The President’s Daughter

EIGHT

Dillon sat in front of the sink in the bathroom at Teddy’s apartment, a towel about his neck and shoulders. Teddy stood in the corner smoking a cigarette, and Mildred Atkinson was behind Dillon, looking at him in the mirror.

“Can you do something, Mildred?”

“Of course I can. Lovely face.” She nodded. “The hair, really, but I hate giving people black dye jobs. No matter how good you do it, it looks wrong. I mean, I adore this hair of yours, love,” she said to Dillon, “like pale straw. What I’ll do is crop it, crew cut really, and I’ll bronze it up just like the photo on the passport you’ve shown me. It’ll change the shape of your skull. Then the eyebrows.” She frowned. “Glasses are tinted, I see. I’ll check on what I have in my bag of tricks.”

She picked up her scissors and started. “You’re English,” Dillon said.

“That’s true, love. I’m from Camden in good old London town. Started in this game as a kid at Pinewood Studios.”

“What brought you here?”

“Love, my dear, for the biggest American bastard you ever met in your life. By the time I discovered that, I’d made my bones in the business, so I decided to stay. Anyway, stop talking and let’s get on with it.”

Dillon sat back, a different Dillon staring at him from the mirror. Teddy said in awe, “You’re a genius, Mildred. The tinted glasses are just right.”

She packed her bag. “Good luck, Mr. Dillon. The dye should be good for two weeks.”

“Let me give you something,” Teddy said.

“Nonsense, it was a pleasure.” She patted his face and smiled at Dillon. “Lovely boy, Teddy,” and went out.

At Andrews, they parted, Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein first in the Lear. Blake, Dillon, and Teddy watched them go, standing just inside the hangar out of the rain.

Teddy shook hands. “Well, it’s up to you guys now.”

Dillon started to turn away, then remembered something and produced his wallet. He took out the sketch Marie de Brissac had made for him and unfolded it.

“The President’s daughter did this for me. It’s the crest on the side of the silver lighter Judas used.”

“Looks like an army divisional flash to me,” Blake said.

“Yes, and as we know Judas served in the Yom Kippur War, it must be Israeli. A raven with lightning in its claws. Check it out, Teddy. There must be listings of Israeli Army shoulder flashes somewhere.”

“Probably in the public library.” Teddy laughed. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

A large black man wearing a standard airline navy blue uniform came across with an umbrella. “Sergeant Paul Kersey, gentlemen. I’m your flight attendant. I think you know the pilots, Mr. Johnson.”

“I certainly do.”

Dillon held out his hand. “Keogh – Martin Keogh.” No sense giving his real name, since he was supposed to be dead.

“A pleasure. This way, gentlemen.”

He held the umbrella over them and they crossed to the steps where the pilots waited. Johnson greeted them like old friends and made the introductions.

“Captain Tom Vernon and Lieutenant Sam Gaunt. This is Martin Keogh.”

“Nice to meet you,” Vernon said. “As you can see, we wear civilian uniform. We find it doesn’t pay to advertise. Usually this plane has a crew of four, but we manage with three. The Gulf Five is the finest private commercial airplane in the world. We can manage six hundred miles an hour and a range of six thousand five hundred.”

“So Ireland is no problem.”

“Good winds tonight. We should make Dublin in six hours.”

“So let’s get on with it,” Johnson said. “After you, gentlemen,” and he followed the pilots up the steps.

Teddy Grant, at his apartment, felt restless, unable to sit down. There was so much at stake, so damn much, and it was as if he was unable to do anything and that frustrated him. He looked at his watch. It was just nine o’clock, and then he remembered the sketch Dillon had given him. There were bookstores in Georgetown that stayed open until 10 P.M. It would give him something to do. He got his raincoat and went out.

His sedan was an automatic and had certain adaptations because of his one-armed status, and he drove expertly through the traffic to Georgetown. He parked at the side of the street, opened the glove compartment, and took out a folding umbrella. There was also a short-barrelled Colt revolver in there. He checked it and put it in his raincoat pocket. Muggings were frequent these days and it paid to be careful.

He pressed the automatic button on the umbrella and it jumped up above his head. He still had forty minutes before the stores closed and he found the area around which the bookstores clustered and went into the first one he came to.

He found the military section and browsed through it. Most of the books seemed to concentrate on the Second World War, the Nazis and the SS. Strange the obsession some people had with that. Nothing on the Israeli Army at all. On his way out, he paused at a stand where a new book was displayed on the history of Judaism. He looked at it morosely and walked out.

Although Teddy was a Christian, his grandmother on his father’s side had been Jewish and had married out of her faith, as the phrase went. Long since dead, but Teddy remembered her with affection and was proud of the Jewish roots she had given him. He’d never advertised the fact, because religion of any kind meant nothing to him, but the Jews were a great people. The religious precepts, the morality they had given the world, was second to none. It made him angry to think of people like Judas and his Maccabees soiling the very name of their own race by their actions.

He tried three more shops before he struck it lucky. A small corner place was just closing, the owner a very old white-haired man.

“I won’t hold you up,” Teddy said. “I’ve been looking for a handbook on Israeli Army units, divisional signs, shoulder flashes.”

“Just a minute.” The old man went to a shelf, searched it, and returned with a small paperback. “It’s a series this company does. Armies of the World. They’re quite popular. In fact, I’ve only got volumes for the Russian and Israeli armies left. I must reorder.”

“How much?” Teddy said.

“Fifteen-fifty.”

Teddy got the cash out. “No need for a bag, and many thanks for your help.”

He walked back to the sedan in the rain, feeling elated, got in, switched on the light, and opened the book. It was mainly text with about twelve pages in color covering the shoulder flashes of various Israeli units. He closed the book. There was nothing remotely resembling the raven.

He sat there, frustrated, and for some reason angry. He lit a cigarette and started to go over the day’s events, culminating in the attempted killing of Dillon. That Mark Gold had to be left untouched made sense, but Harker, an animal who had killed many times for money? That didn’t sit well with Teddy at all.

“I mean, what was it all for, Vietnam?” he asked himself softly. “Did it produce a better society? Hell, no. Downhill all the way.”

He opened the glove compartment, found his silencer, and clipped it on the end of the Colt and replaced it in his pocket. What was it Blake had said about Harker? That guys like that could get it on the street any night. Teddy smiled tightly and drove away.

When Nelson Harker turned onto Flower Street, he was more than a little drunk and soaked to the skin in the heavy rain. With cash in his pocket, he’d really hung one on and had also paid for the services of two prostitutes right off the street, just the way he liked it. He stumbled on the uneven pavement and paused, swaying.

“Excuse me.”

He turned and found a small one-armed man in a raincoat staring intently. Harker peered at him. “What do you want, you little creep?”

Teddy’s hand was on the butt of the Colt in his raincoat pocket. With all his being he wanted to pull it out and shoot the bastard – but suddenly he couldn’t. Some providential second sight had filtered in through the rage. It was not a question of morality. In Vietnam he had killed for poorer reasons, but if this all went wrong and he ended up in police hands, the ensuing scandal would bring down the President himself, the one human being he valued most. Jesus, what had he been thinking?

He took a deep breath. “Well, excuse me. I was only going to ask the way to Central.”

“Go on, fuck off,” Harker said and lurched drunkenly away.

Teddy walked off briskly, turning from one street to another until he reached the sedan. A mile further on, he had to cross the river. He paused halfway, got out, and dropped the Colt into dark waters. It was unregistered, untraceable, but that didn’t matter. It would sink in the mud and be there for all time, a memorial to what had almost been the stupidest action in his entire life.

“Damn fool,” he said softly. “What did you think you were playing at?” and he got in the sedan and drove away.

Dillon was enormously impressed with the Gulfstream. It was so quiet as to be unbelievable. There were enormous club chairs that tilted for sleep, a settee at one side, and the tables were maple wood veneer. He’d already noticed the galley and the crew-rest quarters, and there was even a stand-up shower.

“You do yourself well,” he said to Johnson.

“It’s the best,” Blake said. “The best in the world, and that’s what I need. It can even use runways half the length of those required for commercial airliners.”

“I like the way they’ve done the five after Gulfstream,” Dillon said. “Roman with a V.”

“That’s style for you,” Blake told him. “We also have a state-of-the-art satellite communications system.”

“I’ll try that right now.”

Captain Vernon’s voice came over the speaker. “We’re cruising at fifty thousand feet and we have a brisk tail wind. By the way, Ireland is five hours ahead of us, so I suggest you adjust your watches.”

Kersey brought coffee, and tea for Dillon. “There you go, gentlemen. Sing out if you want anything. I’ll serve dinner in an hour if that suits.”

“Well, a large Bushmills whiskey would go down fine right now,” Dillon told him. “If you have such a thing.”

“We’ve got everything.” Kersey was back with the Bushmills in seconds. “Okay, sir?”

“Very okay,” Dillon said.

After Kersey had gone, closing the door to the galley, Blake said, “You wanted to make a call?”

“Yes, to my old friend Liam Devlin, the greatest expert on the IRA alive. He helped us out considerably with the Irish Rose affair, remember?”

“I surely do.” Blake was adjusting his watch. “But it’s two-thirty in the morning over there.”

“So I’ll wake him,” and Dillon picked up the phone.

In bed at his cottage in the village of Kilrea outside Dublin, Liam Devlin was aware of the phone’s incessant ringing. He cursed, switched on the light, and picked up the phone, checking the time on the bedside clock.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you know what time it is, whoever you are?”

“Oh, shut up, you old rogue, and listen, will you? It’s Sean – Sean Dillon.”

Devlin pushed himself up. “You young devil. Where are you calling from?”

“A Gulfstream making its way across the Atlantic, Liam. I’ve a friend with me and we need you.”

“Is this an IRA thing?” Devlin asked.

“Worse, much worse, but Dermot Riley’s involved, only not on IRA business.”

“Sure, and he’s doing fifteen years in Wandsworth Prison.”

“He was until he offered Ferguson a deal, the whereabouts of another Active Service Unit in London and an arms dump.”

“And you believed him?” Devlin laughed out loud. “And he did a runner on you?”

“Something like that, but much more complicated, and like I said, not IRA business. I need to get to him, Liam. It’s desperately important. Nose around and see what you can find out.”

“Well, there’s always his cousin, Bridget O’Malley down at Tullamore. Her farm’s near the Blackwater River.”

“Could be or he might think that too obvious. We’ll see you at Kilrea around nine-thirty. He was using the name Thomas O’Malley, by the way.”

“Fine. Can I go back to sleep now?” Devlin asked.

“Sure, and when have you ever done anything except what you wanted to do?” Dillon asked and put the phone down.

Devlin sat there thinking about it. From what Dillon had said, this was special, very special, and at his age that excited him. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. His doctor had tried to get him to cut down, but what the hell did it matter at his age? He got up, found a robe, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Is that you, Michael?” he asked. “Liam Devlin here.”

“Jesus, Liam, you’re up late.”

“And you.”

“Well, you know I’ve taken to the novel-writing, and I like to work through the night.”

“I heard that and I also heard you have breakfast at the Irish Hussar around seven o’clock most mornings.”

“That’s true.”

“I’ll join you. I need to pick your brains.”

“And I know what that means, you old sod. I’ll see you then and we’ll have a crack.”

Devlin put the phone down, switched off the kettle, and made a pot of tea, whistling softly.

On the Gulfstream, they had an excellent meal of fillets of lemon sole with potatoes and a mixed salad followed by Italian ice cream with hazelnuts. They shared a bottle of Chablis.

Afterwards, Dillon said, “I wonder what the poor sods in first-class are getting tonight on the commercial flights. That was great.”

“We aim to please.” Blake drank some of his coffee. “Devlin seems an extraordinary individual. Are all the stories I’ve heard true?”

“Probably. He was a university graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. A scholar and a poet and one of the most feared gunmen the IRA ever had. In the Spanish Civil War, he fought against Franco and was taken prisoner by the Italians, who handed him over to the Nazis in Berlin.”

“And he worked for them?”

“Well, he was no Fascist, but the IRA were dickering with Hitler at the time. They thought that England losing the war would be Ireland’s opportunity. Devlin parachuted into Ireland for the Abwehr and only got back to Berlin by the skin of his teeth.”

“Then what? Is there any truth in the old legend about a German attempt to kidnap Churchill with Devlin as a middle man?”

“Norfolk, nineteen forty-three,” Dillon said. “Crack force of German paratroopers. Devlin was there all right, but the attempt failed. Once again, he got out by a small miracle.”

“But you said he was anti-fascist?”

“They paid him well and the money went to funds for the organization. He once said he’d have tried to snatch Hitler if someone had paid him enough. He knew them all personally. Himmler, General Walter Schellenberg. He was even instrumental in saving Hitler from assassination by the SS late in the war.”

“Good God!” Blake said.

“The idea was it was better keeping him alive and cocking things up, whereas with the SS in charge the war might have gone on longer.”

“I get the point.”

“Hitler gave him the Iron Cross First Class. Devlin falls about laughing when he tells you that.”

“And then the Troubles?”

“Yes. He was one of the original architects of the Provisional IRA. On the British Army’s most-wanted list.”

“Which is when you met him?”

“He taught me everything I know, but Liam was an old-fashioned revolutionary and I was going through a Marxist phase; all purity of violence, being young and foolish. Shots were exchanged, but no great harm done. We made up in recent years.”

“A strange man.”

“A great man, the best I’ve ever known.”

Blake nodded. “This name on your false passport, Martin Keogh. Any significance?”

Dillon shrugged. “An alias I’ve used on and off for years.”

Blake nodded. “So you think Devlin might be able to help us find Riley?”

“If anyone can. Once we have Riley, we haul him back to London to identify that phoney lawyer from the Wandsworth security cameras. Once we have his face, we’ll move on to his identity.”

“You sound confident!”

“I am. With luck, he could be a stepping stone to Judas.”

Blake nodded slowly. “It’s not much.”

“It’s all we’ve got, and another thing. If we do find that place where Judas is holding her, it won’t do any good to call in the Navy Seals or any kind of special forces. He’ll kill her stone dead at the first sound.”

“You mean you’d want to go in on your own?”

“I’d need backup,” Dillon told him. “But I did see a fair amount of the interior. I know she’s on the third floor and things like that.”

“But one man.” Blake shook his head. “That’s crazy.”

“He only has five Maccabees with him,” Dillon said. “And no indication of staff. But then he wouldn’t have staff for obvious reasons. So, five plus Judas is six.”

“And you’d do that on your own?”

“Why not? You’ve heard the old joke about the tailor in the fairytale by the Brothers Grimm? Five at one blow? I’ll make it six.”

“That was flies on a slice of jam and bread,” Blake said.

“Same difference.” Dillon called Kersey. “Another Bushmills and I’ll turn in.”

“Right away, sir.”

“You know,” Blake said, “there’s one thing that really bugs me about the whole business.”

“And what’s that?” Dillon asked, taking the drink that Kersey brought.

“From what Marie de Brissac told you, the general knew from that anonymous letter only that his wife had spent the night with an American officer. He didn’t know it was Jake Cazalet.”

“So it would appear.”

“So only Marie and her mother and the President knew the secret.”

“You’re forgetting Teddy Grant.”

“Okay, but that means only three left when the countess died. So how in the hell did Judas find out?”

“God knows. All that matters is he did.” Dillon switched off the overhead light. “I’m going to sleep while the going’s good,” and he tilted back his seat.

Devlin parked his car on a quay on the River Liffey and walked through soft rain to the pub called the Irish Hussar. It was a pleasant, old-fashioned place with booths and a mahogany bar with a mirror behind it, rows of bottles on the shelves. Normally much favored by Republicans and Sinn Fein supporters, at that time in the morning the clientele were mainly workers of every kind tucking into a full Irish breakfast. He found his quarry, one Michael Leary, in the end booth just starting his meal.

“Liam, you old dog.”

“Same to you,” Devlin told him.

A young woman, all smiles, for Devlin was a great favorite, came to the table. “And what can I get you, Mr. Devlin?”

“The same and lots of breakfast tea, and mind I can stand the spoon in it.” He turned to Leary. “Is the work going well, Michael?”

“That thriller I did sold nicely in the airports. To be honest, Liam, I’ve cleared fifty thousand pounds in the past twelve months and it seems to be climbing.”

“And still working through the night?”

“It’s the leg. I get a lot of pain. Can’t sleep,” and he banged it with his fist.

Leary, an active member of the Provisional IRA for more than twenty years, had lost the leg when a bomb he was supposed to run across the border in an old truck had exploded prematurely, killing his two companions and taking his leg. At least the incident had kept him out of a British prison, but it had brought an end to his career as an active member of the Movement.

The young woman brought Devlin his breakfast and a pot of tea and withdrew and he started to eat.

“What is it, Liam? What do you want?” Leary asked.

“Fifteen years ago when I was sixty and should have known better, I saved your life in County Down. When the RUC peelers shot you in the shoulder, I got you over the border.”

“True,” Leary said, “but false as my left leg in one respect. You weren’t sixty, you were seventy.”

“A slight digression from the truth, but you owe me one and I’ve come to collect.”

Leary paused, frowning slightly, then resumed eating. “Go on.”

“We both know you’re still heavily connected with the organization. You were still running the intelligence section in Dublin for the Chief of Staff until the peace process started.”

Leary pushed his plate away and the young woman came and took it. “Is this IRA business, Liam?”

“Only indirectly. A favor for a friend.”

“Go on.” Leary filled his pipe from a pouch.

“You’ve still got your ear to the ground. Would you know if Dermot Riley got back in one piece? You see, last I heard, he was in Wandsworth Prison doing fifteen years, then it seems he got out. I understand that when last seen, he was using an Irish passport in the name of Thomas O’Malley.”

“Who saw him?”

“My friend, but it’s confidential.”

“Well, there’s more than one would like to see Dermot, including the Chief of Staff. All right, he’s back. He passed through security at Dublin airport three days ago in the identity of Thomas O’Malley. A security man recognized him. As he’s one of our own, he simply checked him through, then reported the matter to the Chief of Staff.”

“And what did he do?”

“Put in a call to London, then sent two enforcers, Bell and Barry, to pay a visit to Bridget O’Malley on her farm by the Blackwater River. That was yesterday. She swore he hadn’t been there. Thought he was still in prison, so they came back.”

“Knowing those two, I’m surprised they didn’t try burning her with cigarettes.”

“You think he’s there, Liam?”

“Or thereabouts. Where else would he go?”

There was a pause as Devlin drank his tea, and finally Leary said, “The thing is, it stinks. We have friends everywhere, you know that, even at Wandsworth Prison. It seems Riley was booked out on a warrant signed by Brigadier Charles Ferguson a few days ago.”

“Do you tell me?” Devlin lit a cigarette.

“And we all know who his strong right hand is these days – Sean Dillon. Would he be this friend of yours, Liam?”

Devlin smiled. “Now how would I be knowing a desperate fella like that?”

“Come off it, Liam. You taught him everything you know. You used to say he was your dark side.”

Devlin got up. “A grand breakfast, and you the successful author now, Michael, I’ll let you treat me. If you run into Dermot Riley, I’d like a word.”

“Don’t be stupid, Liam. Even the living legend of the IRA can come to a bad end.”

“Jesus, son, at my age who cares? Oh, and you can tell the Chief of Staff when you phone him that this isn’t an IRA matter. He has my word on it.”

He walked away and Leary sat there thinking about it and then it came to him. Why would Ferguson take Riley out of Wandsworth? Obviously for some sort of deal, and Riley had done a runner or if he hadn’t, was he in Ireland on a false passport to do some job or other for Ferguson?

In any case, only one course of action was open and he got up and left, walking quickly to his car.

He sat in the parlor of the small suburban house that was the Chief of Staff’s home. His wife served tea and the Chief sat there stroking the cat on his lap, listening.

When Leary was finished, the other man said, “Get hold of Bell and Barry and send them to me.”

“And Liam?”

“Nobody likes him more than I do, but if the old bugger turns up there, especially if Dillon’s with him, then Bell and Barry can stiff them both.”

Devlin’s cottage at Kilrea was next to the convent. The garden was a riot of color and the cottage itself was Victorian, with Gothic gables and a steeply pitched roof. Blake Johnson and Dillon arrived in a rental car from Dublin Airport at nine-thirty.

“This is nice,” Johnson said.

“Yes, he likes his garden,” Dillon said and rang the bell.

The door opened and Devlin appeared in black sweater and slacks. “You young bastard,” he cried and hugged Dillon tightly, then he smiled at Blake. “And who might this be?”

“A friend from Washington, Blake Johnson.”

“A friend, is it? Well, I’ve been around long enough to recognize a peeler when I see one. That’s Belfast for policeman, Mr. Johnson, but come into the kitchen. I’ve had breakfast, but I’ll make you some coffee. Which variety of cop are you?”

“I used to be FBI,” Johnson said as Devlin filled the kettle.

“And now?”

Johnson glanced at Dillon, who said, “Let’s say he does for the President what Ferguson does for the Prime Minister.”

“That must be a tall order.” Devlin smiled. “All right, sit down and tell me about it.”

Which Dillon did, Blake Johnson making a point or two here and there. When they were finished, Devlin said, “Not good, not good at all, and I can see where you’d need Riley.”

“Will you help us, Mr. Devlin?”

“Liam, son, Liam. Actually, I’ve already tried.” He went on to tell them of his breakfast with Leary.

When he finished, Dillon said, “So Bell and Barry are still around?”

“Are they special?” Blake asked.

“The worst. If they get to work on her, she’ll know about it.” He took out his Walther and checked it. “Are you carrying?” he asked Blake.

“Sure, my Beretta. Will I need it?”

“Could be. Leary will tell the Chief of Staff and he’ll send them back to see her.”

“I know. I thought it would help to stir the pot, Sean,” Devlin said.

“You certainly have. We’ll get going now.”

“Not without me.” Devlin smiled at Blake. “Lovely country where Bridget has the farm. Tullamore, between the Blackwater River and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A grand day out in the country. What could be better?”

At the same time, in Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defense, Hannah was phoning through to security of Wandsworth. She spoke to a chief officer and outlined her request, then she knocked on Ferguson’s door.

“I’ve spoken to someone responsible for surveillance tapes, Brigadier. He’s digging out what they have now, and I’ve told him I’ll be there directly.”

“Take my car and driver,” Ferguson said.

“I’ve been thinking. I don’t think Judas can have violated the integrity of the Department as such. If he’d had a plant here, surely his people wouldn’t have needed to eavesdrop on Dillon’s cottage with directional microphones.”

“A point which had occurred to me, Chief Inspector.”

“That still leaves us with the fact that there would seem to be a Maccabee at work in the computer section of both MI5 and the SIS.”

“We’ll have to leave hunting that person down until this unhappy affair is resolved one way or the other.”

“Good, sir.”

“As it happens, the first thing I did on getting to the office was to check the CV of every member of the Department on my computer.”

“For religious orientation, Brigadier?”

“God forgive me, but yes.”

“And I was the only Jew.” She smiled. “When is a Maccabee not a Maccabee?” She smiled again. “I’ll see you later, sir,” and went out.

“And how far did you say?” Blake Johnson asked Devlin.

“Well, we’ve come thirty miles or so. Maybe another hundred or a hundred and twenty. It’s the country roads that twist and turn. No superhighways or turnpikes here.”

Dillon said, “I’ll give Ferguson a call and see what he’s up to.”

He pressed the Codex button on his mobile, then called Ferguson. “It’s me,” he said, and in spite of the coded nature of the call added, “Martin Keogh.”

“No need for that,” Ferguson said. “The machine indicator is on green. Where are you?”

“Driving down from Dublin to Carlow, and Waterford after that.”

“You’re going to see the O’Malley woman?”

“Yes. Devlin found out from an IRA source that Riley passed through Dublin airport three days ago using the O’Malley passport. The thing is, the Provos would like to have words with him, too. The Chief of Staff sent a couple of heavies to Tullamore to try and find him, but they got nowhere.”

“I see.”

“Devlin stirred the pot nicely with his contact. We think it will make the Chief of Staff send his goons down there again. They may even be ahead of us.”

“Watch yourself,” Ferguson told him, “and do keep Johnson in one piece. You’re expendable, Dillon, but his demise would make for an international incident.”

“Thanks very much.” Dillon switched off his mobile, sat back, and started to laugh helplessly.

NINE

At the farm outside Tullamore, Dermot Riley finished milking the last cow. He carried the churns of milk over to the tractor, lifted them into the trailer, then drove out of the barn and down the track a quarter of a mile to leave the milk churns on the platform by the gate to be picked up by the truck from the dairy in the village.

He drove back up to the barn, parked inside and lit a cigarette, and stood in the entrance, the slopes of the Knockmealdown Mountains looming above him. He wore a cap and an old donkey jacket and Wellington boots, and he had never been happier. Karl, the German Alsatian, lay on a bale of hay watching him, tongue hanging out.

“This is the life, dog, isn’t it?” Riley said, “the only bloody life.”

The dog whined and Bridget called across the yard, “Come away in, Dermot.”

She was in her early sixties and looked older, a stout, motherly looking woman with the red cheeks that came from country living, and white hair. When Dermot had arrived on her doorstep by night she had been overjoyed. The shock of seeing him in the flesh when she had thought him in prison was almost too much to bear. Of course, he’d told her his presence had to be kept a secret for the time being until he got himself sorted out with the IRA. She’d found blankets and pillows and driven him half a mile up the track in her old jeep to the barn at High Meadow, where they dealt with the sheep in lambing season. There was a room with a secret door above the loft and Riley had used it often in the old days when on the run.

“You manage here until I see old Colin and Peter and tell them to take a week off,” she said, referring to the two pensioners who worked at the farm part-time.

But in the morning, Bell and Barry had arrived from Dublin in a silver BMW, truly frightening men who had asked about Dermot. She’d lied through her teeth, which was a thing she didn’t like to do as a good Catholic, had insisted Dermot was in prison. Two things had helped. When they interrogated Colin and Peter, the two old men were genuinely bewildered, had also insisted that Dermot was away in prison in England, and were patently telling the truth. Secondly, Bridget had been able to produce a letter written by Dermot in Wandsworth only ten days before.

The two men had insisted on searching the house and farm buildings. Barry, who was six feet three and built like a wall, told her in a low, dangerous voice as they were leaving, “You know who to phone in Dublin if he turns up, you’ve done it over the years. He has nothing to worry about. The Chief wants words, that’s all.”

Not that she’d believed him, not for a moment.

In the kitchen, she passed him an egg sandwich and a mug of tea. “You’re spoiling me,” Dermot said.

“Ah, you’re worth spoiling.” She sat at the table and drank tea herself. “What happens now, Dermot? Bad enough to be on the run from the police, but the IRA is something else.”

“I’ll make my peace. All I need is a chance to tell my side of the story. It’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

“And you’ll stay?”

“I’m never going to leave again.” He grinned. “Find me a nice girl in the village and I’ll settle down.”

At that moment, Bell and Barry were approaching Tullamore in the BMW. Their meeting with the Chief of Staff had been brief.

“I’m concerned Riley’s been up to no good. He was last heard of leaving Wandsworth in the company of Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and we all know what that means. I want the bastard, so go back and get him for me.”

As they entered the village, it was Bell who noticed Colin and Peter emerging from the post office. “That’s interesting,” he said. “The two old men from the farm. Why aren’t they working?”

“Maybe they’re part-timers,” Barry said.

“But they’d still work mornings, that’s when all the hard work’s done,” Bell said. “Driving in the cows, milking, and so on. I know about these things, I was raised on a farm. I’m going to have words.”

Colin and Peter had vanished into Murphy’s Select Bar, and Bell followed them. At that time in the morning, there was only Murphy, the two old men with a pint of stout in front of each of them already, and a hard-looking young man in cloth cap, jacket, and jeans at the bar.

The old men stopped talking, frozen with fear, and Murphy, who knew very well who Bell was, turned pale. The young man drank some of his ale and frowned.

“Now then, you old bastards,” Bell said, “I don’t think you were telling the truth when we spoke yesterday.”

“Jesus, mister, I swear we were.”

“Then tell me one thing. Why aren’t you working?”

“It was the missus wanted to give us the day off,” Peter said.

“Hey, you,” the young man at the bar called. “Let them alone.”

Murphy put a hand on his arm. “Leave it, Patrick, this is IRA business.”

Bell ignored him. “So you haven’t seen Riley?”

“I swear to God I haven’t.”

Patrick moved in and tapped Bell on the shoulder. “I said leave them alone.”

Bell swung his right elbow backwards, catching him full in the mouth, and as Patrick staggered back, Barry, who had appeared in the doorway, gave him a vicious punch to the kidneys, which sent him on his knees. He stayed there until Bell pushed him over.

“Silly boy,” he called to Murphy. “Tell him to mind his manners in future,” and they left.

Barry took the wheel and drove out to the farm. He paused at the entrance where the truck from the dairy was parked, two men manhandling Bridget’s milk churns on board.

“Interesting,” Bell said. “She’s given her laborers a holiday, so how in the hell did that old woman manage those milk churns?”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Barry told him and drove along the track.

Bridget happened to be in the storeroom at the back when they arrived, so she didn’t hear them, and the Alsatian was up at the barn at High Meadow where Dermot was checking on some ewes. She came into the kitchen carrying a bag of flour and stopped dead in her tracks. Barry and Bell were standing just inside the kitchen door.

“You’re back,” she whispered and placed the bag of flour on the table.

“Yes, we are, you lying old bitch,” Barry said. He took a pace forward and slapped her across the face. “Now where is he?”

She was terrified out of her mind. “I don’t know, truly I don’t, Mr. Barry.”

“You’re a bad liar.” He slapped her again. Blood ran from her nose and he grabbed her hair and nodded to Bell, who lit a cigarette.

She started to struggle. He pushed her down across the table and Bell blew on his cigarette until it was red hot and touched her right cheek.

She screamed, writhing in agony. “No – please! I’ll tell you.”

Barry let her get up. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” he said to Bell and turned to Bridget, who was sobbing bitterly. “Where is he?”

“Half a mile up the track, the barn at High Meadow. There’s a room with a secret door above the loft. He sleeps there.”

Barry smiled. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?” and he and Bell walked out.

“Oh, Dermot, what have I done?” Bridget said and started to cry bitterly.

At High Meadow with the ewes, Dermot saw the flash of silver on the track below and knew he was in trouble. He hurried into the barn, Karl following. He couldn’t take the dog with him to the secret room, for any kind of a whine would give him away, never mind barking.

“Off you go, boy, home to Bridget.” Karl hovered uncertainly. “Go on, get moving!” Dermot told him.

This time, the Alsatian did as he was told. Dermot climbed the ladder to the loft, then clambered over bales of hay and got the secret door in the wood paneling open. He climbed inside. It was dark, just the odd chink of light, and he waited.

When Barry and Bell got out of the BMW, the Alsatian sat looking at them. “Get rid of that for starters,” Barry said, and Bell took out a Smith & Wesson revolver.

The moment he pointed it, Karl took off, scattering the sheep, making for the valley below. Bell laughed and put the revolver back in his pocket.

“A smart bugger, that dog.”

“Well, let’s see if Dermot is,” Barry said and led the way inside.

They stood looking up at the loft crammed with the bales of hay and Barry called, “We know you’re there, Dermot, so you might as well come out. Bridget was very forthcoming after a little persuasion.”

Dermot, in the darkness, almost choked with rage, but he didn’t have a gun, that was the thing, couldn’t take them on.

It was Bell who spoke now. “There’s a lot of straw in here, Dermot, not to say hay. If I drop a match, you’ll be in serious trouble. Of course, if you want to end up like a well-done side of beef, that’s your affair.”

A moment later, the secret door opened and Dermot scrambled out. He made his way to the edge of the loft and stood looking at them.

“You bloody bastards,” he said, “if you’ve hurt Bridget, I’ll do for you.” Then he climbed down the ladder.

Barry grabbed his arms from the rear. “You shouldn’t talk like that, you really shouldn’t.” He nodded to Bell. “Just his body. I want his face to look normal when he’s sitting in the back of the car on the way back to Dublin.”

“My pleasure,” Bell said and punched Riley very hard beneath the ribs.

When the rental car pulled up in the farm yard, Blake Johnson was at the wheel. The kitchen door was open and Karl erupted, jumping up at the car, growling fiercely. Dillon opened a window and whistled, a low and eerie sound that put the teeth on edge. Karl subsided, his ears flattening.

“Jesus, but I taught you how to do that well,” Devlin said.

As they got out of the car, Bridget appeared in the doorway. She looked terrible as she tried to staunch the blood from her nose with a tea towel.

“Liam Devlin, is that you?”

“As ever was,” Devlin said and put an arm around her shoulders. “Who did this to you?”

“Barry and Bell. They were here yesterday seeking Dermot. I told them he wasn’t here.”

“But he was,” Dillon said and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m Sean Dillon. I fought with Dermot in Derry in the old days.”

She nodded vacantly. “They turned up a little while ago, beat me and burned me with a cigarette.”

“The bastards,” Devlin said.

“The thing is, I told them where Dermot’s hiding. Half a mile up the track. The barn at High Meadow.” She was crying now. “I couldn’t help it, the pain was terrible.”

“Go in, make yourself a cup of tea. We’ll be back with Dermot, I promise you.”

She did as she was told, and Devlin said grimly, “I think a lesson is in order here.”

The three men got in the car, Blake taking the wheel again. Dillon took out his Walther, checked it, and screwed on the silencer.

“Take it nice and easy and let’s see the lay of the land. It could be a hot one. They’ll be carrying, and they’re good. What about you, Liam?”

Devlin grinned. “And what would I be needing with a shooter, with a couple of desperate individuals like you two to look after me?”

They climbed up toward the crest of a hill, Blake choosing a low gear. There were trees along the edge of the track and a row of trees bordering the meadow, the barn beyond them.

“They’ll see us coming,” Blake said.

“Which is why I’m going to bail out on the bend and take to the trees,” Dillon told him, “so slow down for me. You take care of the confrontation, Liam, and don’t worry. A hard man, this one with all that FBI training. He’ll manage, especially with me coming in the back door.”

“Well, that’s a comforting thought,” Blake said and slowed on the bend.

Dillon opened the door and made for the ditch as Devlin closed the door behind him. The car picked up speed and Dillon hurried through the trees.

Aware of the sound of the engine as the car approached, Bell left Barry clutching Riley and went to the door, drawing his revolver.

“What is it?” Barry demanded.

“Don’t know. Black saloon car, driver and one passenger.”

“Get in the loft.” Bell did as he was told, climbing the ladder, and Barry dropped Riley to the ground and kicked him. “Stay still.” He moved behind the open door.

He heard the car stop outside and steps approaching. Devlin appeared in the doorway, Blake Johnson at his back. He paused, then came forward.

“Well, now, Dermot, you don’t look too good.”

“Watch yourself, Mr. Devlin, the bastard’s behind the door,” Riley told him.

Barry stepped out, holding his revolver. “Easy, the both of you, or I’ll blow your spines out.” He rammed the barrel into Blake’s back, patted his pockets and found the Beretta. “Would you look at that now? And what about you, Devlin?”

“Don’t be daft. Would a seventy-five-year-old man like myself be carrying a pistol?”

“Add ten years to that, you lying old bugger.”

Devlin sighed and said to Blake, “Neanderthal man come back to haunt us. He only learned to walk erect this morning.”

“I’ll do for you, you old sod.” Barry was furiously angry. “You’ve had your day. You’ve been due for the knacker’s yard for years.”

“Well, it comes to us all.” Devlin gave Riley a hand. “Up you get, Dermot. Don’t let bastards like this grind you down.”

Barry exploded in rage. “I warned you. I’ll put you on sticks.”

“And why would you want to do that, I wonder?” Sean Dillon called.

He stood just inside the other door to the barn, rain increasing in a great rush at that moment. His left hand was behind him holding the Walther against his back. With his right, he shook a cigarette from his pack, put one in his mouth, and lit it with his old Zippo.

Barry was totally thrown by the change in Dillon’s appearance. “Sean Dillon, is that you?”

“Your worst nightmare,” Dillon said.

“The loft, watch the loft, Sean,” Riley croaked.

Barry kicked him. “Take him!” he cried.

Bell stood up on the edge of the loft, gun ready, and Dillon’s hand came round in one smooth motion. He fired twice, catching Bell in the heart, the sound of the silenced weapon flat on the damp air. Bell fell headfirst.

In the same moment, as Barry raised his revolver, Liam Devlin shot him in the back with the Walther he was holding in his raincoat pocket, sending him into the ground. There was silence, only the sound of the rain on the roof.

Blake Johnson said, “My God, that was something.”

Dillon pocketed the Walther, went and stirred Bell’s body, then checked Barry. “Well, we’ve done the world a favor.” He looked at Devlin and shook his head. “You told me you weren’t carrying.”

“I know,” Devlin said. “I’m a terrible liar.” He turned to Dermot. “Are you all right?”

“My ribs don’t feel too good.”

“You’ll live. This is Mr. Johnson, an American and former FBI, so mind your manners. He and Dillon are working on the case you were involved in. You’ll go back to London with them.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because it’s the safest place for you at the moment,” Dillon told him. “Ferguson will keep his word. All you have to do is look at the security video for the day that phoney lawyer, George Brown, visited you in Wandsworth and put a face to him. Stay here and the Provisional IRA will have your balls.”

“Maybe not,” Devlin said. “I’ll speak to the right people, Dermot, explain the truth. You haven’t done anything against the organization. I still have influence.”

“With two enforcers lying here dead?”

“Scum, Dermot, and the Chief of Staff knows it. Sometimes you have to dirty your hands. Now let’s get out of here.”

Devlin phoned Michael Leary on his mobile. “Is it yourself, Michael? You’d better get a disposal squad down here to Tullamore. You’ll find Bell and Barry in the barn at High Meadow, very dead. I had to stiff Barry myself. Sean took care of Bell.”

“Liam, what have you done?”

“Nothing that hadn’t been coming to those two animals for years. A disgrace to the organization. Dillon is taking Riley back to London this afternoon. Nothing affecting the IRA. Afterwards, I want you to allow him back.”

Leary sounded shocked. “You must be crazy.”

“I’ll see you in the Irish Hussar late afternoon and I’ll explain and you can tell the Chief of Staff. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Dillon said, “Still the hard man, Liam.”

“Hard enough.” Devlin led the way back into the kitchen. Blake stood by the open door and Bridget was at the table. “You’ll get the doctor, Bridget, promise me.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Later, some men will turn up in a hearse or a truck, something like that. They’ll take the bodies away. Bell and Barry never existed. Just forget about them.”

“And Dermot?”

“He’s going to London for a day or so with Sean, then he’ll be back. I’ll fix it with the IRA.”

“God bless you, Liam.”

Riley came in wearing corduroy trousers and a jacket and tie. He looked very respectable. “Will I do?”

“Definitely,” Dillon said. “Let’s get going.”

Riley hugged Bridget. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll pray for you, Dermot,” and then she flooded with tears and rushed out of the kitchen.

In his office at the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson switched off the Codex, frowning, then pressed the old-fashioned buzzer on his desk. Hannah Bernstein came in.

“Brigadier?”

“Just had Dillon on the phone. They’ve got Riley. They’re on the way back to Dublin now.”

“Was it messy, sir?”

“Always seems to be where Dillon’s concerned. Two IRA enforcers went down, one to Dillon, and would you believe Devlin got the other?”

“I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.”

“Apparently, they’d tortured Bridget O’Malley into saying where Riley was hiding. No great loss.”

“Then we should be able to show the video to Riley this evening?”

“I would imagine so.”

“Excellent.” Hannah nodded. “Then if you’ve no objection, I’ll take a few hours off, go home and freshen up. I’ll be back at five.”

“Off you go then,” Ferguson said.

In the Oval Office at the White House, the President took a call from Blake Johnson on his Codex line. He pressed the special buzzer that brought Teddy in. Teddy stood by the desk, waiting, as the President listened and then said, “Excellent, Blake, I’ll await a further report.”

He switched off and Teddy said, “Good news?”

The President nodded and gave him a quick rundown on what had happened at Tullamore as related to him by Blake.

“So they’re on their way back to London with Riley so he can look at the video to try and identify Brown?” Teddy asked.

“That’s it.”

“Okay, but even if they put a face to him, they still have to identify him.”

“He told Riley that he really was a lawyer, but that Brown wasn’t his real name,” Cazalet said.

“A lot of lawyers in London, Mr. President.”

“Teddy, I don’t need this,” the President said. “These men are all I’ve got.”

There was agony on his face and Teddy was immediately contrite. “That was stupid of me. Forgive me.” He turned and went out, closing the door behind him and stood there in the corridor cursing. “You fool,” he said softly. “You stupid damn fool!”

Devlin saw them off at Dublin airport, watching the Gulfstream climb away, then went and got a taxi into town. He told the driver to stop on the way at a phone box and called Leary.

“It’s me, Liam,” he said. “I’ll be at the Irish Hussar in twenty minutes,” and he put the phone down.

On board the Gulfstream, Blake was enjoying a coffee while Dillon and Riley drank tea. “One thing,” Dillon said, “I owe you, Dermot, for warning me that Bell was in the loft.”

“And tipping Devlin and me off about Barry being behind the door,” Blake said.

“Not that it did any good,” Riley told him.

“Yes, it did,” Dillon said. “We stiffed both the bastards in the end.”

Riley seemed troubled. “Tell me, Sean, will Ferguson play square with me? Will he let me go once this thing is over?”

“My hand on it.”

“But go where? I still can’t see me being safe in Ireland.”

“Leave it to Liam. He’ll fix it.”

Blake said, “Do you really think he can pull it off?”

“Look at it this way. As I’ve said, nothing Dermot did in this affair was against the interests of the IRA. Once Liam’s explained that, it’ll be okay. He can be very persuasive.”

“But what about Bell and Barry?”

“Plenty more rubbish where they came from, whereas Liam Devlin is the living legend of the IRA. It will work because he’ll make it work.”

“God, I hope so,” Riley said fervently.

At that moment, Devlin was paying off the taxi outside the Irish Hussar. When he went in, it was half full and many of the drinkers nodded in recognition and he heard his name mentioned. Michael Leary and the Chief of Staff were in the end booth.

“God save all here.” Devlin sat down and neither of them said a word. “God save you kindly was the answer to that.”

“Liam, what in the hell have you done?” Leary demanded.

“Cut his own throat is what he’s done,” the Chief of Staff said.

Devlin waved to a waitress. “Three large Bushmills over here.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and eyed the Chief of Staff. “I haven’t always approved of the tactics, but haven’t I always supported the organization?”

“You’ve served us well,” the Chief of Staff said reluctantly.

“None better,” Leary agreed.

“Then why would I lie now, and me an old man with one foot in the grave?”

“Ah, fug you, Liam,” the Chief of Staff said. “Get on with it.”

So Devlin gave them a truncated version of the story, embellished a little.

“A phoney lawyer called Brown sees Dermot in Wandsworth and offers him a way out. Contact Ferguson and say he would offer knowledge of where a very nasty terrorist called Hakim was hanging out. Sicily, as it happens.”

“So?”

“Well, the whole thing was a scam by another Arab fundamentalist group who Dillon had done a bad turn to. They knew it was Dillon that Ferguson would send after Hakim, and Riley, as ordered, offered to go with him to show good faith.”

“And what happened?”

“Oh, they grabbed Dillon at some Sicilian fishing port, Riley with them, only by this time he was beginning to suspect he’d get shafted himself, so he jumped overboard while they were leaving harbor and swam back. The rest you know.”

“No, we don’t,” Leary said, but the strange thing is it was the Chief of Staff who was laughing.

“Go on,” he said, “and how did Dillon get away? I mean, it must have been good.”

“He had one gun in his pocket, another in his waistband at the rear under his coat. They found those and missed the Walther he had under his left trouser leg in an ankle holster. He shot three and took to the water himself. Of course, when he reached the shore, Dermot was long gone.”

“And that’s the way of it?” the Chief of Staff said.

“Absolutely. Dermot’s wanted in London for one purpose only. To see if he can put a face to this phoney lawyer, Brown, on the security video. Once he’s done that, he’s free.”

“I see.”

“Nothing to do with the IRA in any of this,” Devlin said. “My word on it. The person who’s really scored is Dermot. He could have been sitting in a cell for the whole fifteen years, even twelve if he got remission, the Brits are the losers on that one. I’d have thought you’d have liked that.”

The Chief of Staff glanced at Leary, then grinned reluctantly. “All right, Liam, you win. Riley can come home and we’ll drink to it.”

When Ferguson picked up his phone, Devlin said, “So there you are, you old sod. Are they in yet?”

“Too early,” Ferguson said. “Long car trip once they’ve landed. You did sterling work.”

“Keep the soft soap for those who need it. Tell Dillon I’ve good news for Riley. I’ve seen Leary and the Chief of Staff and he’s to be allowed home.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I told them a half-truth, if you like.” He carried on and told Ferguson the story he had sold to Leary and the Chief of Staff.

Ferguson said, “My God, you’re the most incredible man I’ve ever known.”

“I agree with you.” Devlin laughed. “Tell Sean to watch his back,” and he put the phone down.

Hannah drove out of the Ministry of Defense garage in her red Mini car, the one she found best in London traffic. She parked on the forecourt of her ground floor flat in Ebury Place, unlocked the door, and went in.

The man who called himself George Brown straightened behind the wheel of the black Ford Escort parked along the street and reached for his mobile.

“She’s here. Get over as quickly as you can. If she leaves before you get here, I’ll follow and contact you.”

Hannah at that moment was having a quick shower. She stepped out, toweled dry, then put on fresh underwear and a blouse. She found a fawn trouser suit, dressed, and went downstairs.

She phoned her father’s office in Harley Street, only to discover from his secretary that he was doing a heart and lung transplant at the Princess Grace Hospital that would probably take eight hours.

Not that it mattered, for she knew who she really wanted to see. She grabbed her handbag, went out, and drove away in the Mini car just as an ambulance turned the corner. Brown cursed and went after her, but five minutes later and proceeding along the Embankment beside the Thames, was comforted to find the ambulance on his tail.

The driver was Aaron Eitan, Moshe in the seat beside him. “Keep close,” Moshe said. “This traffic is terrible.”

Aaron laughed. “It’s years since I last drove in London. What fun.”

Rabbi Thomas Bernstein was seated at his study desk, a small but distinguished-looking man with a snow-white beard and hair topped by a plain yarmulke in black velvet. There was a knock, the door opened, and his granddaughter came in.

He put down his pen and held out his arms. “So there you are, light of my life.”

She embraced him warmly. “Your sermon for Shab-bes?”

“Queen of the week. It’s like show business. I have to catch their attention. How are you?”

“Busy.”

He laughed. “I’ve learned enough about you and your work to know that means you’re on a big case.”

“The biggest.”

He stopped smiling. “Can you tell me about it?”

“No, highly secret and all that.”

“You’re troubled. Why?”

“All I can say is there’s a Jewish element and it disturbs me.”

“In what way?”

“Let me ask you a question. The man who shot Prime Minister Rabin-”

He interrupted her. “Murdered is a more accurate word.”

“The man who did that, and those who support him, claimed some sort of biblical authority for what he did.”

His voice was stern. “No such authority exists in either the Bible or the Torah. That despicable act of violence was a great sin in the eyes of God.”

“So, if I had to hunt down such people, it would not disturb you?”

“Because they are Jews? Why should it? We are the same as other people. Good, bad, average, sometimes evil.”

“Tell me,” she said, “why does God allow these things to happen, the evil that men do?”

“Because he gave us free will, the possibility of choice. In that lies the only true meaning of salvation.” He held her hands. “Trust in what you believe is right, child, do what you have to do. You have my blessing as always.”

She kissed his forehead. “I must go. I’ll see you soon.”

She went out. He sat staring at the door, then started to pray for her.

TEN

The ambulance was parked in the street, Brown’s black Escort behind it, and he stood beside it. As she came out of the gate of the small garden in front of her grandfather’s house, she had to pass the Escort and the ambulance to get to her Mini car. Brown knocked on the rear doors of the ambulance and spoke to her at the same time.

“Detective Inspector Bernstein?”

She paused instinctively, turning toward him. “Yes, who are you?”

The doors of the ambulance opened and Moshe jumped down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her between the doors. Aaron reached down and lifted her inside. Moshe followed and produced a pistol with a silencer.

“Now be good, Chief Inspector. If he had to shoot you, no one would hear a thing.” Aaron took her handbag, opened it, and removed her Walther. “I’ll look after this.”

“Who are you?”

“Jews like you, Chief Inspector, and proud of it.”

“Maccabees?”

“You are well informed. Wrists, please.” He cuffed them in front of her with plastic handcuffs. “Now behave yourself.”

He got out and closed the doors. Brown said, “I’ll be right behind. I’ll join you in Dorking.”

“Let’s get moving, then,” Aaron told him, and he got behind the wheel and drove away.

Moshe said, “You want a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” she said in Hebrew.

He smiled delightedly and replied in kind. “But of course, I should have known.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“You’ll never get away with it.”

“I’m ashamed of you, Chief Inspector, that’s just a line from a bad movie. We are Maccabees, as Dillon must have told you. We can do anything. We kidnapped the President’s daughter. We kidnapped Dillon and where is he now? On a slab in a Washington morgue.”

“So you animals did that, too? I wasn’t sure, now I know. How do you justify that?”

“He served his purpose, but Dillon was the kind of man who could have become a serious liability.”

“You had him murdered?”

“Sometimes the end does justify the means and our cause is just. More important than the life of a man like Dillon.”

“That sounds familiar.” Hannah nodded. “Ah, yes, Hermann Göring, nineteen thirty-eight. Don’t let’s get upset over the deaths of a few Jews, that’s what he said.”

Moshe was pale and the pistol trembled in his hand. “Shut your mouth!”

“Gladly. Actually, I’d rather not talk to you at all,” Hannah Bernstein told him.

In his office, Ferguson checked his watch. It was just after five and no sign of Hannah yet. At that moment, his phone rang and he switched on the Codex. “Ferguson.”

“It’s me,” Dillon said. “Just hit Farley Field. Thanks for the RAF Range Rover.”

“Straight down to the Ministry,” Ferguson told him. “So much traffic in and out of our garage, you’ll be swallowed up.”

“No one would recognize me, anyway.”

“One good thing. No directional microphones in here. I’ve had a fresh detection outfit brought in so we’re secure.”

“All except for our computer system,” Dillon said. “See you soon.”

Aaron reached Dorking within half an hour and pulled into the parking lot of a huge supermarket crammed with vehicles. Brown parked his car and came round and Aaron leaned out.

“Okay, you get in the back. Afterwards, drive back here in the ambulance, dump it, and clear off in your own car.”

“Fine.”

Brown went round, opened the rear door and climbed in, closing it behind him. Hannah looked him over as the ambulance drove away, and a kind of realization dawned. “Well, now, you wouldn’t be George Brown by any chance?”

Brown was put out. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, an informed guess. Put it down to twelve years as a copper. One develops a nose for these things.”

“Damn you!” he said.

“No, damn you!” Hannah Bernstein told him.

Onwards from Dorking, Aaron made for Horsham. On the other side, he moved further into Sussex toward the River Arun, finally turning into a maze of country lanes following signs to Flaxby. He reached it, the kind of village which was a single pub and a scattering of houses. A mile on, he turned into a narrow lane that emerged into a huge overgrown airfield, a tower and several hangars decaying with age. He braked to a halt outside the hangars.

He went round and opened the rear doors. “All out.”

He put a hand up and helped Hannah. She said in Hebrew, “Where are we, or am I being naive?”

“Not really. We’re in the depths of rural Sussex. This used to be a Lancaster bomber base during the Second World War. Notice the lengthy runway, still usable in spite of the grass and weeds. We need a long runway.”

Engines started up, and a moment later a Citation jet moved out of one of the hangars. It stopped close by and the door opened, steps dropping down.

“Do I get to know our destination?” Hannah asked.

“Magical mystery tour. Take her on board, Moshe.”

Moshe urged her up the ladder, and one of the pilots pulled her in and seated her. Outside, Aaron said to Brown, “On your way. We’ll be in touch.”

“I suppose if I was an Arab fundamentalist I’d say, ‘God is good,”’ Brown told him.

“But he is,” Aaron said. “Our God, anyway.”

He went up the steps, pulling them up behind him, and closed and locked the door. The Citation taxied to the end of the field and turned. It paused, thundered down the runway, and lifted. Brown watched it go, then got into the ambulance and drove away.

In one of the control rooms of the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson, Dillon, Riley, and Blake Johnson sat back and watched as the operator ran the relevant section of the video through.

“All right, enhance the image and work through the crowd.”

The operator did as she was told, bringing up a larger image, concentrating on faces, and Riley cried out, “That’s him there in the raincoat with the briefcase.”

“Freeze where possible,” Ferguson urged.

There were a number of views of Brown from the front and from the side, all different perspectives.

“That should do,” Dillon said. “Now print.”

In a matter of seconds the machine had disgorged several colored prints of various views of the man calling himself George Brown. Dillon passed them to Blake one by one.

“There’s our man.” He turned to the operator. “You can go now.”

“But how do we find him, Dillon?” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “And where the hell is the Chief Inspector? It’s six-thirty.”

The mobile Judas had given Dillon sounded in his pocket. Dillon pulled it out and switched on. He held it up, face expressionless, and handed it over to Ferguson.

The Brigadier said, “Ferguson here.”

“This is Judas, old buddy. I figured you might have hung on to that special mobile I gave the late, lamented Sean Dillon.”

“What do you want?”

“I thought you might be short one Detective Chief Inspector.”

Ferguson had to breathe deeply to stay in control. “What are you saying?”

“She’s winging her way toward me at this very moment at thirty thousand feet in her very own private Citation jet.”

“But why?”

“Just to make sure you don’t step out of line, Brigadier. It’s not one, but two of them now. One wrong move and they both die. Have a good night.”

The line went dead and Ferguson switched off the mobile, his face pale. “That was Judas. He says he’s got Hannah.”

There was a heavy silence and Blake Johnson said, “I suppose I’ll have to inform the President.”

“Yes, by all means. Use the phone in my office.” Blake went out and Ferguson said, “What in the hell are we going to do?”

“It alters nothing,” Dillon said and took a deep breath to combat his rage. “Our task’s still to find Judas.”

“And how do we set about that?”

“With these.” Dillon held up the photos. “We find Brown.”

“Well, we can’t put him on bloody television,” the Brigadier said.

“Then we’ll have to find another way.”

The President switched off the Codex in his sitting room, sat there for a while, and then buzzed for Teddy, then he went and poured a whiskey. He was drinking it when Teddy came in.

“Anything I can do, Mr. President?”

“I’m beginning to think there’s nothing anyone can do. I’ve just spoken to Blake. The good news is that Riley has put a face to the phoney lawyer on the video.”

“That’s great,” Teddy said.

“The bad news is that Judas has kidnapped Chief Inspector Bernstein. Not one, Teddy, but two to worry about now. He told Ferguson it was to keep him in line.”

“The sadistic swine,” Teddy said.

“Which is true, but doesn’t help at all,” the President told him.

“One thing we do know,” Dillon said. “He’s a lawyer, because he told Riley that he was, isn’t that true, Dermot?”

“Definitely.” Dermot frowned. “He knew his way round, knew the system. I had a sod of a prison officer in charge of me and Brown sorted him with no trouble at all. Anyway, what about me? Anything more I can do?”

“Not really,” Ferguson said. “Go and wait in the outer office. I’ll have someone arrange a bed for the night. We have rooms here for special circumstances. I’ll see you’re on your way back to Ireland in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Dermot turned to Dillon. “Sorry, Sean.”

“Not your fault. Good luck, Dermot.”

Riley went out. Ferguson said, “What in the hell do we do?”

Dillon smiled suddenly. “I’ve just had a thought. We could go to the man who has the widest knowledge of criminal lawyers of any man I know, because he’s used them so much.”

“And who in the hell do you mean?”

“Harry Salter.”

“Good God, Dillon, the man’s a gangster.”

“Which is exactly my point.” Dillon turned to Blake. “Are you game?”

“I sure as hell am.”

“Good, we’ll get a car from the pool and I’ll show you something of the murkier side of the London underworld.”

“Harry Salter,” Dillon said to Blake as they drove along Horse Guards Avenue, “is in his late sixties, a dinosaur. He did seven years for bank robbery when he was in his mid-twenties. Never been in prison since. He has warehouse developments, pleasure boats that show you the delights of the Thames, and he still hangs on to his first buy, a pub on the Thames at Wapping called the Dark Man.”

“And he still works the rackets?”

“Smuggling mainly. Illegal duty-free cigarettes and booze from Europe. Big business since the Common Market has exploded. Diamonds from Amsterdam are a possibility, too.”

“You haven’t mentioned drugs or prostitution,” Blake said. “Could we possibly be into an old-fashioned gangster here?”

“Exactly. Mind you, he’ll blow your kneecap off if you cross him, but that’s business. He’s your kind of people, Blake.”

“Well, I look forward to meeting him.”

As they moved down Wapping High Street, Blake said, “I wonder why Judas didn’t snatch Hannah at the same time he took you in Sicily?”

“He needed her to go back to Ferguson as a witness to what happened is my guess. Sure, he could have taken her, too, and got in touch with Ferguson personally, but leaving it to her made it stronger. It meant that Ferguson knew beyond any doubt that what had happened was true.”

“Yes, that makes sense.” Blake nodded. “But I think we have an unstable guy here. He likes to play games.”

“He certainly does.”

“You’ve used Salter before?”

“Oh, yes, he helped me out on a little gig I had a while back where I had to prove I could breach security at the House of Commons and make it to the terrace by the river front. He doesn’t run much of a gang these days, just his nephew, Billy, a real tearaway that one, and two minders, Baxter and Hall. The rest is accountants and an office, all legitimate.”

They turned along Cable Wharf and pulled up outside the Dark Man. It was an old-fashioned London pub, a painted sign of a sinister-looking individual in a black cloak swinging in the wind.

“This is it,” Dillon said. “Let’s go.”

He pushed open the door and entered the saloon. There were no customers, the place totally deserted. At that moment, the door at the rear of the bar opened and the barmaid came through, a trim blonde in her forties, her hair swept up from a face that was heavily made up. She was called Dora, and Dillon knew her well. She looked upset.

“It’s you, Mr. Dillon. I thought the bastards might have come back.”

“Take a deep breath, Dora. Where is everybody?”

“The customers all made themselves scarce and who can blame them? Harry and the boys were in the corner booth having shepherd’s pie half an hour ago when Sam Hooker and four of his men came in with sawed-off shotguns.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s working the river these days like Harry, pleasure boats as a front. Wanted a partnership, but Harry told him to stuff it.”

“So what happened?”

“They took Harry, Baxter, and Hall. Billy put up a fight, but they knocked him unconscious. I’ve just been seeing to him in the kitchen. Come through.”

She lifted the bar flap and led the way into the kitchen. Billy Salter sat at the table drinking Scotch, a pump action shotgun in front of him. He was twenty-six, a hard young man who’d done prison time for assault and affray. Just now, the left side of his face was bruised and swollen. He glanced up.

“Dillon, what in the hell are you doing here?”

“I was hoping to see your uncle. I need his help on something, only it looks more like he could do with mine.”

“Fucking Sam Hooker, I’ll do for him myself.”

“All on your own with that shotgun? Don’t be a silly boy, Billy. According to Dora, Hooker has four goons with him. Who do you think you are, Dirty Harry? It only works in the movies because the script makes it work.”

Billy poured a little more whiskey into his glass and looked at Blake. “Who’s your friend?”

“If I said he was former FBI you wouldn’t believe me. Blake Johnson.”

“Your face doesn’t look too good,” Blake said. “Maybe a cracked cheekbone. I’d say you need the casualty department of your nearest hospital.”

“Stuff that. What I need is Sam Hooker’s head on a platter.”

“Well, you won’t get that standing here,” Dillon told him. “Where did they take him?”

“Hooker usually operates from a pleasure boat called the Lynda Jones. He ties up at the old dock at Pole End. That’s half a mile downriver from here.”

Dillon turned to Blake. “Look, this is personal, you don’t need to get involved.”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t let’s stand around talking,” Blake said. “Let’s do it,” and he led the way out.

Pole End was a desolate place, a symbol of the decay of what had once been the greatest port in the world, rusting cranes etched against the night sky. Dillon braked to a halt some distance away and they got out, Billy carrying the shotgun, and approached the dock.

“Damn it to hell,” Billy said. “Will you look at that. They’ve moved her. That’s the Lynda Jones out there.”

There were two arms to the docks stretching out into the river, the area between about three hundred yards across, and the Lynda Jones was anchored in the center.

“You’re sure that’s where your uncle will be?” Blake asked.

“Where else? Another thing, why move out there to the middle of the dock?” Billy said. “I’ll tell you. Because it’s impossible for anyone to get out there without them knowing.”

“Not quite,” Dillon said. “I introduced you to scuba diving the other year, Billy, remember? And didn’t Harry see the possibilities? I happen to know you went to Barbados on holiday and got your diving certificate.”

“So what?”

“Come on, Billy, you’ve been working a new racket. Diamonds from Amsterdam dropped overboard with a floating marker from ships passing upriver. You go out later underwater and retrieve them. That means you have the diving gear at the Dark Man, right?”

“Okay, so you’ve got me, but what are you getting at?”

“You hurry back to the pub, pick up an inflatable, a tank, fins, and a mask and get back here fast. Don’t bother with a diving suit.”

“You mean you’re going to swim out there?”

“Can you think of anything else to do?”

“But there’s five of them.”

“Well, that means with the way I’m loading my Walther, I’ll have two rounds for each of them. On your way, Billy, and don’t forget a dive bag. Here are the keys.”

Billy hurried away and Blake went to the edge of the dock and peered down through the shadows. He straightened. “Not even a rowboat down there. Are you sure about this, Sean?”

“Why not? All I need to do is hold them up, free Salter and the other two, and bring the boat in.”

“You sure as hell make it sound easy.”

They looked out toward the lights of the boat. There was a burst of laughter. “People on deck,” Dillon said.

“I make it three, and one of them’s going down the ladder,” Blake said. “It’s kind of dark down there, but I think there must be a boat.”

Which there was, for an engine roared into life and a speedboat moved across the water toward the dock. Dillon and Blake stayed in the shadows by a crane.

“You’re bigger than me, so get him from the rear, hand over his mouth and not a sound, while I have words,” Dillon said.

“You’re on.”

Strange, but standing there in the shadows, Blake Johnson felt more alive than he’d done in years, and he flexed his hands, waiting, as the speedboat coasted in to the stone steps. The man behind the wheel got out and came up. As he reached the dock, Blake moved fast and grabbed him.

Dillon put the barrel of the Walther under the man’s chin. “Not a sound or I’ll kill you. This is a silenced weapon. They won’t hear a thing. Do you understand?” The man nodded, Blake removed his hand. Dillon said, “Salter and his boys are out there with Hooker – right?”

The man was terrified. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the main saloon.”

“Nicely tied up?” The man nodded and Dillon said, “Hooker and three others, so what are you doing here?”

“There’s a Chinese restaurant on the main road. Hooker phoned an order through to them. He sent me to get it.”

“Considerate of him. That’s a nice tie you’re wearing.” Dillon pulled it off and passed it to Blake, who tied the man’s wrists.

“Are you thinking what I am?” Blake asked.

“I presume so. The minute you see me board at the stern, you and Billy come out in the speedboat. Hooker will think it’s his man with the Chinese.” He grinned. “Shows you where greed gets you.” He shook the man fiercely. “Where’s your transport?”

“Over there in that old warehouse.”

Dillon marched him over and found a Ford van parked in the darkness. Blake opened the rear doors and Dillon shoved the man in. “Not a sound or I’ll come back, and you know what that will mean.”

They closed the doors and returned to the edge of the dock.

Billy arrived a few minutes later, engine off, coasting down a slight incline over the cobbles. He switched off, got out, and went and opened the trunk of the car.

“Everything okay?”

“Tell him, Blake,” Dillon said, opened the rear door of the car, sat on the seat and undressed down to his underpants, slipping his glasses into a jacket pocket.

He pulled on the inflatable jacket, then clamped the tank to it. “Give me five minutes. The light under the awning at the stern is bright enough for you to see me go over the rail, then you two come out in the speedboat like I said.”

“Bloody cold out there,” Billy told him.

“Not for long.” Dillon put his Walther in the dive bag and hung it around his neck, then he went down the steps, sat on the last one and pulled on his fins. He adjusted his mask, reached for his mouthpiece, and slipped into the dark waters.

Billy was right, it was bitterly cold, but he kept on going, surfacing once to check his position, then going back under. He surfaced again by the anchor line, dumped the inflatable, the tank, his mask, and the fins, then pulled himself up to the anchor chain port. He peered through cautiously. The stern deck under the awning was empty, the sound of laughter coming from the saloon and then a cry of pain. Dillon hauled himself through, took the dive bag from around his neck and produced the Walther. He waved to the dock, and as he moved toward the saloon, the speedboat started up.

There was another cry of pain and he peered in through the porthole in the door. Salter and his two minders, Baxter and Hall, were seated on three chairs, arms bound behind them. A large man in a dark suit, presumably Hooker, was holding a butane cylinder, the kind of thing used for stripping paint. His brutal face had an expression of joy on it as he touched the flame to Baxter’s left cheek.

Baxter yelled in pain, and Harry Salter said, “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”

“Really?” Hooker said. “I don’t think so, because by the time I’ve finished you’ll be a well-done hamburger. How’s this for starters?”

The trouble was there were only two of his men there, laughing, glasses in their hands, so where was the third? But Dillon couldn’t afford to wait, and as Hooker advanced on Salter, he flung open the door and stepped in.

“I don’t think so.”

Hooker stared stupidly at him. “What in the hell have we got here? Take him, boys.”

One of them slipped a hand inside his pocket and Dillon shot him in the thigh.

Salter leaned back and laughed out loud. “Dear God, Dillon, you little Irish bastard. I don’t know what you’ve done to yourself, but I recognize the voice.”

Dillon said to Hooker, “Just switch the burner off and put it on the table.”

“Fuck you!” Hooker told him.

“What a pity,” Dillon said and shot off part of Hooker’s left ear.

Hooker screamed and dropped the burner, which for some reason went out. Hooker had a hand at his ear, blood pouring between his fingers, and Dillon nodded to the one man left undamaged.

“Cut them loose.”

He wasn’t aware of any movement behind him because the door stood open, only the barrel of a shotgun against his neck. He turned his head slightly and saw, in the mirrored wall, a small, gypsy-looking man with dark, curling hair, holding a sawed-off.

The man reached for the Walther in Dillon’s hand and Hooker snarled, “Kill him! Blow his bleeding head off!”

In that moment, Dillon saw the door at the other end of the saloon open, and Blake Johnson, Billy behind him, stepped in. Dillon dropped to one knee, Blake’s hand swept up holding the Beretta, a perfect shot that caught the gypsy in the right shoulder, spinning him round as he dropped the sawed-off.

“What kept you?” Dillon asked.

Billy raised the pump gun. “I’ll kill the lot of you!”

“No, you won’t, Billy, leave off,” Harry Salter told him. “Just cut us free.” He glanced at Baxter’s burnt face. “Don’t worry, George, I’ll get you patched up at the London Clinic. Only the best for my boys.” Released, he stood, flexing his hands. “Dillon, you look ridiculous, but I’ll remember you in my will.”

The one Dillon had shot in the thigh and the gypsy were sprawled on the bench seat beneath the mirror. Hooker leaned against the table, moaning, blood everywhere.

Salter laughed. “Out of your league, but you never realized it.”

“Let’s go,” Dillon said. “Your speedboat awaits.”

“All right.” Salter turned to Hooker. “Very good Indian surgeon near Wapping High Street. Name of Aziz. Tell him I sent you.” He went out on deck, and they all followed. He paused at the top of the steps down to the speedboat. “I was forgetting. Let me have that Walther, Dillon.”

Dillon handed it over without hesitation and Salter went back into the saloon. There was a shot followed by another, a cry of pain. He reappeared and handed the Walther back to Dillon.

“What did you do?” Dillon asked as they went down the ladder.

“What your lot do, the bleeding IRA. I gave him one in each kneecap, put him on sticks,” Salter said. “I could have killed him, but he’d be a better advert that way. Now let’s get the hell out of here, and introduce me to your friend. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

Back at the Dark Man, Hall took Baxter away for medical assistance and Salter, Blake, and Billy sat in a booth on the empty bar.

“Champagne, Dora,” Salter called. “You know this bugger likes Krug, so Krug it is.”

Billy said, “Here, I’ll help you, Dora,” and he got up and went behind the bar.

Salter said, “Bloody lucky for me you came along. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Something special,” Dillon said. “Very hush-hush, but mixed in is a lawyer who called on a prisoner at Wandsworth using a phoney name. One George Brown.”

“How can you be sure he was a lawyer, or not, for that matter?”

“Let’s put it this way. The way he handled himself would seem to indicate that he knows his way round the criminal system. I thought you might recognize him.”

He took four photos of the mysterious Brown from his inside pocket and spread them out. Salter looked them over. “Sorry, old son, never seen him before.”

Dora came over wrestling with the cork of a bottle of Krug and Billy followed with an ice bucket. He put it down on the table and looked down at the photos. “Blimey, what’s he doing there?”

There was a slight, stunned silence and Dillon said, “Who, Billy, who is he?”

“Berger – Paul Berger.” He turned to Salter. “You remember how Freddy Blue was up for that fraud case nine months ago, taking down payments for television sets that never arrived?”

“Sure I do.”

“This guy, Berger, was his lawyer. He came up with some law nobody had ever heard of and got him off. Very smart. He’s a partner in a firm called Berger and Berger. I remember because I thought it sounded funny.”

Dillon said to Dora, “Get me the telephone book, will you?”

Billy poured champagne. “Was that what you wanted?”

“Billy, you just struck gold for us.” Dillon raised his glass. “Here’s to you.” He took the champagne straight down and got up. “I’ll phone Ferguson.”

He moved down the bar and made his call. After a while, he came back. “Okay?” Blake asked.

“Yes, Ferguson’s having a check via BT.”

“Let’s hope they don’t have a Maccabee on their information service staff,” Blake said.

“Hardly likely. They can’t be everywhere, so no sense in getting paranoid.”

“And what’s a Maccabee?” Salter asked. “Sounds like a bar of chocolate to me.”

“Anything but, Harry,” and Dillon held out his glass for a refill.

His mobile rang and he switched on, taking out a pen and writing what Ferguson told him on the back of a bar mat.

“Fine, we’ll be in touch.” He switched off and nodded to Johnson. “I’ve got his home address. Camden Town. Let’s move.”

He got up and Salter took his hand. “Hope you find what you need.”

“Glad to have been of service, Harry.”

“Not as bloody glad as I am,” Salter said.

ELEVEN

The address was in a lane called Hawk’s Court off Camden High Street. “Fifteen – that’s it,” Blake said, and Dillon slowed.

The street was lined with villas built on the high tide of Victorian prosperity and varied greatly. It was obviously what real estate agents call an up-and-coming area, with young professionals moving in and improving the properties they had bought. The result was that some of the houses looked seedy and rundown and others had new windows and shutters and brightly painted doors with brasswork.

Number fifteen filled neither category. It wasn’t exactly rundown, but it didn’t look particularly up-market. Dillon turned at the end of Hawk’s Court. There was an old church there, very Victorian in appearance, with a cemetery. There was a gate through railings, one or two benches, a couple of old-fashioned street lamps. Dillon turned, drove back, and parked on Camden High Street at the side of the road.

They walked back. Blake said, “How do you intend to handle this?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dillon told him.

“Well, we can’t just leave him around like a loose cannon after speaking to him.”

“We have a suitable safehouse where he could be kept,” Dillon said.

“And what if Judas misses him? Smells a rat?”

“What have we got left, Blake, four days? Maybe the time has come to take chances. Let’s find this Berger and put the fear of God in him. To hell with him anyway. Marie and Hannah are more important.”

They opened the gate, went up a few steps, and rang the doorbell. The house stayed quiet and dark. Dillon tried again. “No good,” he said finally. As he turned to Blake, the door of the next house, one of the rundown variety, opened and a young woman appeared.

She had blond hair topped by a black beret and wore a black plastic mac and plastic boots in the same color. “Sure you’re not looking for me?” she asked.

“No. Mr. Berger,” Dillon told her.

She locked her door. “Sorry, I thought it might be business. He’s out most of the time. Lives on his own since his wife left him. Does he owe you money?”

“Jesus, no,” Dillon said. “We’re just clients. He’s our lawyer.”

“Well, he usually goes to Gio’s Restaurant in the evenings. Turn right at the end and it’s a hundred yards.”

“Thanks very much,” Dillon told her, and she walked away very quickly, high heels tapping.

“Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten,” Blake said.

“Then Gio’s it is. There’s only one problem. We know my cottage in Stable Mews was bugged with directional microphones. Maybe Berger was personally involved, maybe not, but there’s a chance he knows me, so you’ll have to eat alone.”

“Poor old Sean, you’ll starve,” Blake said. “But I see your point.”

Gio’s was a small Italian family sort of place with checked tablecloths, lighted candles, and one or two booths. Dillon stayed back and Blake stood and consulted the bill of fare in the window. He turned his head and said quietly, “He’s alone, second booth from the window, reading a book and eating pasta. He’s heavily into the book. You can look.”

Dillon did as he was told, recognized Berger for himself, and dropped back. “In you go. I’ll just hang around. When he leaves, we’ll take him in Hawk’s Court.”

“You mean follow him into his house?”

“No, he probably has good security, with the kind of clients he’s got. It could be messy. We’ll take him up to that churchyard and have words there.”

“See you later, then.”

Blake went inside, to be greeted by a waiter who showed him to a table on the other side of the room from Berger. The American ordered a glass of red wine from the bar and spaghetti with meatballs. Someone had left a newspaper on the chair next to him and he started to read it, one eye constantly on Berger.

Dillon went into the general store two doors down where they had a selection of sandwiches. He chose ham and tomato on French bread, obtained tea in a plastic cup from a machine, and went back outside. It was raining slightly and he stood in the doorway of a shop that had closed for the night and ate the sandwich and drank the tea. Then he had a cigarette and strolled past the window of Gio’s.

Berger still had his nose in the book, but seemed to have reached the coffee stage, while Blake was halfway through his spaghetti. The rain increased in volume and Dillon walked back to the car, opened the door, and checked inside. There was a folding umbrella on the shelf by the rear window. He opened it and went back along the pavement, passing Gio’s in time to see Berger settling his bill. As the waiter turned away, Blake waved him over.

Berger stood up, went and got his coat from a wall peg while Blake was still settling, then he picked up his book and made for the door. Dillon stood back. Berger paused, turned up his collar, and stepped into the rain and Dillon followed, keeping him a few yards ahead. As they turned the corner into Hawk’s Court, Blake caught up and they walked on, side-by-side, until Berger reached his gate.

As he opened it, Dillon called, “Mr. Brown?”

Berger paused and turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“George Brown?” Dillon said cheerfully.

“Sorry, you’ve made a mistake. My name is Berger – Paul Berger.”

“Sure, we know that, but you called yourself Brown when you visited Dermot Riley in Wandsworth Prison,” Blake Johnson said.

“Don’t deny it,” Dillon advised him. “We’ve got you on the security video, so we know who you are, just as we know you’re a Maccabee, one of dear old Judas’s merry band of brothers.”

“You’re mad,” Berger said.

“I don’t think so.” Dillon had a hand in the right pocket of his raincoat and he pushed back the flap to disclose the Walther. “As you can see, this is silenced, so if I shoot you now, no one will hear a thing.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“After what you lot have done, I’d dare anything, so start walking, straight up to the cemetery. We’re going to have words.” He pushed the Walther hard into Berger’s belly. “Go on, move!”

There was a porch just inside the railings of the cemetery, a bench inside it. One of the lamps was close by, so there was a certain amount of light. Dillon pushed Berger down.

“Right, Judas Maccabeus is a right-wing Jewish terrorist. His followers are called Maccabees and you are one of them. He’s kidnapped the daughter of the President of the United States. He’s now also kidnapped Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein.”

“This is nonsense.”

Blake said, “Come now, let’s be reasonable. We know you’re the George Brown who visited Dermot Riley in Wandsworth. We’ve got you on the video surveillance tape from the prison and we’ve also got Riley.”

“Rubbish, you can’t have,” Berger said, giving himself away.

“Absolutely. Picked him up in Ireland this morning and brought him back to London. He’s at the Ministry of Defense now. He’ll swear to the fact that you promoted a plan to get him out of prison to set up one Sean Dillon in Sicily, and Dillon will also confirm that.”

“But that’s impossible,” Berger said, falling into the trap.

“Why, because he’s dead, murdered in Washington?” Dillon’s smile was terrible as he removed his glasses for a moment. “No, he isn’t, because I’m right here.”

Paul Berger cried out in terror.

“Everything so slick,” Dillon said, “right down to the very convenient death of that prison officer, Jackson. Was that you, Berger? I mean, he might have identified you. Who knows?” Dillon lit a cigarette. “But even the great Judas gets it wrong. He’s going down, Berger, and you’ll go down with him, so talk.”

“I can’t. He’ll have me killed.”

Dillon went into the act beloved of policemen the world over, good guy and bad guy. He turned to Blake, shaking with rage. “Did you hear that? Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to kill this bastard myself. I mean, we’re in the right place to do it.” He gestured at the monuments and headstones looming out of the night. “Plenty of room to bury him in there.” He turned on Berger and rammed the Walther under his chin. “I’ll do it now – right now.”

Blake pulled him away. “You didn’t say there would be killing.” He sat beside Berger. “For God’s sake, tell him.”

Berger was shaking. “What do you want to know?”

“How does Judas communicate?”

“I have a special mobile, that’s how he gave me the job of getting Riley out of Wandsworth. He talks personally.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“No, I was recruited by another Maccabee.”

Blake took over now. “So where does Judas operate from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come off it, son, I can’t believe that,” Dillon said.

Berger was close to breaking and it was obvious he was telling the truth. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t.”

There was a pause. Blake put a hand on his shoulder. “What about Chief Inspector Bernstein?”

“She was picked up outside her grandfather’s house in an ambulance by two Maccabees from Judas’s personal staff.”

“Names?” Dillon demanded.

“Aaron and Moshe.”

Dillon turned to Blake. “They’re the lads who knocked me off in Salinas.”

“Were you there?” Blake asked.

Berger nodded. “We took her down to a place on the other side of Flaxby in Sussex. There was one of those old overgrown bomber bases from the Second World War. They had a Citation jet waiting and flew off with her. My job was to dump the ambulance in Dorking.”

“And you don’t know where they’re flying to?” Blake asked.

“No idea, I swear it.”

It was obvious to both of them that he was telling the truth, and it was a sudden thought of Dillon’s that gave them what they needed.

“You said you were recruited by a Maccabee. Why was that?”

“I was at a conference on the future of the State of Israel. It was held at the University of Paris. I took part in a seminar, spoke out. I’ve always held strong views.”

“And?”

“I was approached by a lawyer. He said he’d admired my speech and asked me out to dinner.”

“A Maccabee?” Blake said.

“That’s right. We sat on one of those restaurant boats on the river and talked. I was there four days and saw him every day.”

“And he recruited you?”

“Haven’t you any idea how it sounded? God, I wanted to join, to be a part of it all.”

“Then Judas spoke to you, the Almighty himself,” Dillon said.

“He’s a great man. He loves his country.” Berger seemed to have recovered some of his courage.

Dillon said, “What was the name of the lawyer in Paris who recruited you, and don’t tell me you can’t remember.”

“Rocard – Michael Rocard.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Dillon turned to Blake Johnson. “The de Brissac family lawyer. He’s got to have been the leak to her identity in some way. Dammit, he even owned the cottage she was using in Corfu when she was kidnapped.”

“Paris next stop, it would seem,” Blake said. “What about him?”

Dillon turned to Berger. “Come on.” He pulled him up. “We’ll deliver him to the safehouse. They can hang on to him there until everything’s resolved, then we’ll see Ferguson.”

They started down Hawk’s Court, Berger in between, and passed his house. He said, “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? There’s no safehouse.”

Blake said, “Yes, there is, don’t be a fool.”

“You’re lying!” Berger said in a low voice, and suddenly ran away very fast.

They went after him. He reached the corner and made to cross Camden High Street on the run, head down, at the same moment as a double-decker bus approached. Collision was unavoidable and he was bounced into the air.

There was pandemonium as a crowd gathered and the driver of the bus dismounted in considerable distress. A police car pulled in and two officers got out and pushed through the crowd. One dropped to one knee beside Berger and examined him.

He looked up and said to his partner, “No good, he’s dead.”

There were expressions of shock from the crowd, and the wretched driver said, “It wasn’t my fault.”

Several people called, “He’s right, the man just ran into the road.”

At the back of the crowd, Dillon nodded to Blake. They walked back to the car and drove away.

The trip in the Citation had been uneventful. Hannah had kept herself-to-herself and as far away from Aaron and Moshe as possible. She accepted the coffee and sandwiches passed to her and leafed through a few magazines, a banal thing to do, but what else was there, except looking out of the window occasionally. Flying at thirty thousand feet with plenty of cloud below meant that she hadn’t the slightest idea where she was.

After three hours, there were glimpses of sea far below which could only be the Mediterranean. There was the coast of an island that could have been anywhere and then cloud again.

Moshe busied himself preparing more coffee and took some through to the pilots. Aaron ignored her, apparently deep in the book he’d been reading for the past three hours. Moshe returned and busied himself with refreshments again. He passed Aaron some sandwiches and coffee.

“The same for you, Chief Inspector?”

“No, just coffee.”

She peered out of the window again, catching a glimpse of another piece of land far below, and then the clouds blanketed everything. She turned to a tap on the shoulder and Moshe gave her the coffee.

As she drank it, she became aware of Aaron watching her as he sipped coffee himself, and there was a slight smile on his face, which of course irritated her.

“You find me amusing?”

“On the contrary, I think you are a very remarkable woman. Your grandfather a rabbi, father a great surgeon, a wealthy woman who goes to Cambridge, then joins the police and becomes a top Scotland Yard detective who is not afraid to kill when she has to. How many times? Is it two or three?”

God, how she hated him, and yet when she searched for the harsh reply, it wouldn’t come. He put down his cup in slow motion and reached for hers.

“I’ll take it, Chief Inspector,” he said. “You just lie back and go to sleep. We’re almost there, you see. Better for everyone if you don’t know where you are.”

The coffee. Too late, of course, far too late, and in the moment of realization she slipped into darkness.

In his flat at Cavendish Square, Ferguson sat by the fire and listened as Dillon and Blake Johnson filled him in between them. When they were finished, he sat there thinking about it, frowning.

“Strange, it all coming down at this stage to the de Brissac lawyer, this Michael Rocard.”

“Yes, but he’s managed the family affairs for years,” Dillon said. “If anyone would appear to be above suspicion, it would be he, and yet I suspect he must be the source of Marie’s true identity. He must have found out. Perhaps by accident.”

“Like we used to say in the FBI,” Blake told him, “if it’s murder, always check the family first. There is an interesting question here. Why would a man like Rocard, famous, part of the establishment, ever get involved with the Maccabees in the first place?”

Ferguson came to a decision. “I’m going to check him out.”

“Is that wise?” Dillon asked.

“Oh, yes. Conditions of the tightest security, man-to-man. I’m talking about Max Hernu.”

The French Secret Service had probably been more notorious than the KGB for years, and as the SDECE it had enjoyed a reputation for ruthless efficiency second to none. Under the Mitterand government it had been reorganized as the DGSE, which stood for Direction Générale de la Securité Extérieure.

It was still divided into five sections and numerous departments, and Section 5 was still Action Service, the department which had smashed the OAS in the old days and most illegal organizations since.

Colonel Max Hernu, who headed Section 5, had served as a paratrooper in Indochina, been taken prisoner at Dien Bien Phu, then afterwards fought a bitter and bloody war in Algiers, though not for the OAS that was supported by so many of his comrades, but for General Charles de Gaulle.

He was an elegant, distinguished-looking man with white hair, who at sixty-seven should have been retired, the only problem being that the French Prime Minister wouldn’t hear of it. He was sitting at his desk in DGSE’s headquarters in Boulevard Mortier, studying a report of ETA supporters living in France, when he took Ferguson’s call on the Codex line.

“My dear Charles.” There was genuine pleasure on his face. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

“Hanging in there, just like you,” Ferguson told him. “The Prime Minister won’t let me go.”

“A habit they have. Is this business or pleasure?”

“Let’s just say you owe me a favor and leave it at that.”

“Anything I can do, you know that, Charles.”

“You know the de Brissac family?”

“But of course. I knew the general well and his wife. Both, alas, dead now. There is a charming daughter, Marie, the present comtesse.”

“So I understand,” Ferguson said carefully. “The family lawyer, Michael Rocard. Anything you can tell me about him?”

Hernu was immediately alert. “Is there a problem here, Charles?”

“Not as such. His name has cropped up, let’s say, on the edge of an affair I’m involved in. I would be grateful for any information you have on the man.”

“Very well. Absolutely beyond reproach. Legion of Honour, a distinguished lawyer who has served some of the greatest French families. Accepted at every level in society.”

“Married?”

“He was, but his wife died some years ago. No children. She suffered poor health for years. She had a bad war.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Rocard is Jewish and so was the woman he would later marry. As children, they were handed over to the Nazis during the time the Vichy government was in power, together with their families and thousands of others. In their case, they ended up in Auschwitz concentration camp. I suppose they must have been fifteen or sixteen when the war finished. I believe Rocard was the only member of his family to survive. I’m not sure about his wife’s family.”

“Thank you,” Ferguson said. “Very interesting. Where’s he living these days?”

“I believe he still has an apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo. Look, Charles, I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s going on.”

“Max, you couldn’t be more wrong,” Ferguson lied smoothly. “His name came up because he’d had legal dealings with an arms firm we’ve been worried about. Trade with Iran, that sort of thing. Nothing for you to worry your head about. I’d tell you if there was, you know that.”

“Charles, you’re lying through your teeth.”

“Leave it, Max,” Ferguson said. “If there is something you should know, I’ll tell you.”

“That bad?”

“I’m afraid so. I’d appreciate it if you faxed me his picture.”

“All right, but keep me informed.”

“The moment I can, I will, you have my word.”

“The word of an English gentleman,” Hernu laughed. “Now you really do have me worried,” and he switched off.

In the Oval Office, Jake Cazalet was trying to review a speech for a luncheon the following day to welcome a delegation of visiting Japanese politicians. It was difficult to concentrate in any way at all. It just went round and round in his head, the whole rotten business. He put down his pen and sat there brooding about it when the phone rang, the special Codex line, and he reached for it.

“Mr. President, Charles Ferguson.”

“Any progress?” Cazalet was suddenly alert.

“I think you could say that. We managed to trace the lawyer who called himself George Brown.”

And now Cazalet was excited. “The one who saw Riley at Wandsworth?”

“The same.”

“And he told you where she is?”

“He didn’t know.”

“How in the hell can you be sure?” and there was anger there now.

“Let me put you on to Blake Johnson, Mr. President.”

There was a pause, he could hear them talking, and then Johnson’s voice sounded. “Mr. President? Dillon and I questioned the man involved thoroughly and he didn’t know where she is.”

“You’re using the past tense.”

“Yes, well, he’s dead. Let me explain, please.”

When Blake was finished, the President said, “So Judas was just a voice on the phone.”

“That’s obviously the way he runs things. It’s a little like the old Communist cell system. Each individual only knows one or two other people.”

“Like Berger knew this lawyer in Paris, Rocard?”

“That’s right.”

“So, it’s Paris next stop?” Cazalet said.

“Absolutely. Too late tonight, but Dillon and I will be on our way in the morning.”

“Fine, put me back to the Brigadier.”

A moment later, Ferguson said, “Mr. President.”

“What do you think?” Cazalet asked.

“I’ve spoken to a contact in the French Secret Service, very much on the old pals basis. As a boy, Michael Rocard was in Auschwitz, and so was his wife. He was the only survivor of his family.”

“Good God,” the President said. “So that’s why he’s a Maccabee?”

“It would appear so.”

“Right, I can only pray that Blake and Dillon can get the right information out of him.”

Cazalet sat there thinking about it. There was a knock on the door and Teddy entered, a couple of folders under his good arm.

“A few things for you to sign, Mr. President.”

He put one of the folders on the desk and opened it. Cazalet said, “I’ve just had Ferguson and Blake on the phone.”

“Any progress?”

“You could say that,” and the President filled him in.

Teddy was immediately excited. “This guy, Rocard, he must hold the key. Dammit, he must have found out about your daughter and told Judas.”

“That would make sense. Anyway, where do I sign?”

Teddy led him through a number of papers, and when Cazalet was finished, he folded the file and picked it up. As he did so, the other file slipped from beneath his arm, and a few papers scattered. One of them was the charcoal sketch Marie de Brissac had done of the black raven with the lightning in its claws.

It was the President who picked it up. “What in the hell are you doing with this, Teddy?”

“It’s a sketch your daughter did for Dillon, Mr. President. Apparently, Judas has a silver lighter with that crest on it. Dillon thought that as we know Judas served in the Yom Kippur War, it must be a regimental crest. I got hold of a book of Israeli divisional signs, shoulder flashes, crests, everything. Dillon thought that if we knew the outfit, it might be a lead, but I got nowhere.”

“That’s because you’ve been looking in the wrong book,” the President said. “Black raven with lightning in its claws. That’s the 801st Airborne. One of those outfits thrown up from nowhere by the Vietnam War. I took part in a big cleanup operation in the Delta in January of sixty-nine. They were on the left flank.”

“My God!” Teddy said.

“I know,” the President nodded. “Remember what Dillon said? Judas sounded American but denied it. He was lying for obvious reasons. If he served with the 801st, he must be American.”

“You’re damn right he must be an American and you can sure as hell bet, the kind of guy he is, that he was an officer.”

“That makes sense.” The President sat back. “As I recall, they operated out of Fort Lansing. That’s in Pennsylvania. A few of those new airborne units were based there.”

“I’m going to go and check,” Teddy said and made for the door.

The President said, “Just a minute, Teddy. If they’ve got an archives section, which they probably have, you could have a problem if you ask for details of officers who served with the regiment.”

“Somehow I don’t think Judas has his own special Maccabee sitting down there just waiting to see if anyone’s going to make that sort of check, but I’ll be more subtle. Leave it to me.”

Teddy was back within ten minutes. “Yes, they do have an archives setup. I spoke to the curator, a nice lady named Mary Kelly who was just closing up. Twelve airborne units operated out of there. I told her I’m taking time off from the history department at Columbia to do a book on airborne warfare in Vietnam.”

“That’s pretty clever, Teddy, but what in the hell are you looking for?”

“We know he told Dillon his war was the Yom Kippur War. Now that was nineteen seventy-three. He wasn’t in the Six-Day War, which was nineteen sixty-seven. Why not?”

“I take your point.” Cazalet nodded. “Because he was serving in Vietnam.”

“So I’ll check the list of officers serving with the regiment, and I’ll be looking for Jewish officers, naturally.”

“But Teddy, there were a lot of Jewish officers.”

“Sure, my old company commander for one.” Teddy was suddenly impatient and forgot himself. “For Christ’s sake, Jake, it’s better than doing nothing. I can take one of the jets from Andrews in the morning if you’ll authorize it. I’ll be there in no time.”

Jake Cazalet raised a hand defensively. “Okay, Teddy, go with my blessing.” He reached for the Codex phone. “I’ll let Ferguson know.”

Hannah Bernstein drifted up from darkness. The light was very bright from a small chandelier in the vaulted ceiling. The room was paneled in dark wood and seemed very old. The bed enormous. There was dark oak furniture, a large Persian carpet spread across a polished oak floor.

She got to her feet and stood up, swaying a little, then walked to the barred window and looked out. What she saw, although she didn’t realize the fact, was the same view that Marie de Brissac had from her room – the bay, the jetty with the speedboat beside it, the launch on the other side, a night sky bright with stars, moonlight dancing on the water.

The door opened and Aaron entered, followed by David Braun with a tray. “Ah, up and about, Chief Inspector. Coffee for you, nice and black. You’ll feel much better afterwards.”

“Like the last time?”

“I had no option, you know that.”

“Where am I?”

“Don’t be silly. Drink your coffee, then have a shower and you’ll feel much better. The bathroom is through there. This is David, by the way.”

Braun said in Hebrew to Aaron, “Chief Inspector? It’s astonishing.”

Hannah said in the same language, “Go on, get out of here, the both of you.”

He was right about one thing. The coffee helped. She drank two cups, then undressed, went into the bathroom and stood under a cold shower for a good five minutes. She toweled her short hair briskly, then finished it off with the wall-mounted hair dryer.

“All the comforts of home,” she said softly and went back into the bedroom and dressed.

She was standing by the window ten minutes later when the key sounded in the lock. She turned and Aaron opened the door and stood to one side. Judas followed him, a menacing figure in the black jump suit and hood.

He was smoking a cigar and his teeth gleamed in a smile. “So, the great Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein. What’s a nice Jewish girl doing in a job like yours, when she should be married with three kids?”

“Making chicken soup with noodles for her lord and master?” she asked.

“I like it!” he said in Hebrew. “Sorry about your pal Dillon, but when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Mind you, from what I hear, the bastard has been on borrowed time for years.”

“He was worth ten of you,” she said.

He laughed. “Not anymore, he isn’t.” He turned to Aaron. “Bring her along. Time she met our special guest.”

Marie de Brissac was painting, seated in front of the easel, when the door opened and Aaron came in, followed by Hannah and Judas. Marie frowned and put her brush down.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve brought you a friend, a companion, if you like.” He turned to Hannah. “Go on, tell her who you are.”

“My name is Hannah Bernstein.”

Judas cut in. “Hey, let’s get it right. Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein.” Marie looked bewildered. “She was with Dillon in Sicily when we picked him up. I let her go then, because I wanted her to be able to talk to her boss. Then I got to thinking about you up here all alone and upset because we knocked off Dillon, so Aaron and Moshe flew to London and brought her back just for you.” He turned to Hannah. “You didn’t mind a bit, did you?”

She said calmly, “Why the hell don’t you clear off and leave us alone?”

He laughed again. “Hey, I’m being really good to you. You can have dinner together.” He turned to Aaron. “See to it,” and he went out.

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” Marie de Brissac asked.

“You mean who that bastard says I am?” Hannah said, then laughed ruefully. “You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose. I didn’t realize you painted. That’s rather good.”

She walked to the easel, paused at the table, picked up a piece of charcoal, and wrote on the first piece of cartridge paper: Dillon is alive. Marie read the message and looked at her in astonishment, and Hannah carried on: The room may be bugged. Go to the bathroom.

Marie did as she was told and Hannah followed, closing the door and flushing the toilet. “We saw your father – Dillon and I. Dillon knew they were going to kill him afterwards and managed to fool them into thinking he was dead. It doesn’t matter how.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Maybe your room isn’t bugged, but in any case, from now on when we mention Dillon, he’s dead.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“So, he’s on your case.”

“And yours?”

Hannah smiled. “He’s the best, Countess. Judas doesn’t know what he’s up against. Now back we go.” She flushed the toilet again and they returned to the bedroom. “So, you’ve no idea where we are?”

“I’m afraid not, and you, Chief Inspector?”

“I was kidnapped in London and flown here, wherever it is, in a private jet. We flew over the Mediterranean, I know that, but then they drugged my coffee.”

“They drugged me when they grabbed me in Corfu,” Marie said.

“I know, Dillon told me.” Hannah shook her head. “Poor Sean. To end up like that, shot in the back by some wretched hit man.”

The door opened and David Braun came in pushing a trolley. “Dinner, ladies.”

He started to lay the dining table and Marie said, “This is David, Chief Inspector, David Braun. He likes me, really, but on the other hand, he believes Judas to be a truly great man.”

“Then all I can say is he must be mentally deranged.” Hannah pushed David to the door. “Go on, get out of it. We can manage very well alone.”

Ferguson couldn’t sleep. He’d told Dillon and Blake about Teddy Grant’s intention of visiting Fort Lansing. He was sitting up in bed, reading, when the special mobile which Judas had given Dillon sounded. Ferguson let it ring for a while, then picked it up.

“Ferguson.”

“Hi, old buddy, just thought I’d let you know she arrived in one piece. She’s having dinner with the countess now. It’s countdown time, Brigadier. How long have we got? Three days. Dear me, Jake Cazalet must be going through hell.”

He started to laugh and Ferguson switched off the phone.

TWELVE

As the Gulfstream lifted off from Farley Field the following morning, Captain Vernon came on over the speaker.

“We’ll be able to land at Charles de Gaulle, but the weather isn’t good. Heavy rain and mist in Paris itself.”

He switched off and Blake made a cup of coffee, and tea for Dillon. “Imagine that bastard phoning Ferguson like that.”

“He likes sticking pins in people.”

“Well, I’d sure as hell like to stick pins in him. How are we going to play this, Sean?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. What do you think?”

“Frankly, I don’t see how we can avoid a face-to-face confrontation.”

“The same tactic we employed with Berger.”

“Something like that.”

“And how far would you be prepared to go to save the President’s daughter, Blake? Can I shoot an ear off, put a bullet through his kneecap?”

Blake frowned. “For God’s sake, Sean.”

“The point of the exercise is to save Marie de Brissac’s life. Now, how far do I go? I mean, what if Rocard is made of sterner stuff than Berger? What if he tells us to get stuffed? All I’m trying to say is if you don’t like what I do, just step out of the room.”

Blake raised a hand defensively. “Give me a break. Let’s see how it goes, okay? And there’s Teddy checking out the 801st Airborne at Fort Lansing. Maybe he’ll come up with something.”

Judas was in his study at that moment, having risen early, seated behind the desk, going through papers and running the fingers of one hand through his cropped hair, when his special phone rang.

“Yes,” he said and listened. After a while, he nodded. “Thanks for the information.”

“Damn!” he said softly and flicked the intercom. “Aaron, get in here.”

Aaron entered a moment later. “Was there something?”

“Hell, no, I just wanted to let you know Berger’s dead. I had a call from one of my London people. He was knocked down by a bus in Camden High Street. It was reported on the local television news.”

“Unfortunate,” Aaron said.

“Yes, he was useful to us.”

“Are you ready for breakfast?”

“Yes, I’ll have it with you. I’ll be along in a moment.”

Aaron went out and Judas sat there for a moment, then picked up his special mobile and punched in Rocard’s number in Paris. A metallic voice replied in French. “Michael Rocard here. I’ve gone to Morlaix for three days. I’ll be back Wednesday.”

Judas cursed softly in Hebrew, then said, “Berger’s been killed in an accident in London. Contact me as soon as you can.” He switched off, got up, and went out.

When Blake and Dillon crossed the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle and went into the arrival hall, a young woman in a Burberry trenchcoat came forward to greet them, a large envelope in one hand.

“Mr. Dillon, I’m Angela Dawson from the Embassy. Brigadier Ferguson asked for these.” She held up the envelope and passed it over. “Also I’ve got a car for you outside. This way, please.”

She was efficiency itself as she led them to the main entrance and out to the parking lot. She stopped beside a blue Peugeot and handed the keys to Dillon. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

She walked away briskly and Blake said, “Where in the hell did Ferguson find her?”

“Oxford, I suspect,” Dillon said and got behind the wheel. “Let’s get moving.”

The weather report had been accurate for once, pouring rain and clinging gray mist. Blake said, “What a greeting.”

“I like Paris,” Dillon told him. “Rain, snow, mist, I don’t give a damn. It always excites me. I’ve a place here.”

“An apartment?”

“No, a boat on the Seine. I lived in it, on and off, for years during what Devlin would have called my dark period.” He turned along Avenue Victor Hugo and pulled in at the curb. “This looks like it.”

They got out of the Peugeot and went up the steps to the main entrance. As they stood examining the name cards, each beside its bell push, the door opened and a stout, middle-aged woman in raincoat and headscarf, a basket over one arm, emerged.

She paused. “Can I help, gentlemen?”

“We are seeking Monsieur Rocard,” Dillon told her.

“But he is not here. He went to Morlaix for a few days. He’s due back tomorrow.” She went down the steps, put up her umbrella, and turned. “He did say he might be back this afternoon late, but he wasn’t sure.”

“Did he leave an address? We have legal business with him.”

“No, I believe he was staying with one of his boyfriends.” She smiled. “He has many, monsieur.”

She walked away, and Dillon grinned. “Let’s take a look.” He pressed a button at random, and when a woman’s voice answered said, “It’s me, cherie,” in French.

The buzzer sounded. The door opened at a push, and they were in.

They found Rocard’s apartment on the third floor. The corridor was deserted and Dillon took out his wallet, produced a picklock, and went to work.

“A long time since I had to use one of those,” Blake said.

“You never lose the knack,” Dillon said. “I’ve always felt it would be useful if I ever have to take to crime.”

The lock yielded, he eased the door open and went in, Blake following.

It was a pleasant, old-fashioned apartment, with lots of antiques and Empire-style gold-painted furniture. The rugs were all collector’s items, there was what looked like a genuine Degas on one wall, a Matisse on the other. There were two bedrooms, an ornate marble bathroom, and a study.

Dillon pressed the recall button on the answering machine. The voice said: “Michael Rocard here. I’ve gone to Morlaix.”

“Go through his messages,” Blake said.

Dillon pressed the button and the messages, all in French, came through and then Judas cut in.

“Hebrew,” Dillon said. “We’ve just won the jackpot. I’ll play it again.” He listened intently, then nodded. “Berger’s been killed in an accident in London. Contact me as soon as you can.”

“Judas?” Blake said.

“Or I’m a monkey’s uncle.” Dillon looked around the study. “Not worth turning the place upside down. He wouldn’t leave incriminating evidence around, a smart man like that.”

Blake picked up a photo in a silver frame from the desk. It was very old-fashioned and in black and white. The woman was in a chiffon dress, the man in dark suit and stiff collar. There was a boy of perhaps ten or twelve, a girl of five or six. It was strange, remote, something from another age.

“Family group?” Blake said.

“He’s probably the kid in the short pants,” Dillon told him.

Blake replaced the photo carefully. “Now what?”

“Better leave quietly. We can try again in case he does come back late afternoon. Otherwise we’ll just have to fill in the time.” He smiled. “In Paris, that usually means having a really great lunch.”

They left the apartment, paused while Dillon relocked the door, then went downstairs. Outside it was still raining and they paused, looking across at the Bois de Boulogne.

“A good address,” Dillon commented.

“For a successful man,” Blake nodded.

“The man who had everything and in the end found he had nothing.”

“Until Judas came along?”

“Something like that.”

“So what do we do now?”

Dillon smiled. “We’ll go and see if my barge is still in one piece.”

It was moored in a small basin on the Quai St Bernard. There were pleasure boats tied up to the stone wall, motor cruisers with canvas awnings up against the rain and mist drifting across the Seine. Notre Dame was not too far away. There were a number of flower pots on the stern deck with no flowers in them. Dillon lifted one and found a key.

“How long since you were here last?” Blake asked.

“A year or eighteen months, something like that.” Dillon went down the small companionway and unlocked the door.

He stood just inside. “Jesus, smell the damp. It could do with a good airing.”

It wasn’t what Blake had expected, a stateroom lined with mahogany, comfortable sofas, a television, and a desk. There was another cabin with a divan bed and a shower room and a kitchen galley.

“I’ll find us a drink.” Dillon went into the galley and searched the cupboards. When he came back with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, he found the American looking at a faded newspaper clipping.

“I found this on the floor. The Prime Minister. It’s from the London Times, but I can’t make out the date.”

“Good old John Major. Must have slipped down the back of the desk when I cleared the rest of the material. February nineteen ninety-one, the mortar attack on Downing Street.”

“So it really is true and you were responsible for that. You nearly brought it off, you bastard.”

“That’s true. It was a rush job, no time to weld guidance fins to the mortars, so they weren’t quite accurate enough. Come up this way.”

He had been very calm, very matter-of-fact as he had spoken. He opened another door that gave access to the aft deck. There was an awning, rain dripping from the edges, a small table and two chairs in wicker. Dillon poured claret into the glasses.

“There you go.”

Blake sat down and savored it. “Excellent. I’m supposed to have stopped, but I could use a cigarette.”

“Sure.” Dillon gave him one and a light and took another himself. He stood by the rail, sipping the wine and looking toward Notre Dame.

“Why, Sean?” Blake said. “Hell, I know your record backwards, but I still don’t understand. All those hits, all those jobs for people like the PLO, the KGB. Okay, so your father was caught in the crossfire in some Belfast street battle and you blamed the British Army and joined the IRA. You were what, nineteen? I understand that, but afterwards.”

Dillon turned, leaning on the rail. “Remember your American Civil War history. People like Jesse and Frank James? Raiding, fighting, and killing for the glorious cause and that was all they knew, so what came afterwards, when the war was over? They robbed banks and trains.”

“And when you left the IRA, you offered yourself as a gun for hire.”

“Something like that.”

“But when the Serbs shot you down in Bosnia, you were flying in medical supplies for children.”

“A good deed in a naughty world, isn’t that what Shakespeare said?”

“And Ferguson saved you from yourself, pulled you in on the side of right.”

“What a load of cobblers.” Dillon laughed out loud. “I do exactly what I was doing before, only now I do it for Ferguson.”

Blake nodded, serious. “I take your point, but isn’t anything serious business to you?”

“Certainly. Saving Marie de Brissac and Hannah from Judas, for instance.”

“But nothing else?”

“Like I’ve said before, sometimes situations need a public executioner and it happens to be something I’m good at.”

“And otherwise?”

“Just passing through, Blake, just passing through,” and Dillon turned and looked along the Seine.

At the same moment and six hours back in time, Teddy boarded an Air Force Lear jet at Andrews. They took off, climbed to thirty thousand feet, and the senior pilot came over the speaker.

“Just over an hour, Mr. Grant, and it should be pretty smooth. We’ll put down at Mitchell Field. That’s about forty minutes by road to Fort Lansing.”

He switched off and Teddy tried to read the Washington Post but couldn’t take it in. He was on too big a high. He had the strangest feeling about this. There was something waiting for him at Fort Lansing. There had to be, but what? He reached to the bar, made a cup of instant coffee, and sat there, thinking about things as he drank it.

Marie de Brissac was doing a charcoal sketch of Hannah. “You’ve got good bone structure,” she said. “That always helps. Were you and Dillon lovers?”

“That’s a leading question.”

“I’m half French. We’re very direct. Were you?”

Hannah Bernstein was careful to stay in the past tense where Dillon was concerned, just in case. “Good God, no. He was the most infuriating man I ever knew.”

“But you liked him in spite of that?”

“There was plenty to like. He had a ready wit, bags of charm, enormous intelligence. There was only one flaw. He killed too easily.”

“I suppose the IRA got to him early.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Hannah said, “I used to believe that, but only at first. It was his nature. He was too good at it, you see.”

The door rattled and David Braun came in with a tray. “Coffee and cookies, ladies. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Just put it on the table, David, and go,” Marie told him. “Don’t let us pretend that things aren’t as they are.”

It was as if she had slapped him, and his shoulders slumped as he went out.

“He really does like you,” Hannah told her.

“I’ve no time for false sentiment, not at this stage.”

She started to fill in the sketch and Hannah poured a couple of cups of coffee and placed one at Marie’s hand. She took her own and went to the open window and looked out through the bars.

“Come on, Dillon,” she said softly. “Sort the bastards.”

Teddy’s Presidential authorization had the same magical effect at Mitchell Field that it had had at Andrews. The duty officer, a Major Harding, had an Air Force limousine with a sergeant driver over from the vehicle pool in fifteen minutes.

“You look after Mr. Grant real good now, Hilton,” he said.

“Consider it done, sir.”

They moved out of the base and took a road that led through rolling green countryside. “Very pretty,” Teddy said.

“I’ve seen worse,” Hilton told him. “My last posting was Kuwait. I’ve only been back two months.”

“I thought you had a tan,” Teddy said.

Hilton appeared to hesitate. “Were you in the military, Mr. Grant?”

“My arm, you mean?” Teddy laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. I was an infantry sergeant in ’Nam. Left the arm there.”

“Life’s a bitch,” Hilton told him.

“It’s been said before. Now tell me about Fort Lansing.”

“During the Vietnam War, there was one regiment after another through there, but when the conflict was over it was rundown. There was some kind of resurrection at the time of the Gulf, but it’s just a primary infantry training base these days.”

“I just want the museum.”

“Hell, no problem. It’s open to the public.” They pulled onto a freeway. As he picked up speed, he said, “There’s a diner five miles along the way, and after that nothing for thirty miles. Do you want a coffee or a pit stop or something?”

“Good idea,” Teddy said. “But only for ten minutes. I want to get going,” and he sat back and tried to concentrate on the Post again.

In Paris, Michael Rocard parked as close as he could get to his apartment and walked to the front door. He hurried upstairs, only a satchel in one hand, and unlocked the door of his apartment.

Considering his age, his hair had a considerable amount of color in it and he looked ten years younger than he was, although the excellent suit he wore helped in that respect.

He checked the messages on his answering machine, listening to them one by one, then froze almost in panic as he came to Judas’s message in Hebrew. Berger dead. He went to the sideboard and poured cognac. What even Judas didn’t know was that Rocard and Berger had been occasional lovers. In fact, Rocard had developed a genuine and considerable affection for him. He unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out the special mobile, and punched out the numbers. Judas answered almost immediately.

“It’s Rocard.”

“You fool,” Judas told him. “Running off to Morlaix like a dog in heat and at a time like this.”

“What can I say?”

“So, Berger is dead, knocked down by a London bus. What’s the saying? Everyone is entitled to fifteen minutes of fame? Well, Berger got his, only it was a fifteen-second announcement of how he met his death on London local television.”

The cruelty was devastating, but what came next was worse. “You’ll need a new boyfriend for your London trips.”

Was there anything the bastard didn’t know?

Rocard mumbled, “What can I do?”

“Nothing. If I need you, I’ll phone. Three days, Rocard, only three days to go.”

He switched off and Rocard stood there, clutching the mobile, thinking of Paul Berger, and there were tears in his eyes.

When Teddy went into the museum complex at Fort Lansing, he was impressed. It was modern and airconditioned, with tiled floors and great murals of combat scenes on the walls. He avoided reception and walked along the main corridor until he came to an office with a sign saying Curator on it. He knocked and opened the door and found a highly attractive black woman seated behind a desk at the window.

She glanced up. “Can I help you?”

“I was looking for the curator, Mary Kelly.”

“That’s me.” She smiled. “Are you Mr. Grant from Columbia?”

“Well, yes… and no. I am Mr. Grant, but I’m not from the history department at Columbia.” Teddy opened his wallet and took out his card and dropped it in front of her.

Mary Kelly examined the card and the shock was physical, that much was obvious. “Mr. Grant, what is this?”

“I’ve got a Presidential authorization here if you’d like to see it.”

He took it from an envelope, unfolded it, and passed it across. Mary Kelly read it aloud. “My secretary, Mr. Edward Grant, is on a mission on behalf of the White House that is of the utmost importance. Any help offered would be deeply appreciated by the President of the United States.”

She looked up. “Oh, my God!”

He removed the authorization from her fingers, refolded it, and put it back in the envelope. “I shouldn’t have told you, but I’m taking a chance because I don’t have time to fool around. Even now I can’t tell you the full story. Maybe one day.”

She smiled slowly. “How can I help?”

“You have the records of a number of airborne regiments that passed through here during the Vietnam War.”

“That’s right.”

“One of them was the 801st. I’d like to check the list of officers serving with that regiment from, say, nineteen sixty-seven until seventy.”

“What name are you looking for?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Then what do you have?”

“Only that he’s Jewish.”

“Well, that covers quite a bit of territory. There were a lot of Jewish people in the army during the war. The draft affected everybody, Mr. Grant.”

“I know. It’s an incredible long shot. Will you help me?”

She took a deep breath. “Of course I will. This way,” and she led the way out.

The archives were in the basement and they had it to themselves. There was only the gentle hum of airconditioning as Mary Kelly examined the microfilm record, listing names on a pad with her right hand. She sat back.

“There you are. For the four years, nineteen sixty-seven up to and including seventy, there are twenty-three officers listed as being of the Jewish faith.”

Teddy examined the list name by name, but it was meaningless. He shook his head. “No damn good. I should have known.”

She was distressed for him and it showed. “And you’ve no other information?”

“Well, he served in the Israeli Army in the Yom Kippur War in nineteen seventy-three.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? We’ll have that on his back-up record. The Pentagon requires that a record be kept when American military personnel serve with another country’s army.”

Teddy said, “And you can check on that?”

“Quite simply. I have a small internal computer here. It’s not mainline. It’s to facilitate our own records. Over here.” She went and sat in front of a screen and tapped the keys. “Yes, here we are. Only one officer serving with the 801st went on to serve with the Israeli Army. Captain Daniel Levy, born nineteen forty-five in New York, left the army in nineteen-seventy.”

“Bingo!” Teddy said, a kind of awe in his voice. “That’s got to be him.”

“A hero,” she said. “Two Silver Stars. Father Samuel, mother Rachel, are listed as next of kin, but that was a long time ago. The father was a New York attorney. The address was Park Avenue, so they must be pretty wealthy with an address like that.”

“Is that it?” Teddy said. “No more?”

“Nothing that we can help you with.” She frowned slightly. “It really is important, isn’t it?”

“It could actually save someone’s life.” He grabbed her hand and shook it. “When I can, I’ll come back, I promise, and maybe then you’ll be able to hear the full story, but for now, I must return to Washington. If you’d show me the way out, I’d appreciate it.”

He stood some distance from the limousine, called the President on his mobile, and told him what he’d discovered.

“It certainly sounds promising, Teddy, but where does it lead us?”

“We could check on the family background. I mean, father an attorney, living on Park Avenue. He must have been important. I use the past tense because he’s either dead or very old.”

“I’ve just had a thought,” Cazalet said. “Archie Hood. He’s been the doyen of New York attorneys for years.”

“I didn’t think he was still alive,” Teddy said.

“Oh, yes, he’s eighty-one. I saw him at a fund-raiser in New York three months ago when you were in L.A. Leave it to me, Teddy, and you get back here as quick as you can.”

Teddy made his way to the limousine, where Hilton held the door open for him. “Okay, sergeant, Mitchell at your fastest. I’ve got to get back to Washington as soon as possible.”

It was about four o’clock when Rocard put on his raincoat and went downstairs. The concierge was polishing the mirror in the hall and paused.

“Ah, Monsieur Rocard, you are back.”

“So it would appear.”

“Two gentlemen were trying to reach you this morning. They said it was legal business.”

“Then if it’s important, they’ll come back. I’m going to have an early dinner at one of the bâteaux mouches.”

He went out and walked to his car, and at that moment Dillon pulled the Peugeot in at the curb on the other side of the road.

Blake pulled out the photo fax that Max Hernu had sent Ferguson. “It’s him, Sean.”

Rocard was already getting into his car and drove away. “Let’s see where he’s going,” Dillon said and went after him.

Rocard parked on the Quai de Montebello opposite the Ile de la Cité, not too far from where Dillon’s boat was tied up. There were a number of pleasure boats moored there, awnings over the aft and fore decks against the weather. Rocard ran through the rain and went up the gangplank of one of them.

“What’s this?” Blake asked as Dillon parked at the side of the cobbled quai.

“Bâteaux mouches,” Dillon told him. “Floating restaurants. Sail up the river and see the sights and have a meal at the same time, or just a bottle of wine if that’s your pleasure. They follow a timetable.”

“Looks as if they’re getting ready to cast off now,” Blake said. “We’d better move it.”

The two deck hands who were starting to pull in the gangway allowed them to board and they moved into the main saloon, where there was a bar and an array of dining tables.

“Not many people,” Blake said.

“There wouldn’t be with weather like this.”

Rocard was at the bar getting a glass of wine from the look of it. He took it and crossed to a stairway and mounted to the upper deck.

“What’s up there?” Blake asked.

“Another dining deck, but pretty exposed. The kind of thing that’s fun in fine weather. We’d better get a drink and see what he’s up to.”

They moved to the bar and Dillon asked for two glasses of champagne. “You intend to dine, gentlemen?” the barman asked.

“We’ll see,” Dillon replied in his excellent French. “I’ll let you know.”

They crossed to the stairs and went up. As he had indicated, this was another dining deck, but the sides were open and rain was blowing in. The crew had stacked the chairs in the center and the rain increased in force and mist drifted across the river.

There were other boats, of course, barges tied together in lines of three, and another restaurant boat passing in the opposite direction.

“It’s quite something,” Blake said.

Dillon nodded. “A great, great city.”

“So where is he?”

“Let’s try the stern promenade.”

It was reached by a door with a glass panel in it. Outside were three or four tables under an awning. Rocard was sitting at one of them, the glass of wine in front of him.

“Best get on with it,” Blake said.

Dillon nodded and opened the door and led the way through. “A wet evening, Monsieur Rocard,” he said.

Rocard looked up. “You have the advantage of me, Monsieur…?”

“Dillon – Sean Dillon, he who was supposed to be dead in Washington, but it’s the third day, and you know what that means.”

“My God!” Rocard said.

“This, by the way, is a gentleman named Blake Johnson, here on behalf of the President of the United States, who is rather understandably desperate for news of his daughter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rocard tried to stand and Dillon shoved him down and took out his Walther. “Silenced, so if I want to, I can kill you without a sound and put you over the rail.”

“What do you want?” Rocard looked sick.

“Oh, conversation, cabbages, and kings, Judas Maccabeus, poor old Paul Berger, but most of all Marie de Brissac. Now where is she?”

“Before God, I don’t know,” Michael Rocard said.

THIRTEEN

The boat moved forward into the mist. Blake said, “I find that difficult to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Look, the game’s up,” Dillon told him. “We know about Judas and his Maccabees. You wouldn’t deny you’re one of them?”

“That’s true, but I’ve never met Judas personally.”

“Then how were you recruited?”

Rocard thought for a long moment, then shrugged, resigned. “All right, I’ll tell you. I’m sick of the whole thing, anyway. It’s gone too far. I was at a reunion of survivors of the Auschwitz concentration camp. I was at Auschwitz as a boy with my family. Those Vichy swine handed us over to the Nazis. It’s where I met my wife.”

“So?” Blake said.

“We all stood up and made testament about what had happened to us. I had a mother, a father, and a sister. We were sent to Auschwitz Two, the extermination center at Birkenau. A million Jews died there. Can you gentlemen conceive of that? One million? I was the only member of my family to survive because a homosexual SS guard took a fancy to me and had me transferred to Auschwitz Three to work in the I. G. Farben plant.”

“I know about that place,” Blake Johnson said.

“The girl who became my wife, and her mother, were transferred by the same man as a favor.” His face was full of pain. “We survived, returned to France, and picked up the threads of our lives. I became a lawyer, her mother died, we married.” He shrugged. “She was never well, always ailing, she died years ago.”

“So where did Judas come into it?”

“I was approached by a man at the Auschwitz reunion and offered the chance to help to secure the future of Israel. I couldn’t resist. It seemed” – he spread his hands in a very French gesture – “so worthwhile.”

“And you served the de Brissac family?” Dillon said.

“I was their lawyer for years.”

“And betrayed the fact that Marie’s father was really the American President to Judas?” Blake accused.

“I didn’t mean it to turn out as it has. Before he died, the general signed a deed acknowledging that he was Marie’s titular father under the Code Napoléon to ensure she inherited the title. When I asked for an explanation, he refused.”

“So how did you find out?” Dillon asked.

“In such an ordinary way. When the countess was dying of cancer, she was sitting with Marie on the patio one day enjoying the sun. I’d arrived with papers for the countess to sign. They didn’t hear my approach, but they were discussing the situation. I heard the countess say: ‘But what will your father think?’ but of course to me, her father was dead.”

“So you listened?” Blake said.

“Yes, and heard all I needed to know. The name of her real father.”

“And you told Judas.”

“Yes,” Rocard said reluctantly. “Look, I deal with many important people, politicians, high-ranking generals. One of my briefs is to keep Judas informed of anything interesting.”

“And you told him Marie de Brissac’s secret?” Blake said.

“I didn’t realize what he would do with the information, I swear it.”

“You poor fool,” Dillon said. “In over your head, and it all seemed so romantic. Berger was exactly the same.”

Rocard stiffened. “You knew Paul?” His eyes widened. “You killed him?”

Blake said, “Don’t be stupid, and pull yourself together. I’ll get you a cognac.”

He went inside. Rocard said, “What happened to Paul? Tell me.”

“We traced him and questioned him. He told us how you recruited him. I’d intended holding him in a safehouse until this thing was over, but he panicked, thought we meant him harm. He ran across the road and a bus hit him. That’s the truth.”

“Poor Paul.” Rocard’s eyes were moist. “We were…” He hesitated. “Friends.”

Blake returned with a large cognac. “Try that, it might help.”

“Thank you.”

“All right,” Dillon said. “So tell us how it happened to Marie. Come on, you’ve nothing to lose now.”

“Judas phoned and ordered me to buy a small cottage on the northeast coast of Corfu. I was to persuade Marie to holiday there.”

“Why Corfu?”

“I’ve no idea. It was easy to persuade her to go because, since her mother’s death, she’s filled her time by taking painting holidays all over the place.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that he would have a devious motive?” Blake asked.

“I’m used to obeying his orders, that’s the way he runs things. I didn’t think. The damage had been done.” He shook his head. “I just didn’t think. I’d no idea that what has happened would happen. I care for Marie, I always have since she was a child.”

“But you followed Judas blindly?” Blake said.

“Remember Auschwitz, Mr. Johnson. I’m a good Jew. I love my people, and Israel is our hope. I wanted to help, can’t you see that?”

And it was Dillon who put a hand on his shoulder. “I see. I can see perfectly.”

“Do you know what he intends to do with her?” Blake asked.

And Rocard didn’t, that became immediately plain. “Use her as some sort of bargaining counter, I suppose.”

“Actually, he’s going to execute her on Tuesday unless her father signs an executive order for an American military strike against Iraq, Iran, and Syria.”

Rocard was truly horrified, and seemed to age visibly. “What have I done? Marie, what have I done?” He got up and moved to the rail and looked up at the rain. “I didn’t mean any of this, as God is my judge.”

Dillon turned to Blake Johnson. “I believe the poor sod.”

He turned and Rocard had gone, vanished as if he had never been. He and Blake ran to the rail. Mist swirled across the river, it seemed as if an arm was raised, and then the mist rolled in again. Dillon straightened, hands braced against the rail.

“I’d say there’s just about so much pain a person can take.”

Blake turned to him and there was anguish in his face. “But we’ve failed, Sean, we’re no further forward. What are we going to do?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go down to the bar to get myself a very large Irish whiskey. After that, it’s back to London to break the bad news to Ferguson.”

The President had run into roadblocks in his attempts to contact Archie Hood. He wasn’t at his apartment, that was certain, but a call to the law firm where he was still a consultant provided a number in the Cayman Islands where he was on holiday.

Finally, Cazalet made contact. “Archie, you old buzzard. It’s Jake Cazalet. Where are you?”

“Mr. President, I’m on the terrace of a delightful villa above a palm-fronted beach with a glass of champagne in one hand. I’m also surrounded by beautiful women, three of them, who happen to be my granddaughters.”

“Archie, I need your help, ears of the President only. A matter of vital importance. Can’t tell you why at the moment, but I hope to eventually.”

The old man’s voice had changed. “In what way may I be of service, Mr. President?”

“Levy, Samuel Levy, that mean anything to you?”

“Knew him well. He was a multi-millionaire from the family’s shipping line, but he chose the law and sold out when he inherited. Brilliant attorney. Did it for the hell of it. Never needed the money. Been dead about five years now.”

“And his son, Daniel Levy?”

“Now there was a strange one. Big war hero in Vietnam, then he got all turned on to Israel. Joined the Israeli Army and fought in the Yom Kippur War. Of course they had a big family tragedy a few years ago.”

“What was that?”

“Dan Levy’s mother and married sister went out to see him on holiday. They were both killed in the bombing of a Jerusalem bus station. The old man never got over it. It really killed him off.”

Jake Cazalet fought to stay calm. “And what’s happened to Daniel Levy?”

“Inherited almost a hundred million dollars, a house in Eaton Square in London, a castle in Corfu. Last I heard he was a colonel in Israeli Airborne, but he resigned. There was a scandal. He executed Arab prisoners or something.”

“You say a castle in Corfu?”

“Sure, I visited it once years ago when his father owned it. My wife and I were on a cruise and Corfu was one of the stopping-off points. Strange place on the northwest coast called Castle Koenig. Apparently in the old days it was owned by a German baron. The Krauts have always liked Corfu. If I remember right, Prince Philip was born there.” There was a pause. “Does any of this help?”

“Help? Archie, you’ve done me the greatest service of your career. One day you’ll know why, but for the moment, total secrecy.”

“Mr. President, you have my word.”

When Teddy came into the Oval Office, the President was standing at the window. He turned and the energy in him was visible. “Don’t say a word, Teddy, just listen.”

When he was finished, Teddy said, “It all fits. Judas told Dillon he’d had relatives killed. I mean, it all damn well fits.”

“So, all the indications are that she and Chief Inspector Bernstein are at this Castle Koenig place. When they kidnapped her, telling her she was going for a plane ride before they drugged her, it was just a bluff.”

“So what do we do, send in Navy Seals, borrow the SAS from the Brits?”

“No way, Teddy. The first sign of trouble he’d kill them.” Cazalet reached for the Codex. “Let’s get Ferguson.”

In fact, Ferguson had just finished speaking to Dillon in the Gulfstream on the way back to London. He listened to what Cazalet had to say.

“Teddy is right, it fits, Mr. President. I’m afraid Rocard, the de Brissac lawyer, has followed Berger to an early grave, but before he died, he indicated a Corfu connection.”

“So what do we do?”

“I have associates in Corfu, because for some years we’ve operated illegal traffic to Albania just across the water which is, as you know, still Communist-dominated. The people I use are entirely the right kind for this sort of operation. Dillon and Blake Johnson will be arriving at Farley Field in the Gulfstream. I’ll join them there, bring them up to date, and we’ll leave for Corfu at the soonest possible moment. Trust me, Mr. President. I’ll stay in close touch.”

Jake Cazalet switched off the Codex, and Teddy said, “Well?”

So the President told him.

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then called a number in Corfu. A woman answered the phone and spoke in Greek.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Brigadier Ferguson,” he said in English. “Is that you, Anna?”

“It is, Brigadier. Good to hear from you.”

“I need that good-for-nothing rogue of a husband of yours, Constantine.”

“Not tonight, Brigadier, he’s working.”

“I know what that means. When will he be back?”

“Maybe four hours.”

“Tell him I’ll call, and make sure he’s there, Anna. A big payday.”

He put the phone down, went to the sideboard and poured a Scotch, and stood at the window savoring it. “Right, you bastard, we’re coming to get you,” he said.

At that moment, Constantine Aleko was at the wheel of his fishing boat, the Cretan Lover, halfway between the coast of Corfu and Albania, his head apparently disembodied in the light of the binnacle. It was raining slightly and there was a slight wind from the sea.

Aleko was fifty years of age. Once a lieutenant commander in the Greek Navy, he had ended a reasonably distinguished career by punching a captain in a drunken fight over a woman in a Piraeus bar.

So, he had come home to Corfu to the little port of Vitari, had used his compensation money as a down payment on the Cretan Lover, a supposed fishing boat that had the kind of engines that could take her to twenty-five knots.

Backed by his beloved wife, Anna, he had worked the smuggling trade for all it was worth, using the extensive knowledge of the Albanian coast that he had gained in the Greek Navy to his own advantage. The cigarette trade was particularly lucrative. The Albanians would pay almost anything for British and American brands.

Of course they were tricky bastards and needed watching, which was why he had his two nephews, Dimitri and Yanni, on his side, and his wife’s cousin, old Stavros. It was Stavros who brought him coffee now, as rain streamed against the wheelhouse window.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this. That Albanian bastard, Bolo, I don’t trust him an inch. I mean, he tried to do us down last time on that cargo of Scotch whiskey.”

“It’s taken care of, you old worrier, believe me. I know how to handle scum like Bolo.” Constantine drank the coffee. “Excellent. Here, take the wheel for me. I want a word with the boys.”

Stavros took over and Aleko crossed the deck, passing the draped nets, the baskets of fish, and went down the companionway. In the main saloon, Dimitri and Yanni were pulling on diving suits. There were two Uzi submachine guns on the table.

“Hey, Uncle,” Yanni said. “You think these Albanian apes will try and take us?”

“Of course he does, stupid,” Dimitri said. “Otherwise why would we be bothering?”

“Bolo owes me five thousand American dollars for this cargo of Marlboro cigarettes,” Aleko said. “I’ve good reason to think he’ll try to take them for nothing. So – you know what to do. You don’t need tanks. Just go over at the right time and swim to the other side of his boat and don’t forget these.”

He lifted one of the Uzis, and Dimitri said, “How far do we go?”

“They try to shoot you, you shoot them.”

He left them to it and went back on deck. When he went into the wheelhouse, he lit two cigarettes and gave one to Stavros.

“A good night for it.”

“It better be,” Stavros told him, “because if I’m not much mistaken, there they are now.”

The other boat was rather similar, nets draped from the mast to the deckhouse. There were a couple of men working in the stern deck, apparently sorting fish in the sickly yellow light of a lamp that hung from one corner of the wheelhouse. There was a man at the wheel, someone Aleko hadn’t seen before, and Bolo was standing beside him, smoking a cigarette. He was forty-five, a large man, shoulders huge in the reefer coat he wore, and the face beneath the peaked cap had the kind of reckless charm possessed only by the truly insincere. He came out on deck.

“Hey, my good friend Constantine. What have you got for me this time?”

“What you asked for, Marlboro cigarettes, for which you will pay me five thousand American dollars with your usual reluctance.”

“But, Constantine, I’m your friend.” Bolo took a bundle of notes from his pocket bound with a rubber band. “Here, check it for yourself. It’s all there.” He tossed it across. “Where are my cigarettes?”

“Under the nets here. Show them, Stavros.”

As Aleko quickly counted the money, Stavros removed the nets, revealing several cardboard packing cases. Bolo’s two deckhands joined him and manhandled them across. When they were finished, they stepped back over the rail.

Aleko looked up. “So, it’s all here. Amazing.”

“Yes, isn’t it, and now I’ll have it back.”

Bolo reached inside the wheelhouse and produced a Second World War machine pistol, the German variety known as the Schmeisser and much favored by Italian partisans. His two deckhands took out revolvers.

“I might have known,” Aleko said. “The leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

“I’m afraid not. Now give me the money back or I’ll kill the lot of you and sink your damn boat.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Dimitri and Yanni, black-cowled figures in their rubber suits, were sliding under the rail on the other side of the Albanian boat. They stood up holding the Uzis ready, menacing figures.

Yanni said, “Good evening, Captain Bolo.”

The Albanian turned in alarm and Yanni fired a short burst that caught Bolo in the right arm and tore the Schmeisser from his grasp. Dimitri had already taken careful aim and loosed off a single shot that took one of the deckhands in the back of the leg. He went down and the other dropped his gun and raised his hands.

“I enjoyed that,” Aleko said. “Back on board, boys, and cast off.”

As the gap widened, Bolo stood clutching his blood-soaked sleeve, his face twisted with pain. “Damn you, Constantine.”

“You’re only a beginner.” Aleko waved. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other for a while.”

The boys went below to change, and Stavros made coffee while Aleko took the wheel. When the old man returned, he put the mug of coffee on the chart table and said, “One thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t we take back the cigarettes?”

“A bargain is a bargain.” Aleko grinned. “But I just called up the gunboat working the channel tonight. Lieutenant Kitros in command. He once served under me in the navy. I’ve given him their position, but it wouldn’t be much good without hard evidence.”

“The cigarettes?”

“Exactly.”

“You wonderful bastard.”

“Yes, I know. Now let’s get back home to Vitari.”

Vitari was a small fishing port on the northeast coast of Corfu, and home was a taverna on a hill overlooking the harbor. Anna was in sole charge, a handsome, heavily tanned woman who wore a headscarf and a traditional peasant dress in black. She was devoted to her husband, her only regret the fact that she’d been unable to bear him children.

There were a dozen fishermen in the bar, a young local girl seeing to their wants, and greetings were exchanged when the crew of the Cretan Lover entered.

“You three get a drink,” Aleko said. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Anna.”

She was at the stove, stirring lamb stew in a black pot, and turned, smiling. “A successful night?”

He kissed her on the forehead, poured himself a glass of red wine from a jug on the table, and sat down. “Bolo tried to take us.”

Her face darkened. “What happened?” He told her, and when he was finished she said, “The swine. I hope Kitros finds him. He should get five years.”

“Oh, Kitros will get him all right. I trained that young man myself.”

“You had a phone call from London, England. Brigadier Ferguson.”

Aleko straightened. “What did he want?”

“He just said it would be a big payday and that he’d call back.”

“That sounds interesting. He’s always paid well, anyway.”

“And so he should. Those drops you made him on the Albanian coast, that’s dangerous work, Constantine. If the Communists got their hands on you…”

He cut in. “You worry too much, woman.” He got up and slipped his hands around her waist. “It’s a good job I love you.”

Stavros and the boys came in with their drinks. “Still lovebirds at your age?” Stavros said.

“Oh, shut up and sit,” Anna said.

They did as she told them and she laid plates. Aleko said, “Anna tells me our old friend Brigadier Ferguson phoned me from London.”

They were all immediately interested. “What for?” Yanni demanded. “Albania again?”

“I don’t know,” Aleko said. “A big payday is what he said and he’s phoning back.”

“Hell, that sounds good,” Dimitri said.

Anna brought the pot and started to spoon out the stew. “Stop it, the lot of you, and just eat.”

It was perhaps ten minutes later that the phone rang in the small office and Aleko got up and went in.

“Brigadier,” he said in excellent English. “And what can I do for you? Albania again?”

“Not this time. Tell me what you know about a place called Castle Koenig.”

“About fifteen miles north of here on the coast. Owned by an American family for many, many years. Name of Levy.”

“Is anyone there now to your knowledge?”

“They employ a local couple to caretake. It was inherited by a son named Daniel. Some sort of war hero. Vietnam, I think. He’s even fought for the Israelis. He just comes and goes, that’s what I hear. Quite popular with the locals. Look, what is this?”

“I’ve reason to believe he’s holding two women there at the moment. One of them is my assistant, a Chief Inspector Bernstein. It doesn’t matter who the other is, it’s classified.”

“This is a political thing?”

“More a terrorist thing,” Ferguson said. “I’m going to fly out as soon as possible by private jet, and I’ll have two first-class operatives with me. We intend to get those women out, Constantine, and I need your help. There would be very big money in this.”

“Forget that for the moment. What are friends for? When will you arrive?”

“Sometime in the morning. I’ll have a Range Rover waiting at the airport, and we’ll drive across the island and join you at the taverna. The Cretan Lover is in good condition, I trust?”

“Perfection. You’re thinking of going in by sea?”

“Probably.”

“I’ve got an idea. Give me a contact number.”

“No problem. I’ll give you my mobile. It’s satellite-linked so you can even get me on the plane. What do you have in mind?”

“I’ll take a run up there now. If I go by motorbike I’ll be there in half an hour. I’ve got a cousin called Goulos, who has a small farm near the castle. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Aleko returned to the kitchen, took his reefer coat from behind the door, and pulled it on. “But you haven’t finished your meal,” Anna told him.

“Later, this is important.” He opened a drawer, took out a Browning and checked it, and put it in his pocket.

“What is this?” Stavros said.

Aleko said, “I’ll tell you all about it later. I’m taking your Suzuki, Yanni, so let’s have the keys.”

Yanni complied. “Where are you going?”

“To see my cousin Goulos. There’s something funny going on at Castle Koenig and I’d like to know what it is,” and he went out.

The message waiting for Dillon and Blake when they arrived at Farley Field was explicit. They were to wait to hear from Ferguson. They joined the pilots in the RAF officers’ mess for a meal and were halfway through it when Dillon’s mobile sounded. He nodded to Blake, got up and went out of the front door of the mess, taking the call standing on the tarmac.

“I know you’ve been hanging around up there for some time,” Ferguson said, “but a lot’s happened. I know where she is, Corfu, and I know who Judas is.”

“But how?”

So Ferguson brought him up to date.

When the Brigadier was finished, Dillon said, “What now?”

“I’ll be joining you at Farley soon. Ask Captain Vernon to prepare a flight plan. I should be hearing from Aleko, of course.”

“So we hit from the sea?”

“That would seem logical.”

“We’ll need tooling up.”

“Aleko has a rather extensive range of equipment, but I’ll bring a few items from the armorer.”

“Fine. We’ll see you when we see you, then.”

Dillon went back to the mess and sat down. “That was Brigadier Ferguson,” he said to Captain Vernon. “He’d like you to file a flight plan to Corfu.”

Blake looked up, frowning.

“That might not be possible before the morning.” Vernon pushed his plate away and stood up.

“I’ll come with you,” Lieutenant Gaunt said and followed him.

“What the hell is going on?” Blake asked.

“We’ve found them, thanks to Teddy and that black raven sketch. It wasn’t Israeli, Blake, it was American. Judas is one of your own.”

“Then tell me, for Christ’s sake,” Blake demanded. “Everything.”

When the armorer at the Ministry of Defense knocked on the door of Ferguson’s office, he found Ferguson at the window looking out at Horse Guards Avenue.

“Ah, Mr. Harley.”

“Brigadier.” Harley almost clicked his heels. A retired sergeant-major, he had served in the Korean War with Ferguson. “How can I assist, Brigadier?”

“A black operation, Sergeant-Major, very black. Your authorization is on the desk there.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harley picked it up, folded it and put it in a pocket, then took out pad and pen. “What would you require?”

“Three flak jackets, very latest model, and in black. Black jump suits to go with them. Stun grenades, night-vision goggles, also a pair of good night-vision binoculars.”

“Weaponry, sir?”

“Handguns, silenced of course, and silenced machine pistols of some sort. What would you suggest?”

“Silenced Brownings for the pistols, sir, still the preferred handgun of the SAS, and I’d stick to the Uzi for a machine pistol. The latest model the Israelis have come up with is a superb silenced version. Anything else?”

“Semtex is always useful. I’m thinking of blowing doors.”

“I’ll make up a box for you. Small charges for five-second timer pencils and three- or four-quarter-pound blocks for anything bigger, plus a selection of assorted timers.”

“Excellent. At your soonest, Sergeant-Major, and delivered to Farley Field.”

“I’ll see to it myself, sir.” Harley folded the pad. “Sounds like the kind of order Mr. Dillon would have given me.” He hesitated. “I heard a whisper, sir. I hope it isn’t true.”

“Farley Field, Sergeant-Major, at your soonest.”

“Of course, sir,” and Harley went out.

Aleko made good time on the main road, turning into a narrow track when he was close to his destination, negotiating the way slowly over the uneven surface in the light of the headlamp. When he rode into the yard of the farm, it was midnight, but there was still a light in the kitchen and a dog barked. Aleko switched off the engine and pushed the Suzuki up on its stand. The door opened and Goulos, an aging man with gray hair, appeared, holding a shotgun.

“Who are you?”

“It’s your cousin, Constantine, you fool. Put the gun away.”

The dog had rushed out, still barking, but now started to whine and lick Aleko’s hand.

“What kind of time is this?” Goulos demanded.

“Ask me in and I’ll explain.”

“Well, come in. My wife’s away so you’ll have to make do with me.”

Aleko took a package from the Suzuki’s side bag and followed him. It was a country kitchen with stone floor, open fire, and pinewood furniture. He put the package on the table.

“One thousand Marlboro cigarettes, my gift to you.”

Goulos almost went berserk. “These things are like gold, so expensive. Almost too good to smoke, but I will.”

“Here, have one of mine for the time being and let’s have a drink,” Constantine said.

Goulos went to the cistern, opened it, and took out a bottle. “This is a German wine called Hock. Marvellous when cold and the cistern is better than an ice box.”

He got a corkscrew and opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and accepted one of Aleko’s cigarettes. “Wonderful.” He expelled the smoke. “So I die a little earlier. Who cares? I hear you’re doing really well with the smuggling these days.”

“Fair.”

“What nonsense, you make a fortune. So what do you want with your poor old cousin?”

Aleko poured more Hock. “You’re family, Goulos, and I love you, but if you let me down in this affair, I’ll kill you myself.”

“That important?” Goulos said. “Well, what are families for? So tell me.”

“Castle Koenig,” Aleko said.

Goulos stopped smiling. “You’ve got a problem there?”

“I could have. A serious problem. Tell me anything you can.”

“Well, this American family has owned it for years. The present member is, or was, a colonel in the Israeli Army, name of Levy. The family have always been well liked locally. He used to have holidays as a boy, learned some Greek, but these days” – he shrugged – “it’s not the same.”

“In what way?”

“Well, he always had caretakers, Zarchas and his wife, because he only came to the castle now and then, but about two months ago he fired them without explanation.”

“And then?”

“Five young men turned up, all Israelis. They’ve been there ever since. One of them, called Braun, does the shopping at the village store. He doesn’t have Greek, so uses English.” He poured Aleko another glass of Hock. “They’re there now, I know that for a fact, also Colonel Levy. What’s it about, Constantine?”

“Bad people is what it’s about,” Aleko told him. “I think they’re holding two women captive.”

Goulos smiled beautifully. “Now isn’t that a coincidence? Little Stefanos, my goat boy, was on the slope close to the castle a few days ago. He was in the olive grove looking for a stray, and he could see into the courtyard. Someone drove in in a vehicle, then two of the Israelis helped a woman out and took her in the main door between them.”

“My God,” Aleko said. “That’s it.”

“No, there’s more. He was up there again yesterday when the same thing happened, only this time the woman involved had to be carried inside.”

Aleko banged on the table. “Like I said, bad people, my cousin.”

“So what will you do about them?”

Aleko smiled. “Oh, something appropriate.” He stood up and shook hands. “Enjoy your cigarettes,” and he opened the door and went back to the Suzuki.

When he returned to the taverna, his nephews and Stavros were sitting at the bar, the only customers, Anna standing behind.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“First I phone Brigadier Ferguson, then I’ll explain.” He went through to the office and was back in five minutes. “Right,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

Ferguson had taken the call while seated in the back of his Daimler on the way to Farley Field. He had never felt such elation. He sat there thinking about it, then phoned the President on his mobile. Cazalet was in the sitting room at the White House having coffee and sandwiches with Teddy, when he took the call.

“Total confirmation, Mr. President. My local contact has established they are there.”

“Thank God!” the President said. “What happens now?”

“We’ll do whatever we have to tomorrow. I’ll be there with Dillon and Blake Johnson and my local people. I’ll keep in constant touch.”

“Thank you,” Cazalet said, then turned to Teddy. “They’re there,” he said simply. “They are there at Castle Koenig. Ferguson has had it confirmed.”

The one fly in the ointment was the weather. At Farley Field the rain fell monotonously as Ferguson was sitting in the small office the station commander had loaned him, talking to Blake and Dillon. Captain Vernon and Lieutenant Gaunt came in. Gaunt unfolded a chart across the desk.

“There we are, Brigadier, direct flight over France, Switzerland, northern Italy, and down the Adriatic Sea to Corfu.”

“How far?”

“Almost fourteen hundred miles.”

“How long will it take?”

“I’d normally say three hours to allow for any eventualities, but weather in mainland Britain is so bad at the moment that they won’t give me a departure time until eight A.M.”

“Damn!” Ferguson said.

“Sorry, Brigadier, nothing I can do.”

“Yes, not your fault. Proceed on that time scale, then.”

Vernon went out and Dillon opened the French window and looked out at the rain. “A hell of a night.”

“I know, don’t rub it in,” Ferguson said.

It was Blake who stated the obvious. “Even if we don’t get to Corfu by noon and still have to cross the island by Range Rover, it won’t make much difference. Whatever the plan, when it comes to attacking Castle Koenig, it must be under cover of darkness.”

Ferguson nodded. “You’re right, of course.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “A few hours sleep, gentlemen. Let’s grab them while we can,” and he led the way out.

FOURTEEN

It was still raining the following morning when they took off, rising through the bad weather steadily until they leveled off at fifty thousand. Sergeant Kersey brought coffee, and tea for Dillon, and retired.

“Can we go over again what Sergeant-Major Harley delivered?”

Ferguson told him, and Dillon nodded. “That seems adequate. I’m glad you remembered the door charges.”

Ferguson said mildly, “I would remind you, Dillon, that I have been doing this sort of thing for even longer than you.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon said innocently. “I didn’t think you were that old.”

“A nineteen-year-old subaltern on the Hook in the Korean War, as you very well know.”

“I always heard that was a bad place,” Blake said.

“You could say that. Trench warfare, just like the First World War. You’d sit there in a regiment of seven hundred and fifty men and the Chinese would attack in divisional strength, usually around twelve thousand.” He shrugged. “Old men’s stories. Who cares?”

“Well, you got a Military Cross out of it, and that’s not bad for nineteen, you old bugger,” Dillon said. “Let’s look at that map again.”

Ferguson took it from his briefcase and unfolded it. It was quite simply a large-scale map of Corfu. “Here we are, Vitari, that’s Aleko’s village, and he said Castle Koenig was about fifteen miles north.”

“But not marked,” Blake said.

“Well, it wouldn’t be, it’s not that kind of a map.” Ferguson looked at Dillon. “You think it can be done?”

“Under cover of darkness, yes.”

“There is one problem. Aleko and his chaps are good men and as fine a band of cutthroats as I’ve ever used, but against Judas, or Levy, as I suppose we must call him now…” Ferguson shook his head. “A first-class soldier, and I would deduce that every one of his men has served in the Israeli Army.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dillon said. “This is a one-man operation anyway. Aleko and his boys simply land me and stand out to sea and wait for a signal to come back when needed.”

“The worst idea I ever heard of,” Blake Johnson told him. “I think you’ve forgotten how to count, Dillon. Levy has five men that we know of – that’s six including him – and we got that information from you. Now what the hell are you going to do? Sneak in there and kill them one by one like a bad action movie?”

“I know the interior of the castle, I know where to go.”

“You don’t damn well know. You were on the third floor, and so was Marie de Brissac, and you only know that because they took you down to the cellar. Oh, I was forgetting. They took you to the great man’s study, so you know where that is. Other than that, you know squat.”

“So what are you saying?”

“That you need backup, my fine Irish friend, and here I am.”

“It’s not your kind of game.”

“Two tours in Vietnam, Dillon, and I’ve killed a few times in the FBI. It’s beyond argument.” Blake turned to Ferguson. “Tell him, Brigadier.”

Ferguson smiled. “Frankly, I rather took it for granted. I even brought a jump suit and flak jacket for myself.”

“Now I know the world’s gone mad,” Dillon said.

“Yes, on reflection, I’ll stay with the boat. Useful, that flak jacket, though, if we come under fire, but I’m hungry. Sergeant Kersey!”

Kersey came through from the galley. “General?”

“I keep telling you, it’s Brigadier in the British Army. I don’t know what these two want, but I’d like tea, toast, and marmalade. I’m just in the mood.”

“Coming right up, General,” Kersey said deliberately and returned to the galley smiling.

In his study, Colonel Dan Levy, also known as Judas, was standing at the window looking out, an unlit cigar in his mouth, when there was a knock at the door and they all came in, led by Aaron, and stood in a semicircle.

Levy turned to face them. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Colonel.” Aaron nodded. “You sent for us.”

“The operation is obviously at a critical point. The President has to make the decision to sign Nemesis day after tomorrow.”

It was David Braun who spoke. “Colonel, do you really think he will?”

“I don’t know. The one thing I’m certain of is that I will surely execute his daughter if he does not. My mind is fixed on that.” He looked hard, incredibly determined. “Is there anyone here who doubts that?”

He looked from one to another searchingly. “Is there anyone here who doubts the cause we fight for?”

It was Aaron who spoke. “Of course not. We’re with you to the end. Whatever it takes.”

“Good. So, the next forty-eight hours is critical. How are the women, David?” he asked Braun.

“I took the Bernstein woman back to her own room for the night.”

Levy cut in. “Not the Bernstein woman, David. Give her the proper title. Personally, I admire her greatly. They could do with her in the Jerusalem Criminal Investigations Department.”

David Braun looked uncomfortable. “I took the Chief Inspector back to her own room for the night. I haven’t taken her to join the countess yet because I was leaving breakfast until after this meeting.”

“Give them anything they want.” He laughed harshly. “A champagne breakfast. Why not?”

“Any further orders, Colonel?” Aaron asked.

“Not that I can think of. Frankly, we have nothing to worry about. As I’ve told you before, I have eyes and ears everywhere. Navy Seals are not going to attack us, gentlemen, Special Forces are not going to parachute in, and not just because they don’t know where we are, but because the President of the United States knows that if he made one move, his daughter would die on the instant. Isn’t that so, Aaron?”

“Of course, Colonel.”

“So simple it’s a work of genius,” and Levy threw back his head and laughed. “Come to think of it, I am a genius,” and his eyes glistened.

They shifted uncomfortably and Aaron said, “We’ll get moving then, sir.”

“Good. Usual two prowler guards tonight in the grounds. Two hours on, four hours off. Dismissed, gentlemen.”

Once outside, Moshe, Raphael, and Arnold moved away, leaving David Braun with Aaron. Braun was agitated, and Aaron said, “Have you got a problem?”

“For the first time, I’m beginning to think he’s mad. Maybe some of that Sinai sun got into his brain.”

“Let him hear you talk like that and you’re dead, you fool. Now pull yourself together and get their breakfast.”

Braun got Hannah from her room and took her along the corridor. “I hope you slept well?”

“You don’t give a damn whether I slept well or not, so why pretend?”

He unlocked the door to Marie de Brissac’s room and ushered Hannah in. “I’ll have breakfast ready in a little while.”

Marie came out of the bathroom. “What was that?”

“Just Braun. He’s gone to get breakfast.”

“He’s late this morning. I wonder why?”

Hannah went to the window and peered through the bars. There was a fishing boat passing by not too far from the bay. “Now if only it was flying the flag of its country, we’d know where we were. Roughly.” Hannah laughed.

Marie gestured to her easel. “What do you think?” The charcoal sketch was fleshed out in color now and was quite excellent. “Watercolors wouldn’t have been right, so I had to use crayon.”

“It’s marvelous,” Hannah said. “Can I have it? I’d love to have it framed.”

In the same moment, realizing what she’d said, she burst out laughing. “Well, that’s optimistic, anyway,” Marie told her.

Ten minutes later, the door opened and Braun pushed the trolley in. “Scrambled eggs and sausages this morning.”

“Are they kosher?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, we take what we can get.” He lifted the cover of a dish. “The bread is locally baked and the honey is local, too. Coffee is in the thermos flask.”

“And the champagne?” Marie asked and took the bottle from the ice bucket. “Whose idea is this, Judas’s?”

Braun shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, he thought it might cheer you up.”

“The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast?” Hannah put in.

“Very hearty if he had this to go with it,” Marie said. “Louis Roederer Cristal, nineteen eighty-nine. Judas has taste, I’ll say that for him. Mad, of course, but tasteful.”

“He’s a great man,” Braun burst out. “In the Yom Kippur War, when the Egyptians took us by surprise, Judas was in command of some of the most strategic bunkers, with a hundred men under him. They fought like lions in that burning Sinai heat. When they were relieved, there were only eighteen left alive.”

“A long time ago,” Marie said. “I’d have thought he’d have got over it by now.”

Braun was angry. “Got over what? Arab hatred, the constant attacks by terrorist groups like Hamas? What about Lebanon, and the Gulf, when Iraq targeted us with missiles?”

“All right, we hear you,” Hannah told him.

“No, you don’t, and you a Jew. You should be ashamed. What about Aaron’s brother shot down over Syria and tortured? What of my two sisters, blown to pieces in a student bus?”

He was very agitated and Marie said, “David, calm down, just calm down.”

“And Judas.”

There was a pause and Hannah said softly, “What about him?”

“His mother, his married sister, decent people over from America to spend time with him, killed in a Jerusalem bus station bomb. More than eighty people killed or wounded. This is funny?”

“David, nobody thinks it’s funny,” Marie told him.

He opened the door and turned. “You think I enjoy this, Countess? I like you. I like you a great deal. Isn’t that a huge joke?”

He went out, locking the door, and Hannah said, “Poor boy, I do believe he’s in love with you.”

“Well, it won’t do him any good or me,” Marie said. “But let’s get on with the scrambled eggs, and we might as well open the champagne.”

“Why not?” Hannah said. “You know the story about Louis Roederer Cristal and why it’s the only champagne bottle you can see through?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It was designed by Tsar Nicholas of Russia. He said he wanted to be able to look at the champagne.”

“And look how he ended up,” Marie de Brissac said and popped the cork.

At that moment the Cretan Lover, Stavros at the wheel, passed Castle Koenig a few miles off shore. Aleko was also in the wheelhouse, Yanni and Dimitri worked at the draped nets. Aaron, on the battlements with Moshe, focused a pair of Zeiss glasses, bringing the boat into sharp focus. He lowered them.

“Just a fishing boat.”

Moshe took the glasses from him and took a look. “The Cretan Lover. Yes, I’ve seen that one tied up in Vitari when I go for supplies.”

He handed the glasses back to Aaron, who said, “I’ll be glad when it’s over, one way or the other, but over.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Moshe said and walked away, an MI6 slung from his left shoulder.

In the wheelhouse, Aleko focused the old binoculars from his navy days, and every line of the castle came into prominence, sharp and clear.

“Two men on the battlements,” he said softly, “one of them with a rifle.” He ranged across the bay. “Seagoing motor cruiser on one side of the jetty, speedboat on the other and a powerful one from the look of it. I bet that baby does thirty knots.” He nodded to Stavros. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go home.”

As they turned out to sea, Stavros said, “You’d need an army to get into a place like that.”

“Maybe not. Let’s see what Ferguson comes up with.”

When the Gulfstream landed at Corfu Airport, it taxied under instruction to a remote area where there were older hangars and a number of private planes. There was a police car waiting there with a driver, a young captain standing beside it. He came forward as Ferguson led the way down the ladder.

“Brigadier Ferguson?” he said in fair English, and shook hands. “My name is Andreas. Colonel Mikali phoned me from Athens with orders to offer you every facility.”

“That’s kind of him,” Ferguson said.

“Customs and immigration are taken care of, and I have a Range Rover for you. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Help us load our stuff and we’ll be off,” Ferguson said.

The various cases were manhandled from the cargo hatch into the Range Rover, and Captain Andreas departed.

“Very obliging, this Colonel Mikali in Athens,” Dillon said. “Here we are, importing arms into the country. Does he have any idea what we’re about?”

“Of course not,” Ferguson said, “but he does owe me a few favors.” He turned to Vernon and Gaunt, Kersey standing behind them. “Gentlemen, you’re probably as intrigued as hell, but there’s nothing I can say at this point except that you’ve never been part of anything so important. If our efforts come to fruition tonight, your next destination will be Washington.”

“Then we’d better get on with refueling, Brigadier,” Vernon said.

Ferguson got into the rear of the Range Rover, Blake in the passenger seat at the front, and Dillon took the wheel.

“So, this is where it gets interesting, gentlemen,” he said and drove away.

When they pulled up outside the taverna at Vitari, Aleko came down the steps to greet Ferguson as he got out of the Range Rover.

“Hey, Brigadier, you look younger.” He embraced Ferguson fiercely and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Stop all that Greek nonsense,” Ferguson admonished him. “This is Sean Dillon, these days my main enforcer.”

Dillon shook hands. “You come well recommended,” he said in passable Greek.

“Hey, a man of parts,” Aleko said in English.

“And an American friend, Blake Johnson.”

Again, Aleko shook hands. “Come this way. I’ve closed the taverna for the rest of the day so we can have privacy.”

Yanni, Dimitri, and Stavros were at the bar and Ferguson greeted them like old friends. As Blake and Dillon watched, Aleko said, “Quite a man, the Brigadier. He got a message to pick up one of his agents from Albania a few years ago. We get to the beach and find six policemen, and the Brigadier slips over the stern with a Sterling submachine gun and takes them from the rear. Shoots two in the back and holds the rest up.”

“That’s quite a story,” Blake said.

Anna appeared with coffee on a tray, put it on the bar, and embraced Ferguson, and more introductions were made. Finally, everyone sat and got down to business.

“We took a run up to the castle this morning,” Aleko said. “Using the fishing boat. There were two men on the battlements, one with a rifle slung from his shoulder.”

“So?” Ferguson nodded.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aleko said, “that if we are going up there at night, I’ll get a few fishing boats to go as well. Good cover.”

“An excellent idea.”

Aleko nodded. “So what do you really expect of us?”

“My two friends here, armed to the teeth, intend to penetrate the castle and liberate the two women held hostage there. The six men in residence, the opposition, are all former Israeli soldiers.”

“Mother of Christ,” Yanni said. “It could be a blood bath.”

“That’s their business,” Aleko told him, “and they look as if they know their business to me. So our job is to land them?”

“And without alerting the guards,” Dillon said. “Is that possible?”

“Anything is possible, Mr. Dillon. Are you a scuba diver? We’ve got equipment.”

“Yes, I’m a master diver.”

“Well, that lets me out,” Blake said. “I was blown up a few years ago on an FBI case and my right eardrum was ruptured. Anything underwater is out for me.”

“Never mind, we’ll come up with something,” Aleko told him.

Dimitri said, “What’s it pay, Brigadier?”

Ferguson glanced at Blake, who said, “Money is neither here nor there on this one, but let’s say a hundred thousand dollars.”

There was dead silence, and Yanni said, “And who in the hell do we have to kill?”

“These are bad people,” Dillon told him. “And they can handle themselves. They might kill you.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Yanni said with the bravado of youth.

Aleko looked serious. “You told me about one of the women being your assistant, this Chief Inspector Bernstein.”

“That’s right.”

“So it’s the other woman that’s the key, the one who’s really important?”

“Not now, Constantine. One day you’ll know, but not now,” Ferguson told him.

Dillon stood up. “I’d like a look at the boat, if that’s possible.”

“Sure.” Aleko turned to the rest of the crew. “No need for you to come.”

“And I’ve seen it all before,” Ferguson said. “Perhaps the boys could unload the equipment we’ve brought, the weapons and so on.”

“Sure thing, Brigadier.” Aleko turned to Stavros. “Have everything taken to the barn. Anything the Brigadier wants he gets.”

“Sure thing,” Stavros said.

Aleko nodded to Dillon and Blake and he led the way out.

The Cretan Lover was still draped with nets drying in the sun and there was the good salt smell of fish mixed with the smell of the sea. Dillon and Blake looked the boat over while Aleko sat on the thwart and smoked a cigarette.

“So, you still fish?” Dillon said.

“Why not? It gives us something to do when we’re not engaged in the Albanian trade, and we need the front.”

“Are you telling me the customs and the navy people don’t know what you’re up to?” Dillon was peering down the hatch into the engine room. “You’ve got enough down there to power a torpedo boat.”

“Sure they do. The police sergeant knows, but he’s my second cousin and the lieutenant commanding the most important patrol boat, but then I trained him myself when I was in the navy. On the other hand, things have got to look right from the navy’s point of view.”

“Then everybody can look the other way with a clear conscience?” Blake said.

Aleko smiled. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s go for a little run and see if we can come up with a solution to your problem.”

He went into the wheelhouse and pressed the starter button. As the engines rumbled into life, Dillon cast off the stern line and coiled it and Blake did the same in the prow.

The Cretan Lover coasted out of the small harbor and Aleko boosted power, the boat lifting over waves at that point. It was all very pleasant in the hot sun. When they were about four or five hundred yards from the harbor, Aleko cut the engines.

“Let go the anchor.”

It was Blake who saw to that and Aleko braced himself against the wheelhouse door, the boat tilting as the water heaved in long swells.

“Let’s imagine the fishing boats put their nets out about this far from the castle jetty. It’s pretty similar.”

“How deep?” Dillon asked.

“Eighty fathoms, sometimes a hundred. Plenty of sardines this time of the year and they don’t go deep, so it would all look legitimate.”

“It’s the getting to the shore without being seen that’s the thing,” Dillon said.

“Well, underwater’s the obvious way.”

“But not for me,” Blake reminded him.

“Let’s give it a try anyway, if only to check the feasibility. What about it, Dillon? I’ve plenty of gear in the cabin.”

“I’m game,” Dillon said. “Lead me to it.”

They manhandled a couple of tanks on deck and Aleko provided inflatable jackets, masks, and fins. “No need for diving suits. We’ll go in at fifteen or twenty feet only and it’s warm enough at that level.”

They got the gear on, Blake helping out. When they were ready, Aleko opened a box and produced a couple of Marathons, passing one to Dillon.

“What’s that?” Blake asked as Dillon switched it on.

“A dive computer. Absolute bloody marvel. Gives you an automatic reading of your depth, elapsed time under water, how much time you’ve got left.”

“Is that necessary?” Blake asked. “I didn’t think there were problems when you stick to shallow waters.”

“There’s always a chance of some kind of decompression sickness at any depth, small, but it’s there. Diving’s a hazardous sport.”

“Okay,” Aleko said. “Let’s go.”

He went backwards over the side. Dillon tightened his weight belt, checked that the air was flowing freely through his mouthpiece, and followed. He swallowed a couple of times to equalize the pressure in his ears and went after Aleko.

The water was very blue and seemed to stretch into infinity, and it was so clear that they could see the white sand of the bottom eighty feet or so below. There were fish everywhere, most of them quite small, and once a motor boat passed overhead and Dillon was rocked in the shockwaves of the turbulence.

He kept on going, just a couple of yards behind Aleko, aware of an off-shore current carrying them in and of the sea bed shelving. As they entered the harbor, it was no more than thirty feet deep. They swam under the keels of numerous fishing boats and surfaced beside stone steps leading from the jetty.

Aleko spat out his mouthpiece and checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Not bad, but we had a strong current pushing us along.”

“Not too good for the journey back,” Dillon said, and at that moment, Yanni appeared on the steps above them.

“What are you doing here?” Aleko asked.

“They didn’t really need me up at the barn, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”

“Good lad. Now go and get the inflatable. You can run us back to the boat.”

The inflatable was black and powered by a Mercury engine that was incredibly noisy, even when Yanni throttled back. As they drifted in to the Cretan Lover, the boy cut the engine and Aleko tossed the line to Blake.

“It wouldn’t be possible to approach the castle jetty in this thing under cover of darkness,” Dillon said. “Maybe we could row it in.”

“Not without difficulty,” Aleko told him. “Outside that bay there is a fierce cross current. It can run a good two to three knots, enough to blow you off-target.”

“Then how in the hell are we going to do it?”

Blake was leaning over the rail, listening, and Aleko said, “I may have a solution.” He turned to Yanni. “The Aquamobile is in the aft cabin. Bring it up. Help him, Mr. Johnson, it’s an awkward size.”

It was like a large sledge with a framework of aluminium. In the center was a huge battery pack and a triple propeller inside a wire cage.

“How fast will this thing go?” Dillon asked.

“Four knots. Let’s go down and you can try it.”

Dillon submerged, the Aquamobile descended in a shower of bubbles. Aleko grabbed the bar at the stern and switched on, moving away smoothly. He returned and offered it to Dillon, who took over and circled the boat. He switched off and came up beside the inflatable.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s say you and Mr. Johnson ride in the inflatable and I guide the Aquamobile in and tow you.”

Dillon nodded. “It’s a thought, but it might be too heavy.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Aleko looked up at Blake. “Join Yanni in the inflatable, Mr. Johnson, and we’ll try.”

Blake dropped over the rail and Yanni tossed a line to Aleko, who fastened it to the handling bar. “Here we go,” he called and switched on.

Dillon swam alongside, just under the surface, but was gradually left behind as the Aquamobile and the inflatable forged ahead. After a while, they turned in a circle and moved back to the boat. Dillon followed, and by the time he got there, they were pulling the Aquamobile over the rail.

He and Aleko unzipped their inflatable jackets and tanks, and Blake and Yanni reached over for them. Dillon removed his fins and followed Aleko up the small ladder.

He toweled off on deck and lit a cigarette. “That’s it, then.”

“So it would appear,” Aleko nodded. “We’ll go back and tell the Brigadier.”

The barn was built of heavy stone, and whitewashed. There were no windows, but there was electric light. A row of sandbags lay at one end fronted by cardboard cutouts of soldiers.

“So you take it this seriously?” Dillon said.

“Let’s say I like to keep my hand in,” Aleko told him.

They were all there, including the crew of the Cretan Lover, and the equipment Ferguson had ordered from Harley at the Ministry was laid out on trestle tables, the black jump suits and flak jackets, the silenced Brownings and Uzis, the night-vision goggles, the stun grenades, and the Semtex blocks and timers.

“Mother Mary, we’re going to war,” Yanni said.

Aleko picked up the pair of night-vision binoculars. “Hey, I could do with these. Beautiful.”

“You can have the lot afterwards if this thing works,” Ferguson told him and turned to Dillon. “Anything else?”

“Yes, I’d like a decent rope. Let’s say a hundred feet long and knotted every two feet.” He looked at Aleko. “Can you manage that?”

“I’ll put the boys right on to it.” He picked up one of the Brownings and weighed it in his hand. “May I?” he asked Ferguson.

“Be my guest.”

Aleko took deliberate aim and fired three times at the end target. He hit it in the chest, widely spaced. “I never was much good.” He gave it to Blake, butt first. “Your turn.”

“It’s been a while. Too busy to practice these days.” Blake held it in both hands in the approved stance and fired three times, the result, a tight grouping in the heart area.

He handed the weapon to Dillon. “Now you.”

Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Do I have to?”

“Come off it, Dillon, you Irish are all the same. You love showing off.”

“Is that a fact, now?”

Dillon turned, his hand swung up, two dull thuds as he double-tapped, shooting out the eyes of the first target. There was total silence and then Dimitri whispered, “Jesus, Mary.”

Dillon weighed the Browning. “A nice weapon, but I still prefer the Walther,” and he laid it down on the table.

“Well, after that, I’d say the only thing to do is go and eat,” Aleko said and led the way out.

FIFTEEN

Rain swept in across the harbor and there was a wind off the sea. Stavros was in the wheelhouse, the two boys on the deck sheltering under the canvas canopy they had rigged earlier when the rain had started.

The other four were in the main saloon, the weapons laid out on the table. Aleko was wearing a black nylon dive suit and Dillon and Blake had already put on the jump suits and flak jackets.

“You didn’t mention rain,” Blake said.

“Because the weathermen got it wrong as usual. This little lot was due mid-morning tomorrow.” Aleko shrugged. “On the other hand, good cover as long as you don’t mind getting wet.”

“A fair point,” Dillon said. “What about the other fishing boats?”

“They’ve gone up in stages, which will look nice and normal, and it’s usual to work together with the bigger nets in the sardine season. If they check them from the castle, they’ll only see working fishermen.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said.

Aleko lit a cigarette. “So, we go in, I drop you on the beach by the jetty. How long do you think this thing will take?”

“Half an hour,” Dillon said. “At the most. It’s got to be straight in and hit them hard and out again, or not at all.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could always kill them,” Aleko said.

“Now there’s a possibility,” Dillon replied.

“So, this is the way it goes. We join the other fishing boats, move in a little closer to shore. Yanni and Dimitri get the nets out. We’ll have the inflatable on the other side of the boat from the shore, load up, and I tow you in.” Aleko picked up four signaling flares. “These are mine. Nice and red. You take two each in case of mistakes. Fire one on your way out of the castle and we’ll come to the end of the jetty in the Cretan Lover to pick you up.”

They all sat there thinking about it. It was Ferguson who said, “Your friends in the other boats, what do they know?”

“They think it’s some kind of smuggling thing as usual. Once they see us go, they’ll leave quietly themselves.”

They all sat there quietly and it was Dillon who said to Ferguson, “Do you want to call you-know-who on your mobile?”

Ferguson shook his head. “The only call I want to make to that man now is to tell him we’ve succeeded.”

“Fine,” Blake Johnson said. “Then let’s do it.”

Marie de Brissac stood at the window, peering out into the rain. “There are fishing boats, I can see the lights.”

Hannah was just finishing dinner. She reached for a glass of water and drank, then went to join her. “It’s a strange feeling, life going on out there, and here we are in durance vile, as they used to say in the historical novels I read as a child.”

“I used to like the fairy stories by the Brothers Grimm,” Marie said, “and it’s the same feeling. They were always locking young women up in towers. Wasn’t there one about a girl whose hair was so long, she let it down from the window for her rescuer to climb up?”

“I think that was Rapunzel,” Hannah said.

“What a pity,” she said quietly. “If Mr. Dillon comes, I wouldn’t have long enough hair.” She gave a sudden dry sob, turned, and grabbed at Hannah. “Suddenly, I’m afraid. It’s so close now.”

“He’ll come.” Hannah embraced her fiercely. “He’s never let me down, not ever. You must believe that.”

She held Marie close, and looked out at the falling rain and in her head she was saying, Oh Sean, you bastard, where are you? Don’t fail me now.

Raphael was on the battlements, his MI6 slung from one shoulder, examining the fishing fleet through night glasses. Their red and green riding lights were plain and each had a pool of light in the stern from a deck light. There were footsteps and he turned and found Aaron and Levy approaching.

“Nothing to report, Colonel,” Raphael said. “The fishing fleet, but everything else quiet.”

Levy was holding a golfing umbrella against the rain. He handed it to Aaron. “Give me those,” he said and took the night glasses from Raphael.

He adjusted them, bringing the images of the boats into sharp focus, the fishermen at their nets. It was the same with the Cretan Lover, Yanni and Dimitri working away in the rain. What he didn’t see were Blake Johnson and Aleko on the starboard side facing out to sea, slipping the Aquamobile over to float, half-submerged, beside the inflatable.

He handed the glasses back to Raphael. “Stay alert,” then turned, walked to the end of the battlements, and re-entered the castle on the third floor level. Aaron put down the umbrella and followed him and, at that moment, David Braun came out of Marie de Brissac’s room with the dining trolley.

“So, they’ve eaten?” Levy said.

“Yes, Colonel.”

Levy assumed his Judas identity again, pulled on the hood, and stepped into the room. The two women were seated opposite each other at the table by the window.

“There you are,” he said. “The clock ticks faster and faster, but then, as Einstein said, all time is relative.” He laughed. “Especially when you don’t have too much to play with.”

“How kind of you to remind us,” Marie de Brissac told him.

“Always a pleasure to do business with a real lady, Countess.” He made a mock bow and turned to Braun. “Lock them up tight for the night, David,” and he went out followed by Aaron.

There was a moment’s silence, then David Braun said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to return to your own room, Chief Inspector.”

Hannah kissed the other woman on the cheek. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She walked past Braun into the corridor, and he said to Marie, “I can do nothing – nothing.”

“Of course you can’t, David. Wasn’t it Kennedy who said for evil to triumph, all that is necessary is for good men to do nothing.”

He winced, then went out, locking the door behind him, and took Hannah down the corridor to her own room.

On the Cretan Lover, they had just finished getting ready in the cabin. Dillon and Blake were in the black jump suits, festooned with stun grenades and black packs containing extra ammunition and the Semtex door charges and a couple of quarter-pound blocks for emergencies. Each had a holstered Browning and wore night goggles pushed up on the forehead. An Uzi slung around the neck completed the picture.

Aleko fastened a weight belt around his waist, and Stavros clipped an air tank to his jacket. “Anything else?” he asked.

Aleko nodded. “Pass me that dive bag. I’m going to take them a surprise present. You said you’d be half an hour?” he said to Dillon.

“That’s right.”

“Then I’ll drop a little Semtex in the motor cruiser and the speedboat with forty-minute timing pencils. That way they can’t come after us.”

He put some Semtex and timers in the dive bag and hung it around his neck. Ferguson picked up the heavy coil of rope the boys had prepared and draped it around Dillon’s neck diagonally to his waist.

Dillon smiled. “Don’t forget to put the other flak jacket on, you old sod, just in case it gets a little warm later.”

“Mind your back, Sean,” Ferguson told him.

“There you go, on first-name terms,” Dillon said. “I mean, where’s it all going to end?” and he turned and followed Blake and Aleko out through the starboard sliding panel in the cabin wall.

Aleko adjusted his air and went over the rail backwards. He surfaced and fastened the line to the Aquamobile. Stavros hauled in the inflatable, and Blake went over and then Dillon. They crouched there together, keeping low. A moment later, there was a tug as the Aquamobile took the slack and they moved away.

The rain was relentless and the waves broke over the side, so that they were soon soaked. There was no light on the jetty, but lights up in the castle. When Dillon pulled down the night goggles, he could see the jetty clearly. They coasted in and beached, getting out and pulling the inflatable and the Aquamobile up on the sand.

“Good luck!” Aleko whispered, and Blake and Dillon moved away.

Aleko slipped off his jacket, tank and fins, swam alongside the jetty, then went up the short ladder to the motor cruiser. He took a block of Semtex from his dive bag, found a forty timing pencil, broke the end, and thrust it into the block. He opened the hatch to the engine room and dropped it inside.

He slipped across the jetty to the speedboat, repeated the operation, then lowered himself into the water, swam to the beach to retrieve his jacket, tank and fins, and pulled them on quickly. A few moments later and he was making his way back to the Cretan Lover, hanging on to the Aquamobile.

Arnold, patrolling the garden, was miserable and wet, so he went up the steps to the terrace and stood in the shelter of the portico. He managed to light a cigarette and stood with the MI6 slung from his shoulder, the cigarette cupped in his hand.

Dillon and Blake, approaching the frontage, paused to take stock, their night goggles giving them a remarkably clear picture. Dillon, looking up, saw Raphael on the battlements leaning over. He crouched down and pulled Blake with him.

“Hey, Arnold, are you there?” Raphael called in Hebrew.

“Yes, I’m under the portico.”

“And smoking a cigarette, I can smell it from here. Don’t let the colonel catch you. I’m going inside to do the corridor rounds.”

“Okay.”

Arnold stepped back into the portico and Dillon whispered, “I’ll go left and attract his attention and you take him from the rear. Don’t kill him. He’s too useful.”

He slipped away, pulled himself up over an ornamental flower bed, and reached the terrace. He walked towards the portico, Arnold very clear in the night goggles.

“Hey, Arnold,” he called in Hebrew. “Where are you?”

“Who’s that?” Arnold called, taking a step forward, and Blake had him in the same moment, an arm around his neck, the other hand over his mouth.

In the jump suit and the goggles, Dillon presented a terrifying spectacle. He took out his Browning, cocked it, and touched Arnold under the chin. When he spoke, it was in English.

“This is silenced, so I can put one in your heart, kill you instantly, and no one will hear a thing. Now you’re going to answer some questions, and if you don’t, I will kill you and we’ll go and find your friend, the one we saw on the battlements. Do you understand?”

Arnold tried to nod and Blake took his hand from the young man’s mouth. “I’d do as he says if I were you.”

“Who are you?” Arnold asked.

“I’ve come back to haunt you. It’s me, Dillon.”

“Oh, my God, but it can’t be. The colonel told us you were dead.”

“The colonel, is it now? Well, he’ll always be Judas to me. Now, answers. The countess, is she still in the same room on the third floor?”

“Yes.”

“And Chief Inspector Bernstein?”

“She’s on the same corridor in the room you were in.”

“How many are you? The same number?”

Arnold hesitated and Dillon jabbed the Browning into his side painfully. “Come on. Judas and five of you. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Who was on the battlements?”

“Raphael.”

“We heard him talking to you.”

“You couldn’t, he spoke Hebrew.”

“So do I, in a manner of speaking, something Judas didn’t know. Raphael said he was doing the corridor rounds. What’s that mean?”

“What it sounds like. He patrols corridors and stairs.”

“And the others, where are they?”

“Braun is usually in the kitchen on the ground floor. He does all the cooking. There’s a small lift to serve the other floors. That’s how he gets food to the women.”

“And the rest?”

“The colonel is usually in his study.”

“Which leaves Aaron and Moshe.”

Arnold hesitated. “Aaron and Moshe?”

Dillon screwed the silencer on the end of the Browning into Arnold’s neck.

“I’m not sure. There’s a billiards room by the library, that’s off the main hall. Sometimes they play.”

“Anywhere else?”

“The recreation room on the first floor. Satellite television, that kind of thing.”

Dillon nodded. “All right, so to get to the stairs up to each floor, we need the main hall?”

“Yes, you take the stairs from there.”

“Good.” Dillon turned him round. “Then show us the way.”

They moved along the terrace through the rain and Arnold opened an iron-studded door leading the way into a corridor. There was a light on, another oaken door at the end.

Dillon pushed up his goggles. “Where are we?”

“The entrance hall is through there.”

“Then lead on.”

Arnold reached the door, turned the iron-ringed handle and opened it, revealing a massive hall beyond. There was a flagged floor, a log fire in an open fireplace, an array of flags hanging from poles above the fireplace, the ceiling vaulted. Why he did what he did next was probably a mystery to himself as much as anyone, for he swung the door back behind him and ran across the hall.

“Colonel!” he screamed. “Intruders! Dillon!”

Dillon pulled back the door and shot him in the spine. A moment later, a door opened on the opposite side of the hall, and Aaron and Moshe appeared carrying handguns. Dillon was aware of the billiard table in the room behind them and fired twice to keep their heads down. Blake backed him with a quick burst from his Uzi that sent them into the billiard room, slamming the door.

“Here we go!” Dillon cried and started up the great stone stairway fast, Blake following.

They reached the first landing and began to climb further. As they came out on the second landing, Raphael appeared at the far end, clutching his M16. He raised it to fire and Blake loosed off another wild burst that drove Raphael diving for cover.

“Come on!” Dillon said and made for the third floor and Blake went after him.

In his study, reading a book and drinking cognac, Daniel Levy was instantly alert at the first sound of gunfire. He opened his desk drawer, took out a Beretta which he put in the pocket of his jump suit, and picked up an M16 that was leaning against the wall. His study was on the first floor, and as he emerged, Aaron and Moshe appeared at the end of the corridor, having come up the back stairs. They were each holding AK assault rifles.

“What is it?” Levy demanded.

“We heard Arnold shouting in the hall. He called: Intruders. Dillon. Then we heard gunfire in the hall, went out and saw him dying, two men in black jump suits, night goggles, just like the SAS on a bad night in Belfast,” Aaron said.

“Dillon?” Levy stood there staring at them. “It can’t be. Dillon’s dead.” And then some kind of comprehension dawned. “Berger, knocked down in London. Dillon – it must have been.” There was gunfire on the next floor. “Come on!” he said. “The bastard’s going for the women,” and he ran for the back stairs.

Dillon and Blake hit the third floor fast and moved headlong, pausing at the door to the room in which Dillon had been prisoner. He kicked it again and again.

“Hannah, it’s Sean.” He turned to Blake. “The countess is two doors down. Do it, Blake.”

He heard Hannah call, “Sean, is that you?”

“Stand back, I’m blowing the door.”

He took a door charge from one of his packs, pushing it into the keyhole of the oak door, Blake doing the same further along the corridor. Dillon twisted the timer cap and stood to one side. Four seconds was all it took. The door rocked and splintered and he was into the room.

Hannah ran to meet him and actually flung her arms about his neck. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.” The second door charge exploded and she said, “What’s that?”

“Blake Johnson getting to Marie de Brissac.” He took his Browning from its holster. “Take this, we’re not out of the woods yet and there’s only the two of us.”

David Braun had been sleeping in the small bedroom at the end of the third-floor corridor. He awoke, confused and frightened at the first sounds of gunfire, and dressed hurriedly. He picked up an Armalite which he kept by the bed, opened the door, and stepped out.

The first thing he saw was Blake leading Marie out of her room, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein beyond. He raised the Armalite and hesitated, aware of the danger to Marie. Dillon saw him, cried a warning, and pulled the pin on a stun grenade and rolled it down the corridor. Braun jumped into a nearby alcove, and the stun grenade went straight through the archway at the end of the corridor and fell down the stairwell, exploding.

At the same moment, Levy, Aaron, and Moshe appeared at the other end of the corridor and started firing. Dillon pushed Hannah back into her room and Blake and Marie de Brissac followed.

There was silence, then Raphael appeared at the stairhead behind Braun. He called, “Raphael here, Colonel, with David.”

“Good,” Levy shouted back. “I’ve got Aaron and Moshe here. There’s only two of them and they aren’t going anywhere. You hear that, Dillon?”

“If you say so,” Dillon replied. “I wasn’t going anywhere in Washington, but here I am.” He rolled another stun grenade along the corridor and jumped back.

Levy had already opened the door of the last room in the corridor and shouted, “Inside!” to Aaron and Moshe. They made the shelter of the room, and as he slammed the door the stun grenade exploded on the landing.

Levy opened the door. “Not too good, old buddy. Like I said, you aren’t going anywhere. Hey, when you get time you’ve got to tell me about Washington. That must have been real slick.”

He fired several bursts from his M16, clipping the wall by the broken door of what had been Hannah’s room. Dillon poked the Uzi out one-handed, sprayed along the corridor one way and then the other.

He turned to Blake, who said, “Now what do we do?”

Dillon put down his Uzi and pulled the coil of rope over his head. “A good job I brought this along, it’s our one chance. Everybody get in the bathroom.” Marie de Brissac looked dazed and Dillon said, “Move it, for God’s sake. Hannah, we’re running out of time.”

Hannah urged Marie before her into the bathroom. Blake followed. Dillon fired another burst from his Uzi into the corridor, then put it down again, took a quarter block of Semtex from one of his pouches, jammed it on the windowsill against the bars, and rammed in a two-second pencil timer.

He ran and flung himself flat on his face on the floor beside the bed. The sound of the explosion seemed to make the room sway, and when he looked up through drifting smoke the window, the bars, and some of the surrounding stonework had disappeared, leaving a jagged hole.

Dillon ran to peer out and Blake joined him, the two women at his shoulder. “Forty feet down to the terrace,” Dillon said. “You lower the countess and Hannah one by one, then tie one end to the bed and go down yourself. I’ll hold the fort and follow when I can.”

Blake didn’t hesitate, simply uncoiled the rope and tied a large loop in the end. As Dillon picked up his Uzi and reloaded, Hannah grabbed his arm.

“Sean, you wouldn’t do anything stupid like going down with the ship or something?”

He grinned. “Hey, genuine concern, and at this stage of our relationship?”

“Damn you!” she said.

“Already taken care of.” He ran to the door, poked the Uzi out again, and fired toward Braun and Raphael, who fired back instantly.

On the Cretan Lover, they saw the explosion blossom in the night up there in the castle, and a second or so later, there was the hollow boom as it echoed across the water.

“What in the hell is happening?” Ferguson said as he stood at the rail wearing the third flak jacket, a Browning in one hand.

“Whatever it is, I’m going to be ready,” Aleko said. “We’ll move in close, a hundred yards from the jetty. Dump the nets, just cut them loose, and everyone make sure they’re armed.”

He went into the wheelhouse and took over from Stavros. A moment later, the engines rumbled into life, and as the nets slipped away the Cretan Lover moved toward the jetty.

Hannah went first, finding it surprisingly easy with the loop under her shoulder and the rough stone walls of the castle providing good footholds. She reached the terrace, pulled the loop over her head, tugged, and Blake pulled it up.

He turned to Marie de Brissac. “How about it? You’ll be safe in my hands, I promise you. Just don’t look down.”

“And we haven’t even been introduced.”

“Johnson – Blake Johnson. I’m your father’s special security man.”

“Well, it’s nice to know you, Mr. Johnson, but I’ve no problem with heights. The general climbed in the Swiss Alps every year. I was ten when he first took me with him.” She pulled the loop over her head. “Thank you, Mr. Dillon. I thought you looked like the sort of man who always comes back for the girl.”

“In the last chapter only, Countess, and this isn’t the last chapter. On your way,” and Dillon crouched back as a storm of firing erupted in the corridor.

Marie de Brissac arrived safely on the terrace. This time, Blake left the rope hanging and did as Dillon had suggested, tying the end securely to one of the massive legs of the old bed. There was silence for a moment, and Blake said, “What now?”

“Give me your Uzi, then get the hell down the rope and start for the jetty with the girls.”

“And you?”

“I’ll lay down a suitable field of fire, then I’ll be down that rope myself doing my celebrated imitation of Tarzan of the Apes.” He shoved a fresh clip into his own Uzi and stood there, one in each hand. “Go on, Blake, get moving.”

Blake couldn’t think of a damn thing to say, turned, took the rope in both hands, and went down backwards, and Dillon crossed the room, leaned out, and watched him go, for the rain had stopped, the clouds clearing enough to expose a full moon. In its light, he could see Blake descending and the two women looking up.

Levy called, “Hey, Dillon, listen to me.”

“Why, it’s my old chum Judas or Colonel Dan Levy or whatever you call yourself. Ready to surrender, are you?”

Levy seemed to crack then, rage erupting as he called, “We’ll rush him now.”

Dillon took a deep breath and stepped into the corridor. Raphael had appeared at the far end, his M16 ready, David Braun behind him. Moshe had moved into the open at the other end. Dillon fired the Uzis in sustained bursts, left- and right-handed, pushing Raphael back against Braun and slamming Moshe against the wall, four or five bullets in him.

The Uzis emptied, Dillon dropped them to the floor, ran for that jagged hole, got a grip on the rope, and started down, knot by knot.

As Moshe fell backwards, kicking in death, Levy looked down at that bloodstained body and something happened to him. It was as if it confirmed the fact that he had lost, everything he had worked for down the sewer, and all because of Dillon.

He erupted then, crying, “Dillon, you bastard! Face me!”

He went up the corridor on the run, spraying the walls with his M16, and paused in the entrance of the room, confronted by the gaping hole, the rope. The shock seemed to make him speechless for the moment. Aaron, coming up behind, pushed him to one side and went to the hole and peered out.

Levy pulled himself together and crossed the room in two quick strides. “Can you see them?”

David Braun entered the room and stood just inside the door, the Armalite in his hands, as Aaron said, “Down there on the other side of the garden. The two women and the other man are making for the beach.”

“Stand back,” Levy said and raised his M16. “I can still get that bitch.”

“No, Colonel, enough is enough.” David Braun held the Armalite to his shoulder. “Just put your rifles down and let her go.”

“Why, David, this is a surprise.”

Levy put the M16 down on the table, at the same time putting both hands in his pockets, the right one finding the butt of the Beretta. As he turned, he fired twice. Braun was thrown back in the corridor, dropping the Armalite, and lay there groaning. Levy picked up the M16.

“Come on,” he said to Aaron. “We’re going after them,” and as he walked past Braun, he finished him with a headshot.

Running through the ornamental garden, Dillon pulled out one of the signal flares and pulled the string. The small rocket curved up into the air, exploding into a scarlet bloom, clear not only to the Cretan Lover but the entire fishing fleet.

Aleko switched on and the engines rumbled into life. “Everybody ready? We’re going in.”

As Blake and the two women reached the jetty, Dillon ran down the path behind them, the Cretan Lover roaring in out of the darkness.

As Dillon joined them, Hannah reached for his arm. “Thank God.”

“Yes, I must live right,” Dillon laughed excitedly and crushed her in his arms. “We did it, girl dear, we beat that son of a bitch.”

The Cretan Lover came to almost a dead stop, drifting against the jetty, engines throbbing. Yanni and Dimitri were over the side in an instant, helping the two women, Ferguson and Stavros reaching for them, and Aleko looked out of the wheelhouse.

“Hey, you two wonderful bastards, you won the war, eh?”

There was a burst of firing from somewhere and a bullet ricocheted from the stonework of the jetty.

“Not yet, we haven’t,” Dillon replied as he and Blake dropped to the deck. “Let’s get out of here,” and Aleko did just that.

Levy and Aaron arrived on the run as the Cretan Lover sped toward the fishing fleet, where most of the boats were already hauling in their nets.

“We’ve lost them, Colonel,” Aaron said.

“Not with the speedboat, you fool. It can do thirty knots. I doubt if they can match that. You take the wheel.”

He dropped down into the stern and Aaron slid behind the wheel and found the ignition key under the rubber mat, where he usually concealed it. He switched it on and the massive engines sprang into life.

Levy said, “Now run them down!”

Stavros said, “He’s coming.”

“Don’t worry,” Aleko said. “We’ll be into the fleet soon, but get the women below.”

Ferguson took them down to the cabin, then came back and joined Dillon and Blake, the third Uzi in his hands. Yanni and Dimitri and Stavros all had revolvers. Ferguson handed Dillon his Browning.

“The Chief Inspector thought you might need it.”

The speedboat roared out of the night, clear because of the moon, Levy crouched in the rear. Ferguson triggered the Uzi, the crew fired single shots, but Aaron weaved from side-to-side, first one way, then the other, and suddenly, Levy stood up and sprayed the Cretan Lover with an entire M16 magazine at close quarters.

The wheelhouse shattered, a round took Ferguson in his flak jacket, knocking him down, and another punched Dimitri in the shoulder.

Dillon loosed off a couple of shots, but the speedboat swerved, came in again, and they all ducked as Levy raked the deck.

“We’re sitting ducks,” Blake cried.

“Not quite,” Aleko told him, and back at the jetty, fire blossomed in the night as the motor cruiser exploded.

“Number one,” Aleko said.

The speedboat came in again and Levy stood up, black against the distant flames. He raised the M16. “I’ve got you now, Dillon,” he cried, his voice echoing across the water.

And then the speedboat blew up, disintegrating before their eyes into a fireball, pieces flying through the air, some rattling against the hull of the Cretan Lover. There was a hissing of steam, and what was left disappeared under the surface of the sea.

“And that was number two,” Aleko said. “Now we go home.”

Stavros was checking Dimitri’s shoulder and Ferguson was sitting down. He plucked the round from his flak jacket. “I feel as if I’ve been kicked by a mule.”

Hannah and Marie appeared cautiously from the cabin. “Is it over?” Marie de Brissac asked.

“I think we might say that,” Ferguson said, “but first I’d better speak to your father.”

Cazalet was hosting a reception at the White House for a Russian delegation. He’d done well, kept his end up remarkably, his mind understandably on other things. He was deep in conversation with the Russian Ambassador when Teddy approached.

“Sorry to intrude, Mr. President, but there’s a call of the utmost urgency.”

Cazalet excused himself and followed Teddy to a small anteroom. Teddy closed the door and handed him the special mobile.

“It’s Brigadier Ferguson, Mr. President.”

Cazalet took the phone, his face pale. “Yes, Brigadier, this is the President.”

He listened, and it was as if ten years slipped from him. “God bless you, Brigadier, God bless all of you. Washington next stop. We’ll expect you tomorrow.”

He switched off the phone. Teddy said, “Mr. President?”

“You know what, Teddy?” Jake Cazalet smiled his famous smile. “What I’d appreciate more than anything right now is a glass of champagne and I’d like you to join me.”