The President's Daughter (23 page)

“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.

A
s 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.”