The President's Daughter (12 page)

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

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

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

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

“But he won’t do it.”

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

“You bastard!” Marie de Brissac told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Ferguson?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a pleasure.”

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

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

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

“It’s me,” Dillon told him.

“Thank God.”

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

“Is this as bad as it sounds?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

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

“The English Café.”

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

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

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

“What was it all about, sir?”

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

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll see you then.”

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

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

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

“My pleasure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My God!” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A long drive,” Dillon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he told her.

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

“Yes, you could say that.”

“And this Judas. He must be mad.”

“Yes,” he said. “You could say that.”

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

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

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

“Yes, a right old blood bath.”

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

“So what do we do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you don’t approve?”

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

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

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

“Just like the original Judas Maccabeus?”

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s incredible,” Ferguson said.

“No, it’s the invisible people.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what do we do?” Dillon asked.

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

“Say who you are.”

“Charles Ferguson, you bugger.”

“Charles, how goes it?”

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