The President's Daughter (22 page)

“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.”