The President's Daughter (25 page)

“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.

T
he 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.”