The President’s Daughter

SIX

“Now that’s one hell of a story,” Dillon said.

She nodded. “Remember how he swept into power?”

“Have you seen him since?”

“Once, the Paris visit last year, just after he was elected. I was a guest at the Presidential Ball. Very unsatisfactory. A few moments only, all very formal, but Teddy spent time with me. Dear Teddy. My father has created a special post for him. Principal Secretary. He has more power in the White House than the rest of the staff combined. He’d kill for my father.”

“But all this leaves us with an unanswered question,” Dillon told her.

“And what’s that?”

“If Judas knows who you are, how did he find out? You, your father, and Teddy Grant are the only people who knew.”

“I know. That bothers me, too.”

“You mentioned your family lawyer, this Michael Rocard. Could he have known?”

“Definitely not. When my mother was dying and we were discussing the whole business, she made it plain that he knew nothing.”

Dillon helped himself to one of her cigarettes and gave her one. “Now listen to me. I’m on your side in all this, whatever happens. He’ll send for us soon, I’m sure of it, and then we’ll know the game plan. I’m telling you now that I’ll go along with anything he wants. No choice really, but whatever happens, my only concern will be to get you out of here eventually. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillon, I do.”

“Good. Now there’s one thing you can do for me, you being an artist. Judas has an old silver lighter with a crest on the side, some sort of black bird, a hawk maybe, with lightning in its claws. Do you have any charcoal pencils?”

She went to the easel, opened her paint box, and returned to the table with a piece of cartridge paper. “Show me.” Dillon did his clumsy best. “So, wholly black with wings spread,” she said and took the charcoal pencil and sketched. “Was the head and the beak like that, because that’s a hawk?”

“No, the beak was a sort of yellow.”

She rubbed out the head and started again. “That’s it,” Dillon said.

She laughed. “A raven, Mr. Dillon,” and she went to the box again and got two crayons, one black, the other yellow, and finished the bird off.

“Red lightning in its claws,” Dillon told her.

When it was finished, she sat back. “Not bad.”

“Bloody marvelous.” Dillon folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Is it important?”

“I think it’s some sort of military crest. It might be a lead.”

At that moment, the door opened and David Braun and Aaron came in. “This way, if you please,” Aaron said. “Both of you.”

Braun led the way, Aaron following, and they found themselves standing before Judas again in his study.

“So there you are,” he said. “Had a nice chat?”

“All right,” Dillon said. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Okay, old buddy, this is how it goes. Nemesis comes up before the Future Projects Committee next week, and this time the President signs it.”

“Why should he?”

“Because if he doesn’t, I’ll execute his daughter here.”

There was a long pause before Dillon said, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Dillon, I know who she is.”

“And how could you?”

“I told you, I have Maccabees everywhere. MI5 in London, the CIA. Make a computer inquiry about me, for example, and one of my people will know. Anybody in intelligence will tell you it isn’t the big people you have to worry about, it’s the invisible people. The computer operators, filing clerks, secretaries.” He laughed. “So I know who she is and don’t ask me how.”

Marie de Brissac said, “My father will never sign this insanity.”

“Oh, I think he might be tempted. Cazalet has a lot of emotions wrapped up in you, Marie – love, guilt, a profound sense of loss, and missed opportunities. You are no ordinary hostage. And he can always invent a provocation by the Arabs. The CIA is good at that kind of thing, and we’ll be glad to help, of course. No, I think we can expect him to cooperate, after he thinks about it.”

Dillon said, “Now what?”

“You’ll be returned to Salinas. London and Ferguson next stop.” He opened a drawer and took out a mobile phone. “Latest model, old buddy, satellite-linked and untraceable. You can’t phone me, but I’ll phone you.”

“And why would you do that?”

“To prove my power. Let me explain. It would be understandable, once you’ve spoken to Ferguson, if he decided to check through British Secret Intelligence Service computer files for any reference to a terrorist group known as the Maccabees. If he does, I’ll know quicker than you can imagine, and I’ll phone to tell you. If Cazalet does the same through CIA records, I’ll know, and again I’ll phone you. This is just to demonstrate the power of the Maccabee organization. They’re everywhere, my invisible people. By the way, both inquiries will be a waste of time. There is no information about me or my organization anywhere.”

“So what’s the point of the exercise?”

“It demonstrates my total power in this matter, but let me get down to brass tacks. You’re going back in one piece. We’ll drop you in at Salinas. You’ll return to Ferguson and tell him that if Jake Cazalet does not sign Nemesis at the coming meeting of the Future Projects Committee, I shall execute his daughter.”

“You’re mad,” Marie de Brissac said.

“Tell Ferguson I don’t think it would be helpful for the Prime Minister to know this. You and he will proceed to the White House in Washington, where Ferguson should have no difficulty in obtaining an audience with the President.”

“I see,” Dillon said. “And we convey the message to the President?”

“Exactly, with this in addition. If any approach is made to involve the CIA or FBI or any military special forces, I will know, and – again – the countess will be executed at once. I’ve people everywhere, Dillon, as your inquiries and my phone calls to you will demonstrate.”

Dillon took a deep breath. “So what it comes down to is simple. Either Cazalet signs to put Nemesis into operation or she dies.”

“Exactly, old buddy, couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“But he won’t do it.”

“That’s too bad – too bad for the countess here.”

“You bastard!” Marie de Brissac told him.

Judas nodded to David Braun. “Get her out of here and back to her room.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Dillon, and God bless you. We won’t be seeing each other again. My father will never sign such a document,” Marie de Brissac said.

“Keep the faith, girl dear,” Dillon told her, and David Braun eased her out.

Dillon walked to the desk, helped himself to a cigarette, picked up Judas’s ornate lighter and flicked it on. He blew out smoke. “You might as well kill her now. Cazalet won’t sign. It’s too big.”

“Then you’d better persuade him.” Judas turned to Aaron. “Get Mr. Dillon on his way. Salinas next stop.”

Aaron spoke quickly in Hebrew. “He’s trouble, this one. You’ve seen his record.”

“Not for long. I’ll have him shot after he’s seen the President in Washington. It’s all arranged. A nice professional job. A street crime. You know Washington? People get mugged and shot all the time. I know the hotel where Ferguson always stays. The Charlton. Very unsafe, underground parking lots these days.”

“And Ferguson?”

“No, not him. Too important, and he could be useful.”

“And what’s that all about?” Dillon asked, having fully understood. “Have you changed your mind? Do I go over the side of the boat with twenty pounds of chain around my ankles?”

“I just love your imagination, old buddy. Now on your way.”

He put a cigar in his mouth and Aaron took the special mobile phone from the desk and ushered Dillon out.

On returning to his room, he found his jacket on the bed. “Cleaned and pressed,” Aaron told him. “You’ll find your wallet, cards, and passport and your own mobile phone so you can call Ferguson the moment you hit Salinas.” He held up the special mobile. “Your present from Judas. Don’t lose it.”

Dillon pulled on the jacket and put the mobile phone in a pocket. “Fuck Judas,” he said.

“A great man, Mr. Dillon. You will see just how great.” Aaron took a black hood from his pocket and said, “Now pull this over your head.” Dillon did as he was told and Aaron opened the door and took his arm. “We’ll go to the boat now,” and he led him out.

When the boat tied up at the jetty at Salinas, it was dark. Dillon checked his watch. It had taken around twelve hours and he had been drugged as before, but only for the first eight hours. When they took him up the companionway, it was dark and raining, silver rods driving down through the sickly yellow light of a lamp.

“Eight o’clock on a fine Sicilian evening, Mr. Dillon,” Aaron said, “and good old Salinas awaits you.”

“What a pleasure.”

“Good luck, Mr. Dillon,” Aaron said, and added rather surprisingly, “You’re going to need it.”

Dillon went over the rail and walked along the jetty through the rain. At the far end, he moved into a shelter, lit a cigarette, and watched the boat move out to sea, the red and green lights fading into the night. He took out his personal mobile phone and punched in Ferguson’s number at the Cavendish Square flat.

It was surprising how quickly he got a response. “Ferguson.”

“It’s me,” Dillon told him.

“Thank God.”

“They’ve dumped me back on the jetty at Salinas with a message for the President via you and me.”

“Is this as bad as it sounds?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

“Right. I’ll have Lacey and Parry leave Farley Field within the hour for Palermo. I’ll phone Gagini and get him to arrange transportation for you as soon as possible. Where will you be?”

“The English Café.”

“Just wait there.” There was a pause. “I’m glad you’re in one piece, Sean.”

Dillon switched off his phone. Surprise, surprise, he thought, sentiment from Ferguson.

Ferguson phoned Hannah Bernstein first at her flat. When she answered, he said, “He’s safe, Chief Inspector, back at Salinas. I’m arranging to have him back as soon as possible.”

“What was it all about, sir?”

“I don’t know. I’d like you to come round now. You can use one of the spare bedrooms. Kim will fix it up.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Next, he phoned Transportation at the Ministry of Defense and arranged the flight to Palermo. Finally, he spoke to Gagini.

“Look, I can’t tell you what this is about, Paolo, but it’s big, and I want Dillon out of Salinas and safe in Palermo as soon as possible.”

“No problem,” Gagini told him. “Let’s say you’ll owe me a favor.”

“My pleasure.”

“Ciao, Charles,” Gagini said and put down the phone.

Ferguson sat by the fire and Kim served him tea and crumpets, and although he enjoyed them, he felt extremely uneasy.

“Damn you, Dillon!” he said softly. “What have you come up with now?”

A little while later, Kim answered the door and Hannah entered with an overnight bag, which she gave him. Her raincoat was dripping and Kim took it from her.

“God, you’re soaking,” Ferguson said. “Come and sit by the fire.”

“I’m fine, Brigadier, but what about Dillon?”

“They dumped him back at Salinas, as I told you. All I know is that he said it’s big and something to do with the President.”

“My God!” she said.

“I don’t think we need to involve the Almighty just yet. I’ll get Kim to provide fresh tea and we’ll just have to possess ourselves in patience.”

At Salinas, Dillon was sitting on the terrace, rain dripping from the roof. He’d just finished a bowl of spaghetti Napoli and half a bottle of some local red wine when a police car drew up. The driver stayed behind the wheel, but a young sergeant got out and came up the steps.

“Excuse me, signor.” He paused, his English obviously poor.

Dillon helped him out in fluent Italian. “My name is Dillon, Sergeant. How can I help?”

The sergeant smiled. “I’ve had orders from Colonel Gagini in Palermo. He has ordered us to deliver you there as soon as possible.”

Another police car pulled up behind with two officers in it, the one in the passenger seat holding a machine pistol.

“A long drive,” Dillon said.

“Duty is duty, signor, and Colonel Gagini insists you are delivered in one piece.” He smiled. “Shall we go?”

“A pleasure,” Sean Dillon said, swallowed his wine, and went down the steps.

It was raining at Farley Field at nine o’clock the following morning when the Lear jet landed. Dillon disembarked and grinned at Lacey. “I wouldn’t bank on a holiday, Flight Lieutenant. You’re going to be very active.”

“Really, sir?” Lacey grinned and turned to Parry. “Ah, well, we find it breaks the monotony.”

Dillon walked toward the Daimler and found only Hannah Bernstein inside. He got in. “The great man too busy, is he?”

“He’s waiting at the office.” She pulled his head down and kissed him on the cheek. “You had me worried, you bastard.”

“Now, then, that’s bad language for a nice Jewish girl.” He lit a cigarette and opened the window. “Let’s blow the passive smoke away.”

She ignored him. “What happened? What was it all about?”

So he told her.

When he was finished, she said, “This is monstrous.”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“And this Judas. He must be mad.”

“Yes,” he said. “You could say that.”

The Brigadier, at his desk in his office at the Ministry of Defense, listened to everything. When Dillon was finished, Ferguson sat there thinking about it, and finally spoke.

“It’s the most fantastic thing I’ve ever heard of. I mean, is this man for real?”

“I questioned Gagini about Hakim,” Dillon said, “and I believe you’ve had his report.”

“Yes, a right old blood bath.”

“Judas and his Maccabees mean business, Brigadier. As I said, your worst nightmare, but real enough.”

“So what do we do?”

“All right,” Dillon said. “Let’s try him out.” He turned to Hannah. “Access the main Secret Intelligence Service computer. Tell it to select Judas Maccabeus and the Maccabees.”

She turned to Ferguson, who nodded. “Do it, Chief Inspector.”

She went out and Ferguson said, “That poor woman with you out there, she must be terrified.”

“She’s quite a lady. She’ll cope,” Dillon said.

“Cope?” Ferguson said savagely. “He’s going to kill her.”

“No, he won’t, because I’ll kill him first,” Sean Dillon said, his face like stone, and Hannah returned.

“Nothing, sir, a total blank. The computer has never heard of Judas Maccabeus and the Maccabees.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “So now we wait and see if he phones me on the special mobile,” and he took it from his pocket and placed it on the desk.

Ferguson said, “Chief Inspector, you’ve heard what Dillon has to say about the worries the Maccabees have about the future of Israel, their fears and so on. As a Jew, what do you think?”

“My grandfather is a rabbi, as you know, sir, my father very orthodox, and yet they give me loving support, even when I must break the laws imposed by my religion because of the demands of my profession. I am very proud to be Jewish, and I support Israel.”

“But?” Ferguson said. “You appear to hesitate.”

“Let me put it this way, sir. During the Second World War, the Nazis did terrible things, the British did not. They behaved as we would expect. There are Arab terrorist groups who butcher women and children. I do not expect such actions from Israelis. However, there are minority fundamentalist groups, the kind who applauded Rabin’s murder, who are as bad as any of them.”

“And you don’t approve?”

“If my grandfather, the rabbi, were here now, he would tell you that it is a fundamental tenet of Jewish law that one cannot secure one’s own survival by deliberately depriving another of life.”

“So what does that tell you about Judas?” Dillon asked.

“That this man is no religious fanatic. A practical nationalist is my guess.”

“Just like the original Judas Maccabeus?”

“Exactly.”

“And you are sure you have no sympathy for him?”

She bridled. “Why? Simply because I’m a Jew?”

Ferguson held up a placating hand. “I had to ask, Hannah, you know that.”

The mobile phone tinkled. Dillon picked it up. “Dillon here.”

“Ah, there you are, old buddy. Request to Number Three Delta computer, source, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, for any information regarding the Maccabees. Response nil.”

“Yes, we are aware of that. Do you want to speak to Brigadier Ferguson?”

“What for? Just tell him to get his arse over to Washington. Time is running out, and tell Hannah Bernstein shalom and that I’m a big admirer.”

The line went dead. Dillon said, “He knew all about the inquiry.”

“That’s incredible,” Ferguson said.

“No, it’s the invisible people.”

“One of his network of Maccabees,” Hannah said.

“Exactly. By the way, he said he was a big admirer of yours.”

“The cheek of it. I’ve never even met him.”

“How do you know? How do I know? Interesting point. The fellas who kidnapped me, the others at the castle, all showed their faces, and why?”

“Because they’re just foot soldiers,” Hannah said.

“Exactly, but Judas wore a hood. Now put your fine police mind to that, Chief Inspector.”

“It’s obvious,” she said. “He has a face that could be recognized.”

“What you’re saying is he’s a somebody.”

Ferguson cut in. “Never mind any of this. What we’ve established is that he’s telling the truth. We’ve just put a question to our most powerful intelligence information computer and he has instant access. In other words, he’s cut our legs off.”

“So what do we do?” Dillon asked.

“Go to Washington and see the President, but first, I’m going to phone Blake Johnson. As for you, Chief Inspector, make sure the Lear is standing by at Farley Field.”

Blake Johnson was forty-eight, a tall and handsome man with jet-black hair who looked years younger than he was. A Marine at nineteen, he’d come out of Vietnam with a Silver Star, two Purple Hearts, and a Vietnamese Cross of Valor. His law degree at Georgia State had taken him into the FBI.

One day in June three years earlier, he had been shadowing Senator Jake Cazalet because of death threats received from certain right-wing fascist groups. The police escort had lost the Senator’s limousine, but Blake Johnson, carving his way through heavy evening traffic, had arrived just as an attack was taking place. He had shot both men involved, had taken a bullet in his left thigh.

It was the start of an enduring relationship with Jake Cazalet and had brought him to his present appointment as Director of the General Affairs Department at the White House.

This was supposed to be an outfit responsible for various administration matters and was known, because it was downstairs, as the Basement. In fact, to those in the know, it was the President’s private investigative squad and one of the most closely guarded secrets of the administration. It was totally separate from the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service. In fact, the whispers about it were so faint that few people believed it existed. Cazalet had inherited it, and had taken advantage of the retirement of the previous incumbent to offer the job to Blake Johnson.

Ferguson used his direct Codex Four line to the Basement office, and Johnson, at his desk, answered at once.

“Say who you are.”

“Charles Ferguson, you bugger.”

“Charles, how goes it?”

“Bad, I’m afraid. I’ve got very serious trouble for you and the President, and I mean serious. I know it’s strange, but no communication with the Prime Minister, please.”

“That bad?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll leave in an hour with Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein. Dillon’s been up to his neck in this thing. We must see the President at the White House the moment we get in.”

“Not possible. He’s gone down to his own house for a couple of days on the beach at Nantucket. Time to reflect.”

“This is life and death, Blake.”

There was a pause. “I see.”

Ferguson took a deep breath. “You’re his friend, Blake. Tell him it refers to the safety of… one who was lost but now is found.”

“Jesus, Charles, what is this, a parlor game?”

“I can’t say more, not now. Just tell him. He’ll know what I mean. So will Teddy Grant. You’ve got to trust me on this, Blake – this is as important as it comes.”

And Johnson was all efficiency now. “Okay. Don’t come into Washington International. Make it Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll tell them to expect you. They’ll arrange a helicopter to drop you on the beach at Nantucket as they do for the President.”

Ferguson said, “No CIA, Blake, no security services of any description. Just come yourself.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Charles. Okay, I’ll go ahead and prepare the President. I’ll see you there,” and he put down the phone.

Ferguson said, “Right, let’s get moving. No time to waste on this one,” and he led the way out.

On the beach at the old house near Nantucket, the President walked, tracked by two Secret Service men and his dog, Murchison, a black flatcoat retriever. The wind was blowing, the surf tumbling in, and it was good to be alive and away from Washington. He called the nearest Secret Service man over, an enormous black ex-Marine called Clancey Smith, who had served in the Gulf.

“Light me a cigarette, Clancey,” the President said. “Can’t manage in this wind.”

Clancey took two Marlboros from his pack, lit them inside his storm coat, and passed one to the President.

Cazalet laughed. “Didn’t Paul Henreid do that for Bette Davis in Now Voyager?”

“Must have been before my time, Mr. President.”

At that moment, there was a cry and they turned and saw Teddy Grant running toward them. Murchison bounded forward to meet him and they arrived together, Teddy breathless.

“For God’s sake, Teddy, what is it?” Cazalet demanded.

Teddy gestured to Clancey, who withdrew, and only then did he deliver the bad news.

There was the usual press of people outside the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, tourists mostly, taking pictures and hoping for a sign of the good and the great, maybe even the President, but there were no TV cameras.

Mark Gold turned up the collar of his coat against the light rain and smiled at the nearest policeman. “No TV today. They can’t have lost interest in Cazalet that quickly.”

The policeman shrugged. “He ain’t here. Went down to Nantucket for a day or two. If you’d been here earlier, you’d have seen the helicopter.”

“Heh, I’m sorry I missed that.”

Mark Gold turned away through the crowd and walked some distance along Pennsylvania Avenue to where he had left his car. He was a senior computer operator in the Defense Department, a graduate of Columbia University in computer science. He couldn’t remember when he’d last visited a synagogue. His older brother, Simon, had been different, a deeply religious man who’d given up a lucrative job as a broker on the New York Stock Exchange to emigrate to Israel to farm on a kibbutz in the north near the Golan. He had been killed, along with twelve other people, when Hamas terrorists had blanketed the kibbutz with seven rockets.

Gold had gone to Israel, too late for any funeral, but to pay his respects, had stood at the grave of a much-loved brother, filled with a deep rage, so that when Aaron Eitan had accosted him, ostensibly for sympathy, but sounding him out, it was good to have someone to pour out his anger to.

It had ended with him being picked up by car, blindfolded, and delivered to a back street house in Jerusalem. When his blindfold had been removed, there was Judas in his black hood seated at a table.

So, Mark Gold was a Maccabee and proud to serve. It gave his life a sense of purpose, and his ability to access Defense Department computers was more than useful to the organization. He could even hack in to CIA records at Langley.

Before starting the car, he took out the special satellite-linked mobile phone and punched the coded series. Judas answered very quickly.

“It’s Gold. The President’s gone to his house at Nantucket for the weekend. I presume that’s where our friends will go.”

“Did you check the hotel?”

“Yes, reservations confirmed.”

“They’re certain to go there after Nantucket. Dillon, of course, will have performed his task. You can take care of him at the Charlton as we agreed.”

“Consider it done.”

Gold put the phone in his pocket, switched on the engine, and drove away.

When the Lear jet landed at Andrews Air Force Base, the news wasn’t good. The young major who was waiting to greet them saluted formally.

“My respects, General.”

“Brigadier,” Ferguson told him.

“We could have a problem. Nantucket, the whole area, is subject to fog a lot. We usually drop the President on the beach right outside his home by helicopter. That may not be possible today.”

“So where would we go?”

“There’s an air force base nearby. You’ll proceed onwards by limousine. It’s all been taken care of.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” Ferguson said.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were strapping into a helicopter that took off almost instantly.

When Mark Gold went into Sammy’s Bar, it was early evening and the place was almost empty. The black man with dreadlocks at the corner table was Nelson Harker and just now he was reading the Washington Post.

Gold sat down. “Would you like a drink?”

“Not when I’m working.”

Harker looked up. He had an interesting face, a quick, intelligent look to him that Gold found surprising in a professional hit man, and Harker had killed often, sometimes for as little as one thousand dollars. This time, he was getting ten, but with Dillon’s reputation, it seemed merited. He took a photo from his pocket and passed it over.

“Another photo of Dillon, just to make sure.”

“Heh, I’ve already seen one. So he’s been a big name with the IRA, the kind of shitheads who bomb women and kids. That ain’t no way to be. I spit on them.”

“Well, spit on Dillon at the Charlton Hotel later tonight. I want you there no later than ten.”

“And then?”

“If we don’t see him around, you can take him in his suite. There’s a night elevator in the basement garage to all floors.”

“Sounds good to me. Where’s my money?”

Gold took out an envelope and slipped it across. “Half now, half after.” He stood up. “See you later,” and walked out.

SEVEN

On the beach, the surf roared in as the President walked with Blake Johnson and Teddy Grant. They all wore storm coats against the wind, and Murchison, barking madly, made occasional forays into the water. Clancey Smith trailed them over to the left.

“For God’s sake, Blake, what can it mean?” the President demanded.

“I don’t know, Mr. President. What I do know for certain is that if Charles Ferguson says that this is serious, then you’d better believe it. The very fact that he had Dillon with him speaks for itself.”

“Yes, of course.” The President turned to Teddy. “You were in the hospital last year when I made the London trip and those Protestant activists tried to kill me. Dillon proved his worth that day. A remarkable man.”

“That’s one way of putting it, Mr. President. I’ve looked him up. I mean, whose side is he on? He tried to mortar the British War Cabinet in ninety-one during the Gulf War and damn near succeeded.”

“Yes, well, he’s on our side now.”

It was at that moment that Clancey Smith called, “I’m getting the word, Mr. President. The chopper’s landed and they’re on their way.”

“Thank God,” Jake Cazalet said, and a moment later a black limousine appeared on the beach, speeding toward the President’s house. “This way, gentlemen.” He ran along the beach through clinging strands of mist, Murchison snapping at his heels, and arrived at the house as the helicopter settled.

There was a fire in the main room and they sat round it while Dillon delivered the bad news. When he was finished, the President seemed shocked but also incredulous.

“Let me get this straight. This Judas creature insists that he has access to our main computer systems. CIA at Langley, FBI, Department of Defense?”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“So that if we make any inquiry, attempt to discover who he and his people are, he will kill my daughter.”

“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Dillon said. “He takes a hard line. They not only killed Hakim and his men in Sicily, they killed the old couple and the girl.”

“And probably the prison guard, Jackson, in London,” Ferguson put in.

“And if I don’t sign Nemesis, he’ll kill her anyway?”

“I’m afraid so.” Dillon took the mobile phone Judas had given him and put it on the coffee table. “That’s what he gave me. Two chances to prove him right or wrong.”

“As we told you, Mr. President,” Ferguson said, “my check for any information on the Maccabees through British intelligence computer sources in London drew an almost instant response.”

“So now you want to try the Defense Department’s system.”

Ferguson nodded. “If we get the same response, we’ll know exactly where we are.”

It was Hannah Bernstein who interrupted. “I wonder if you mind my asking you something, Mr. President. It’s the policeman’s mind, I’m afraid. In my job you develop a nose for things, just a hunch with nothing to back it up.”

“And you have one now, Chief Inspector?” Cazalet asked her. “Okay, fire ahead.”

“The Basement, who knows about it? Is it as secret as they say?”

The President turned to Blake Johnson. “You have my permission.”

Blake said, “Officially, I’m the General Affairs Department, and that’s all people know. I have a secretary named Alice Quarmby, a widow and entirely trustworthy, and that’s it: no other staff. People imagine I’ve something to do with White House administration.”

“Then how do you manage?”

“Rather like Judas. I have a circle of people in other employment, former FBI, for example, scientists, university professors, whom I call on for a specific job. Always totally reliable people.”

“Are you saying the Secretary of Defense or the National Security Advisor, people like that, don’t realize the true nature of the Basement?” Ferguson asked.

“Teddy knows, but then Teddy knows everything.” The President managed a grin. “Let me explain. Several Presidents ago, and I won’t say which one, there were a series of scandals to do with Communist infiltration of the CIA and the Defense Department. You may recall the legend of the Russian mole in the Pentagon.”

“I do indeed, Mr. President.”

“The President of the day, on his own initiative, charged an old personal friend, an ex-CIA man, to set up the General Affairs Department, which meant that he had someone totally trustworthy to rely on. It worked very well, and when his successor took office, the President spoke to him privately on the matter and the Basement carried on.”

“And still does,” Blake Johnson said. “Of course, there have been a few whispers over the years, but nothing concrete enough to invade our secrecy. Our only connection abroad has been with you, Charles, and that’s a special relationship.”

“Indeed it is,” Ferguson said and turned to Hannah. “What are you driving at, Chief Inspector?”

“Listening to what Dillon had to say, it would seem that Judas mentioned his connections with the main security services, but he never mentioned the Basement.”

“My God, girl, you’re right,” Dillon said. “There’s a grand copper’s mind for you.”

“I would have thought he would, particularly in a matter so personal to the President.”

“What you’re saying is that he doesn’t know about the existence of the Basement,” Ferguson said.

She nodded. “And we can prove it one way or the other.” She turned to Blake. “I presume that because of the extreme secrecy of your activities you have your own computer bank?”

“I sure do. I can access Langley, FBI, the Defense Department, but mine is locked up tight with our own security codes.”

“Good. He told Dillon he could make another security computer inquiry after London to prove his power. Let’s not access the other security services, let’s put our question to the Basement’s computer bank.”

There was a short pause, and it was Teddy who said, “I always did say we should have more women policemen. It’s the devious minds women have.”

“We’ll give it a try,” Blake said. “I’ll use the control room, Mr. President.”

He got up and went out and Jake Cazalet stood up. Murchison, lying on the floor, got up also and the President said, “No, lie down.”

Instead, Murchison went to Hannah and she stroked his ears. Dillon said, “If it works, it changes a lot of things.”

“We’ll see,” Ferguson said.

Johnson came back. “I asked for any terrorist group known as the Maccabees and an individual known as Judas Maccabeus. The response was negative. Nothing known.”

“So now we wait,” the President said. “But for how long?”

“He was on to us on the instant in London,” Ferguson said.

“Well, I tell you what,” Jake Cazalet told them. “This is one of the worst scenarios in my life, but a man must eat and I believe a light meal’s been organized in the kitchen. Let’s go in for an hour and see what happens.”

“I told Mrs. Boulder to go early,” Teddy said, when they went into the kitchen. “It’s all ready. I’ll serve. She left the potatoes in the oven on a low heat and everything else is cold.”

Hannah helped him and the President opened two bottles of ice-cold Sancerre. They had cold salmon, new potatoes, salad, and crusty bread, but the conversation was episodic. Everyone had eyes only for the mobile phone that Judas had given to Dillon and which lay on the table.

Teddy said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

Dillon glanced at his watch. “It’s been an hour. What the hell. I say we access the Defense Department’s computer and ask the same question. Let’s get on with it.”

Blake Johnson glanced at the President, and Jake Cazalet said, “Go for broke, Blake.”

Blake got up and went out. Dillon said, “Right, let’s clear the table and you do the coffee, Teddy, though I’d rather have a teabag myself.”

He and Hannah cleared and had barely finished when Blake returned. “I accessed on the joint plan Langley, FBI, and the Defense Department. Totally negative response on Judas and the Maccabees.”

“So now we wait,” Ferguson said.

Teddy produced the coffee and Dillon’s tea, and they all sat down again at the kitchen table. It was quiet, very quiet and Jake Cazalet said, “It’s no good, nothing’s happening.”

The phone rang.

Judas said to Dillon, “Hey, old buddy, you tried me out and didn’t find me wanting. Just like London, you access those computer systems looking for me and my people and I’ll know.”

“Stuff you, you’re a bloody sadist.” Dillon deliberately made himself sound outraged and frustrated.

“Don’t lose your cool, old buddy. Just tell the President that now he knows the score. If he tries to involve security forces in this, his daughter dies instantly. If he refuses to sign Nemesis, she dies.”

“You’re crazy,” Dillon said.

“No, just practical. Give the President my best.”

Judas switched off and Dillon turned to Hannah. “You’re a bloody genius. He doesn’t know the Basement exists. What’s just happened is proof.”

“Okay,” Blake Johnson said. “So the situation is something like this. The Basement computer is clear, although there’s no information on him. If we try the other main security services, he knows, and knows very quickly.”

“And we’ve had our two goes,” Dillon said. “If we try to involve any of the other security services, he’ll kill Marie.”

“And you believe that?” the President said.

“I’ve never been more certain.”

“But he can’t access our telephone systems, and that includes mobiles if we persist in using Codex Four systems,” Hannah said. “So at least we can have closed communication.”

“That’s true,” Ferguson agreed.

“But any whiff on any regular communication circuit and we’ve had it,” Blake Johnson said. “Frankly, Mr. President, the fact that when I accessed such sensitive areas as those security computers, he knew in less than half an hour, really does show the power of the Maccabee organization. I believe that if we do try to involve the CIA and other institutions, the odds are that he will know.”

“But what can I do?” the President demanded. “I’m already breaking every damn rule in the book, all protocol, by not informing the Secretary of State and the Joint Chiefs, not to say the heads of the CIA and FBI.”

“Exactly,” Blake said, “which is why one of your predecessors invented the Basement. We can’t trust anyone, that’s the point.”

“Fine, but there is another point. I’ll hit Arab terrorists hard if they merit it and if I have to, but I can’t in all conscience sign Nemesis when the Committee meets next week. I mean, what do I do?”

There was stillness and, for some reason, it was Dillon they turned to. He said, “There could be a way forward if we move fast, but the next step is me catching my death, according to Judas. I think that’s rather a good idea.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Ferguson asked.

“I’ll take my chances when we get back to Washington. I’ll wear a bullet-proof vest.”

“Not much good if the shooter goes for a headshot,” Johnson said.

“Well, you take a chance every day of your life.”

“Then what, Mr. Dillon?” Cazalet asked.

“I used to be a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, Mr. President. I even acted with the National Theatre. I’ve always had an ability to change and not just with makeup. Let me show you. Here, give me your glasses, Teddy.”

Teddy handed them over and Dillon went out and closed the door. When it opened again, he shuffled in, limping heavily on the right leg, his head slightly down, a look of pain on his face, but it wasn’t just that, not only the glasses. His body language had changed. It was as if he had become another person.

“Good God,” the President said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“The Man of a Thousand Faces he was called in international intelligence circles,” Ferguson said. “On the run in Ireland twenty years with the IRA and we never touched his collar once.”

“Once I’m officially dead in Washington, I’ll change,” Dillon said, “dye my hair a different color, tinted glasses, perhaps cheek pouches, we’ll see. Another passport, of course, but no problem. I always carry two or three with me, and makeup according to the photo on whichever I choose.”

“If you need help, I have a friend who lives in my apartment block,” Teddy said. “Mildred Atkinson. She does makeup for a lot of the big stars. She was telling me she did DeNiro last week.”

“Is she safe?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’ll see.”

Hannah said, “As regards general security, we only have five days anyway before the Future Projects Committee meets.”

“So what happens?” the President said.

“The heart of the problem is quite simple,” Dillon told him. “Where is she being held? All I know definitely is that it’s within twelve hours by boat from Sicily.”

“Yes, but you can’t account for those twelve hours,” Ferguson said. “It could be less than that.”

“Yes, but if we accept twelve hours maximum, within the range could be Corsica if we went west, the Tunisian or Egyptian coasts, Italy, Greece, Turkey.”

“Have you missed anything?” Johnson said ironically.

“God knows. Marie told me that when David Braun kidnapped her in Corfu, he said she was going for a little plane ride.”

There was a pause. The President said, “Okay, you end up dead, you change your identity. Then what?”

“The Brigadier and the Chief Inspector go home in the Lear, grieving. I’ll go to Ireland and run down Riley. I’ll bring him to London and he can identify the lawyer for us from the Wandsworth Prison surveillance tapes.”

Johnson said, “You actually think you can find Riley?”

“I believe so. I think he’ll head straight for his cousin’s farm in Tullamore. He had the Irish passport the Brigadier got him, he had my operating money. There would be no sense in him not going back to Ireland. He’s safe there.”

The President nodded. “Yes, it makes sense.” He turned to Blake. “It seems to me what Mr. Dillon needs is instant transportation. He doesn’t want to have to hang around wasting time wherever it is he goes.”

“No problem, Mr. President. I have the new Gulfstream Five private jet on hand, flown in it several times lately. It’s a hell of a plane.”

The President turned to Dillon. “You could fly to Ireland in not much more than six hours in the Gulfstream.” He nodded to Blake Johnson. “I’d like you to go with him. Teddy can hold the fort here.”

“At your orders, Mr. President,” Blake said.

Cazalet nodded. “That’s it, then. All I can say is get to it. Is the helicopter ready, Teddy?”

“Standing by.”

“You go with them. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dillon said, “Just one thing. I like your daughter and I don’t like Judas and I’ll do anything to get her back, even if it means playing public executioner again. Is that all right with you?”

“It sure as hell is,” Jake Cazalet said, his face white with passion.

In his car along the street from the Charlton Hotel, Mark Gold tapped away at his laptop. He gave a sigh of satisfaction as the screen disclosed what he wanted. He had accessed the traffic information section at Andrews Air Force Base and it was all there. The time the British-registered Lear had landed, names of passengers. The Air Force helicopter used by the President was logged out ten minutes later for Nantucket. Passenger details were always classified on that one, but no prizes for guessing who they were. The helicopter was due to land again at Andrews in half an hour. He got out and looked up the street. There was no sign of Harker and he got back into the car, fuming impatiently as a downpour started.

Marie sat at the window in front of the easel painting. The door opened and David Braun came in with coffee and cookies on a tray. He placed it on the table.

“Working away, I see.”

“What do you expect me to do, make out my last will and testament?”

“Marie, please, I hate all this. I care for you. I’d do anything for you.”

“Well, that’s good. Go and shoot Judas, then. That really would help.”

His shoulders sagged, he went out, and the key turned in the door.

At Andrews, they all packed into Blake Johnson’s limousine. As they drove down into Washington, he said, “Sean, I’ve been thinking. Why put yourself at risk? You know, setting yourself up as a target? Why not simply change identity as planned and clear off to Ireland?”

“Because Judas might smell a rat, whereas if I’m officially dead he’ll be much happier. Anyway, the first thing you do is find us a cab and the Brigadier and the Chief Inspector and I will transfer. That’s so we’ll be seen arriving at the hotel on our own.”

“And what do I do?”

“Drop Teddy off, no sense in putting him in harm’s way.”

“And screw you too, Mr. Dillon,” Teddy said.

“All right, have it your own way.”

“What about a life preserver?” Johnson asked.

“I’ve got a nylon and titanium vest in my suitcase, I always carry one. Anyway, as you’ll be watching my back, this is how it goes.”

The cab deposited the Brigadier, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon at the steps leading up to the Charlton. The concierge came out with an umbrella and porters hurried to get the luggage.

“Shit!” Mark Gold said. “Where are you, Harker?”

At that moment there was a tap on the window. He glanced out and saw Harker peering down at him. Gold got the window down.

“Where in the hell have you been?”

“Stealing a car, you dummy. You didn’t imagine we’d drive into the garage in yours so somebody could take your number if we have to move fast? It’s down the street.”

Gold got out, locked the car, and followed him.

At the same moment, Blake Johnson and Teddy Grant drove into the hotel’s underground garage, which was reasonably full. Blake found a space well surrounded by other vehicles and parked. He switched off, opened the glove compartment, took out a Beretta with a silencer already in place, and checked it.

“Loaded for bear,” Teddy said.

“You better believe it,” Johnson told him grimly.

A moment later, a limousine drove in and parked near at hand. They eased down as a white-haired, rather portly man got out and walked to the elevator.

“No, I don’t think so,” Blake said.

Two or three minutes later, a sand-colored sedan moved in. Blake had a quick flash of Gold at the wheel and Harker.

“Down, Teddy,” he said urgently, and they went low in their seats. “I think this is it. Hard-looking black man with dreadlocks and a guy in a Brooks Brothers suit at the wheel. It doesn’t fit.”

The sedan parked between a couple of panel trucks near the elevator and its lights went out. “Keep down, Teddy.” Blake raised his head cautiously. “They’re just sitting there. Call the Brigadier on your mobile.”

In his suite, Dillon had stripped to the waist to put on the nylon and titanium vest, Hannah Bernstein watching anxiously. He pulled on a polo sweater in navy blue silk, then his jacket.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Ferguson said.

“He wants me dead, he said so. He also said underground garages like the hotel’s were dangerous places.”

“I think it’s madness,” Hannah said.

“But that’s only because you love me, girl dear.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, can’t you take anything seriously?”

“Could never see the point.” He smiled. “I’ve seen the President, and Judas knows that, so now he wants me out of his hair. A fatal error, not for me, but for him.”

Ferguson’s mobile phone rang and he picked it up, listened, and nodded. “Right.”

He turned to Dillon. “Sand-colored sedan by the elevator. Two men, one black, the other white and he has the wheel. Johnson says: When you’re ready.”

Dillon took out his Walther, checked it, and stuck it in his waistband at the back. He kissed Hannah on the cheek. “We who are about to die and all that good old Roman rubbish. Just stick to the plan. It will work. The great Dillon is never wrong.”

“Oh, get out of here, damn you!” she said angrily, and he did just that.

Harker and Gold waited in silence. After a while, Harker said, “How long are we going to give this guy before I go upstairs? We could be here all night. You got the number of his suite?”

“Sure, I tipped a porter.”

At that moment, the elevator door opened and Dillon stepped out. He moved into the open between rows of cars and lit a cigarette, taking his time.

“It’s him,” Gold said excitedly.

“I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? I seen his picture.” Harker took out a Colt automatic and screwed on a silencer. “Here goes. It’s kiss-of-death time.”

He opened the door, stepped out, and immediately took aim, shooting Dillon in the back twice. Dillon, driven forward, went down on his knees and fell on his face, the back of his jacket smouldering where the bullets had entered.

Blake Johnson jumped from his limousine. “What’s going on there?” he shouted.

Harker fired at him twice, but Blake was already ducking, and Harker leapt into the sedan. “Move it!” he snarled, and Gold gunned the engine, swung out into the aisle, and made for the entrance.

There was total silence and Teddy was already leaning over Dillon, beating out the tiny flames. “Sean, speak to me, for God’s sake.”

“I’m trying to get my bloody breath first.” Dillon got to his knees.

Johnson was on his mobile. He switched it off. “You okay, Sean?”

“Feels like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer twice, but I’ll survive.”

“Just hang in there. The ambulance is on the way,” Blake said. “I’ll call the Brigadier and tell him you’re okay.”

Gold parked three streets away and Harker laughed excitedly. “Did I stiff that little bastard or did I stiff him?”

“You certainly did. A pity that idiot happened to turn up.”

“Ah, screw him. Where’s my money, man?”

Gold took an envelope from his pocket and gave it to him. Harker grinned. “Pleasure doing business with you. I’d get moving if I were you.”

He got out of the sedan and walked away through the rain. Gold followed him. No need to wipe anything, since he’d worn gloves. He walked back to the hotel, unlocked his car, and got in. A few moments later, an ambulance appeared and went in the hotel garage.

Gold got his mobile out and called the special number. “Gold here, mission accomplished.”

“Are you sure?” Judas said.

“Two in the back. I saw him go down myself. An ambulance has just gone in to pick him up.”

“Follow it,” Judas said. “Make sure and contact me again.”

Gold switched off and as the ambulance emerged, turned his ignition key, and went after it.

In the ambulance, Ferguson and Hannah watched as Dillon removed his jacket and shirt. The two rounds were embedded in the bulletproof jacket. Dillon parted the velcro tabs and Johnson helped him off with it.

“You’re going to have one hell of a bruise,” Blake said. “Only two inches between them. That bastard is good. I’ve got a friend at the Washington criminal procedures department who owes me a favor to take a look at the garage security video. He’s going to see if he can identify the men, then he’ll erase our little comedy. All highly illegal.”

“The fella at the wheel would be the Maccabee,” Dillon said as Hannah handed him a clean, checked country shirt. “Our black friend will be hired muscle. We can’t have anyone arrested, that would tip off Judas.”

Hannah gave him a leather bomber jacket. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I could do with a Bushmills whiskey, but that comes later. Did you bring the makeup box from my suitcase?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. I think it’s time for the second act, then.”

Gold braked to a halt and watched the ambulance enter the District Three morgue. There had been no police presence, but then they would be back at the hotel pursuing their inquiries. He waited for quite a while, then took a deep breath, got out of his car, and went in.

The night attendant was a black former Marine sergeant called Tino Hill. He’d known Blake from the old days, when Hill had been an FBI spotter on a monthly retainer to keep an eye out for bad people with their faces on posters.

Blake, Teddy, Ferguson, and Hannah stood in the back office, the door slightly ajar. Dillon was seated at the table, the makeup box open, looking at himself in a small glass while he coated his face, first with a green-white base, then streaked it with false blood.

He turned. “Will I do?”

“You look horrible,” Hannah told him.

“Good. Let’s see what happens.”

“Are you sure about this?” Johnson asked.

“I think Judas will want confirmation.”

The outer bell rang. Johnson peered through the slightly open door. “That’s him, the driver. Do as I told you, Tino.”

Tino went out. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Gold said. “My cousin was supposed to meet me outside the Charlton Hotel and he didn’t come and someone told me there was a shooting.”

“Just wait a minute.”

Tino went back inside, nodded to Dillon, opened a door and led the way into an air-cooled room with several surgical tables containing bodies, three of which were naked, the rest draped with sheets.

“Ready for the pathologists in the morning,” he said. “Okay, Mr. Dillon, up you go.”

Dillon lay on a vacant table and Tino covered him with a sheet, went out, nodded to the others, and confronted Gold.

“Now let’s see.” He looked in his register. “You say near the Charlton?”

“That’s right.”

“What was your cousin’s name?”

“Dillon.” Gold almost whispered it.

“Hey, that’s the victim of the shooting at the Charlton garage. They just brought him in. Will you identify him?”

“If I must.”

“Okay. This way, and if you feel like vomiting, run for the green door.”

In the receiving room, Gold paused, shocked particularly by the sight of the naked dead bodies. “Don’t look good, do they?” Tino said. “Comes to us all. Mind you, look at the size of the dick on the one at the end. I sure as hell believe he had a good time.”

Gold breathed deeply. Tino slipped the sheet, revealing Dillon’s face only. His eyes were fixed and staring. He looked truly dreadful and Gold did indeed run for the green door, where he found himself in a lavatory, and was thoroughly sick.

When he came out, Tino led him through to the front desk. “Can I have your details, sir? The police will need them.”

“I’m too distressed now,” Gold said. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” and he hurried out.

In the back room, Blake switched off his mobile. “I’ve got an unmarked car to follow him. We’ll leave him in place, naturally. If we didn’t, Judas would be unhappy, but I’d like to know who he is for future reference.”

“And the shooter,” Teddy said, “he gets away with it, too? A bastard like that.”

“I know, Teddy, but guys like that could get it on the street any night.”

Dillon came in, sat down, took cleansing cream from the makeup kit, got rid of the grunge on his face, then washed at a sink in the corner.

He smiled as he toweled it off. “Frightened the bastard to death.”

Blake’s phone rang. He listened, then said, “Thanks, owe you a favor.” He looked at them. “My friend at criminal procedures. He recognized the shooter at once, one Nelson Harker. The driver’s face was obscure. Harker is a number-one hit man, who frightens the hell out of people so much, no one will ever testify. He lives on Flower Street.”

“Will you visit him?” Hannah asked.

“One of these days. We’ll see. Let’s get back to the hotel. I’ll drop you off, then go home and pack. Ireland next stop.”

His mobile sounded again on the way to the hotel and he answered. When he switched it off, he said, “My man followed our unknown to an apartment block in Georgetown. Mark Gold is his name. My secretary, Alice Quarmby, checked him on our computer, and guess what? He’s a Senior Computer Operator at the Defense Department, a very bright young man. His brother, also American, emigrated to Israel. He was killed in some Hamas rocket attack on the kibbutz where he worked.”

“So Gold is a Maccabee?” Hannah said.

“Undoubtedly.”

He pulled in under the marquee at the front of the hotel. “I’ll see you at Andrews as soon as possible.”

They got out and went in and Blake Johnson drove away with Teddy.

Gold had left his call to Judas until he reached his apartment. The bodies at the morgue had horrified him, the sickly sweet smell of corruption.

He had a brandy and made the call on the special mobile. “It’s Gold,” he said, when Judas answered. “I got access to the morgue. He’s dead all right.”

“Excellent,” Judas said. “I’ll be in touch.”

In her room, Marie de Brissac was having a rest, lying on the bed when the door opened. David Braun came in, followed by Judas in his hood. Marie sat up and swung her legs to the floor.

“What do you want?” She was alarmed but refused to show it.

“I just wanted to share some news with you.” Judas was laughing, she could tell. “Your friend Dillon was knocked off a little while ago.”

“You’re lying.”

“He’s lying in a morgue in Washington right now with two bullets in the back. He won’t be returning, Countess.”

He laughed out loud and went out and she started to cry. David Braun put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.

“Go on, get out! You’re as bad as he is!”