lowered him down. He glanced up, saw Judas peering down at him, and then a few moments later he hit the water. His feet sank into a foot of mud and the water was to his chest. A moment later and the bucket was raised. He looked up at the circle of light and suddenly it went dark, and he was alone.

The smell was terrible and the water very cold. He remembered a similar situation in Beirut once. He’d thought himself in the hands of Arab terrorists, had been put down a rather similar well with a Protestant terrorist from Ulster, who was trying to get into the uranium business. It had turned out to be an Israeli intelligence scam with the aim of breaking the other man down. It had still taken four baths for Dillon to get rid of the stink.

He found a ledge in the brickwork and sat on it, arms folded against the cold, wondering who the woman was. Mystery piled on mystery here. Only one thing was certain. Judas was not only a fanatic, he was truly mad, and Dillon had never been so convinced of anything in his life.

Something brushed across his thighs and swam away and he knew what it was.

Marie de Brissac, in her room, was crying and David Braun held her close and suddenly found he was stroking her hair as he might that of a child.

“You’re all right now,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

“Oh, David.” She looked up, tears on her face. “I was so afraid, and Judas.” She shuddered. “He terrified me.”

“He carries a great weight,” Braun said. “Many burdens.”

“That man, the one he called Dillon, who is he?”

“You mustn’t concern yourself. I know what would be good for you, a nice bath. I’ll turn the water on and then I’ll go and check on your dinner.”

“Not tonight, David, I couldn’t eat a thing. But wine, David! God help me, I’m no drinker as a rule, but I need it tonight.”

“I’ll see you later.”

He opened the door, went out and locked it and stood for a moment in the corridor, aware that his hands were shaking.

“What’s happening to me?” he said softly and hurried away.

Up to her neck in suds, Marie de Brissac smoked a cigarette and tried to relax. It was a bad dream, the whole thing, and the explosion of rage from Judas had been terrifying. But the man Dillon. She frowned, remembering the strange ironic smile on his face as they lowered him down. It was as if he didn’t give a damn and that didn’t make sense. And then there was David. She was woman enough to know what was happening. So be it. In her present situation, she would have to use every possible advantage.

In London, it was raining, driving hard against the windows of Charles Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Square. Hannah Bernstein peered out through the window and Kim, Ferguson’s Ghurka batman, came in from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and cups on a tray.

Ferguson, sitting by the fire, called, “Come on, Chief Inspector, no point in fretting. Have some coffee.”

She joined him, sitting in the chair opposite, and Kim poured. “No news, sir.”

“I know that,” he said. “But there will be. I mean, there has to be a meaning to all this.”

“I suppose so.”

“You like Dillon, don’t you?”

“If you mean do I fancy him, no. I don’t approve and never have. His past damns him.”

“And still you like him?”

“I know. It’s an absolute bastard, isn’t it, sir? But never mind.”

“So how did you get on at Wandsworth?”

“I saw Dunkerley, the head of security, and he told me pretty much what he told you when you phoned him. The prison is like a souk on visiting day. No way anyone in reception remembers Brown amongst several hundred people. As Mr. Dunkerley said, it was rather unfortunate that the prison officer, Jackson, the only one who handled Brown personally, was killed in that accident.”

“Accident, my backside,” Ferguson said.

“That’s what the police report says, sir. All available witnesses say he just fell forward.”

“Too damn convenient. What about the Law Society?”

“They have three George Browns on their books, or did. One died a month ago, the second is black, and the third is famous for going to court in a wheelchair.”

“I see.”

“I’ve got a copy of the reception-area surveillance tape, but only one person could identify Brown from it.”

“Riley?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Oh dear,” Ferguson said. “And one more piece of news for you. Captain Carter has been in touch on the way back to Cyprus. He and his team were having a conference in the saloon of their boat when it appears they were gassed. They all passed out for several hours.”

“Are they all right, sir?”

“He’s not happy about two of them. They’ll book into the military hospital when they get in. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

Dillon, colder than ever now, leaned back against the brick wall. “Jesus,” he said softly. “A fella could tire of this in no time at all.”

There was a sudden flurry in the water and a rat slipped across his right leg. He brushed it away. “So there you are, you little rascal. Now behave yourself.”

FIVE

As they’d allowed him to keep his watch, Dillon was aware of the time, although whether that was a good thing or not, he wasn’t sure, for time seemed to stretch into eternity.

He remembered noticing that it was four o’clock in the morning and then, in spite of the circumstances, he must have dozed because he came awake with a start, a rat leaping from his shoulder, and when he checked the time again, he found that it was seven-thirty.

Not long after that, a light appeared up above and Judas leaned over. “You still in one piece, Dillon?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Good. We’ll take you up.”

The bucket came down, Dillon scrambled his feet into the bucket and was hauled up slowly. As his head passed the brick wall, he saw Judas, Aaron, and Arnold standing there.

“My God, but you stink, Dillon, you really do.” Judas laughed. “Get him out of here, Aaron, and carry on as I suggested.”

He ran up the stairs ahead of them and Aaron said, “I’ll take you back to your room. I think you need a shower.”

“Or three or four,” Dillon said.

He stripped in the bathroom and put the contaminated clothing into a black plastic bag Aaron had provided. Halfway through the second shower Arnold appeared and took the bag away. Dillon tried another shower and then a fourth. As he reached for a towel, Aaron glanced in.

“Fresh clothes on the bed, Mr. Dillon.”

“The right size, I trust.”

“We know everything about you.”

“Shoes? What about shoes?”

“Those, too. I’ll be back when you’re dressed.”

Dillon dried his hair, shaved, then went into the bedroom to discover fresh underwear, a checked shirt, jeans and socks, and a pair of sneakers. He dressed quickly and was combing his hair when the door opened and Aaron appeared.

“That’s better. Are you ready for breakfast?”

“You could say that.”

“Then come this way.”

He opened the door, led the way out and along the corridor, and stopped at another door. He opened it and stepped to one side.

“This way, Mr. Dillon.”

Marie de Brissac, at her easel, turned. She hesitated, paintbrush in hand, and Aaron said, “I’ve brought you some company. I’ll bring breakfast in a moment.” The door closed and the key turned.

“Sean Dillon.” He held out his hand. “Countess, is it?”

“Never mind that. Marie will do – Marie de Brissac. Did you have a bad time?”

“A bad night, certainly. I’ll pinch one of those cigarettes if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

He lit one and blew out a plume of smoke. “Do you by any chance know where we are?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. And you?”

“I’m afraid not. Last I recall, I was in a fishing port called Salinas in Sicily. I know by my watch that I was at least twelve hours at sea, but I was unconscious most of the time.”

“The same with me. I was in Corfu when they kidnapped me. A plane ride was mentioned and then a needle in the arm, and I knew nothing until I woke up here.”

“But what in the hell is it all about?” Dillon asked, and the door opened and Braun, not Aaron, came in with a tray.

“Good morning, Mr. Dillon – Countess.” He put the tray down. “Scrambled eggs, toast, marmalade, and English breakfast tea. Much better for you than coffee. I’ll be back.”

He went out and Dillon said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s eat it while it’s hot.”

“I agree,” she said.

They sat on either side of the table and talked as they ate. Dillon said, “So we don’t know where we are. Could be Italy or Greece, maybe even Turkey or Crete. Egypt would be a possibility.”

“A wide choice, but who are you, Mr. Dillon, and why are you here?”

“I work for a branch of British intelligence. I was in Sicily to arrest in a highly illegal manner a much-wanted Arab terrorist. My partner was with me, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch at Scotland Yard. The whole thing turned out to be a setup. They took me but left Hannah to report back to my boss, Brigadier Ferguson. What about you?”

“I was on a painting holiday in northeast Corfu on the coast, and on my own because I prefer it that way at the moment.”

“You’re French,” Dillon said.

“That’s right. I was painting at the beach when the one called David, David Braun, appeared, with another called Moshe. They packed up my clothes, and picked me up with no explanation. The rest you know.”

“There’s got to be a reason,” Dillon said. “I mean, what’s special about you? Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, my father was General Comte Jean de Brissac, and a war hero. He’s been dead for some years. My mother died a year ago and I still haven’t got over that. It means I am now Comtesse de Brissac. The title goes that way. From my mother or my father.”

“But nobody would snatch you for that reason,” Dillon told her.

“I am also wealthy. Perhaps they want a ransom.”

“That could have made sense, except that it doesn’t explain why they’ve snatched me.” He poured some more tea. “Look, from what this character Judas said to me, they’re some sort of Jewish extremist group.”

“Which makes it even more absurd. I have no Jewish connections.” She frowned. “Our family lawyer in Paris, Michael Rocard, is Jewish, but what’s that got to do with anything? He’s been a lawyer to the de Brissacs for at least thirty years. The cottage I rented in Corfu is his.”

“Is there anything else?” Dillon demanded. “Anything in your life? Come on, girl.”

“Not that I can think of.” But there was a great reluctance there and he seized on it at once.

“Come on, the truth.”

So she sighed and sat back. And she told him.

Dillon was stunned. He walked to the table by the window and helped himself to one of her cigarettes. “Jake Cazalet. That’s got to be the reason.”

“But why?”

He sat on the edge of the table as he talked to her. “Just listen and you’ll see the connection.” And he told her all about Sicily and the people who were killed there, then about Judas and the Maccabees, and finally about the Nemesis plan.

When he was finished, she could only shake her head, her turn to be stunned. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “It’s so awful. All that death, and on such a grand scale.”

“Personally, I believe Judas is barking mad, but then many extremists are.”

“But they’re Jewish. You don’t-”

“You don’t expect Jews to be terrorists? And who was it assassinated Prime Minister Rabin? All it takes is one small, hard, dedicated group. Take Ireland. More than twenty-five years of the bomb and the bullet, thousands killed, hundreds of thousands wounded, sometimes crippled for life, yet at no time has there been more than three hundred and fifty active members of the IRA. The majority of the Irish people hate the violence and condemn it.”

She frowned. “You’re well informed.”

There was a question there, and he replied to it. “I’m from Belfast originally. When I was nineteen, I was a young actor in London. My father went home on a visit, got caught in an exchange of fire on a Belfast street, and died from British Army bullets.”

She said, “And you joined the IRA?”

“The kind of thing you’d do at nineteen. Yes, Countess, I became a gunman for the glorious cause, and once you put your foot on that road there’s no turning back.”

“But you changed. I mean, you work for British intelligence and this Brigadier Ferguson.”

“I didn’t have much choice. I had the prospect of a Serb firing squad in Bosnia in front of me or accepting Ferguson’s offer to go and work for him.”

“Doing the same sort of things you’d been doing,” she said shrewdly.

“Exactly, though usually on the side of the right.”

“I see.”

She was very calm, very still, and Dillon said, “I never believed in the bombs, Countess, and for what it’s worth – in Sicily? I’d have shot Hakim and his men, but not the old couple and the girl.”

“Yes, I think I believe you.”

He smiled then, that special Dillon smile, warm and immensely charming, changing his personality completely.

“You better had, Countess, because I’m the only friend you’ve got here.”

“I believe you, so give me one of those cigarettes and tell me what you think we should do.”

“I wish I knew.” He gave her a light from his old Zippo. “Interestingly enough, Judas didn’t say a word about you being Cazalet’s daughter, but he obviously knows.”

“Then why didn’t he tell you?”

“Oh, I think he enjoys playing games, like the cellar and the well last night. I think he wanted me to find out for myself.”

She nodded. “So he intends to use me as a bargaining counter to persuade my father to sign this order? This total destruction of three countries?”

“That’s about it.”

She shook her head. “Jake Cazalet is a good man, Mr. Dillon. I can’t believe he would sign such an agreement, no matter what the threat.”

“Normally I’d agree.” Dillon got up and walked to the window. “But with you, he obviously feels he has something out of the ordinary. A piece of leverage like no other.” He turned. “Tell me about it. Tell me about him and your mother. Anything and everything. It could help. There might be something there.”

“I don’t know if I can.” She frowned. “My mother told me how it happened, pieced it together over the years, and it was no sordid affair – anything but.” She laughed bravely, but her voice shook. “Rather tragic, really.”

“Nothing better to do, girl dear. Just tell me while we have the time. They could come for me at any minute.”

“Well, it started in Vietnam a long time ago,” she said. “My age actually, so that means it was twenty-eight years…”