Книга - The President’s Daughter

The President’s Daughter
Jack Higgins


The President’s daughter has been kidnapped by Jewish terrorists. With the world watching, Sean Dillon is called in to find her, before the Commander-in-Chief is forced to make a decision which could rip the world apart.Twenty years ago a young war hero saved a life, and began a passionate affair. Now, that young war hero is President of the United States, and a souvenir from his past, a beautiful daughter that he never knew existed, surfaces as the first of many secrets to be kept from public knowledge.But someone, somewhere, has uncovered the truth. The girl is seized by religious zealots, and unless the President complies with their demands, her execution is certain. Yet if he gives in, the Middle East will ignite in war.He calls in the only men who can help: Sean Dillon and Blake Johnson, two notorious specialists, who will do whatever it takes to find the President's daughter. But with time running out, can they get to her before a desperate father makes a truly momentous decision, one the whole world will regret?
















The President’s Daughter








Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 1997

Copyright © Harry Patterson 1997

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Photography and illustration © Nik Keevil

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124847

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780007352319

Version: 2015-04-01


In fond memory of my dear friend George Coleman


Contents

Cover (#u02641d8e-73ce-5bc7-bc0c-edfa797beb21)

Title Page (#ubdd7fe73-f2cc-5362-a062-cda3d5a68741)

Copyright (#u81d3dca1-3a6f-5412-966c-a17a736e428d)

Dedication (#u593d13fa-fc5e-5857-aec7-697585afb7c4)

VIETNAM 1969 (#ue1703750-d906-58e7-a4cf-8ac1a193baef)

Chapter 1 (#u3497f279-f5a0-5731-a3ca-72248218e0aa)

LONDON SICILY CORFU EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN 1997 (#uaba598fe-e946-5c98-a2ac-1d830699ce1f)



Chapter 2 (#u59a326b0-0ea6-5519-8df1-44f960775f96)



Chapter 3 (#uba23ce49-2c4b-5af2-8a4e-51c35533cb61)



Chapter 4 (#ua1f8978c-f60a-5588-a5c2-ed571ece37f8)



Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)



EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN SICILY LONDON WASHINGTON (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)



IRELAND LONDON FRANCE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)



EPILOGUE WASHINGTON (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)



Further Reading (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



VIETNAM (#u6848c91c-48c7-58de-8ce0-0f2911598292)




1 (#u6848c91c-48c7-58de-8ce0-0f2911598292)


Jake Cazalet was twenty-six years old when it happened, the incident that was to have such a profound effect on the rest of his life.

His family were Boston Brahmins, well respected, his mother hugely wealthy, his father a successful attorney and senator, which meant that the law seemed the natural way to go for young Jake. Harvard and the privileged life, and as a college student, it was possible to avoid the draft and Vietnam seemed far away.

And Jake did well, a brilliant student who got an excellent degree and moved on to Harvard Law School with enormous success. A great future was predicted, he started on a doctorate, and then a strange thing happened.

For some time, he had been disturbed by the scenes from Vietnam, the way he saw that brutal war portrayed on television each night. Sometimes it seemed like a vision from hell. A sea-change took place as he contrasted his comfortable life with what life seemed like over there. The ironic thing was that he could actually get by in Vietnamese, because at the age of thirteen, he had lived in Vietnam when his father had spent a year at the US embassy.

And then came the day in the cafeteria at college. People were lining up for the lunch counter, lots of new students, and amongst them one who was no more than twenty, dressed in white T-shirt and jeans like anyone else, books under one arm, the difference being that where his right arm had been there was now only a small stump. Most people ignored him, but one guy, a swaggering bully whose last name was Kimberley, turned to look at him.

‘Hey, what’s your name?’

‘Teddy Grant.’

‘You lose that over there in Nam?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Serves you right.’ Kimberley patted his face. ‘How many kids did you butcher?’

It was the pain on Grant’s face that got to Cazalet and he pulled Kimberley away. ‘This man served his country. What have you ever done?’

‘So what about you, rich boy?’ Kimberley sneered. ‘I don’t see you over there. Only over here.’ He turned and patted Grant’s face again. ‘If I come in anywhere, you step out.’

Jake Cazalet’s only sport was boxing and he was on the team. Kimberley had twenty pounds on him, but it didn’t matter. Spurred on by rage and deep shame, he gave Kimberley a combination punch in the stomach that doubled him over. A boxing club he went to in downtown Boston was run by an old Englishman called Wally Short.

‘If you’re ever in a real punch-up, here’s a useful extra. In England, they call it nutting somebody. Over here it’s head-butting. So, use your skull, nine inches of movement, nice and short, right into his forehead.’

Which was exactly what Cazalet did as Kimberley came up to grapple with him, and the big man went crashing back over a table. Pandemonium followed, girls screaming, and then security arrived and the paramedics.

Cazalet felt good, better than he had in years. As he turned, Grant said, ‘You damn fool, you don’t even know me.’

‘Oh, yes, I do,’ Jake Cazalet said.

Later, in the dean’s office, he stood at the desk and listened to the lecture. The dean said, ‘I’ve heard the facts and it would seem that Kimberley was out of line. However, I can’t tolerate violence, not on campus. I’ll have to suspend you for a month.’

‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll make it easy for you. I’m dropping out.’

The dean was truly shocked. ‘Dropping out? But why? What will your father say? I mean, what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to go right down to that recruiting office downtown and I’m going to join the army.’

The dean looked devastated. ‘Jake, think about this, I beg you.’

‘Goodbye, sir,’ Jake Cazalet told him and went out.

So here he was eighteen months later, a lieutenant in Special Forces by way of the paratroops – his knowledge of Vietnamese had seen to that – and halfway through his second tour, decorated, twice wounded, a combat veteran who felt about a thousand years old.

The Medevac helicopter drifted across the delta at a thousand feet. Cazalet had hitched a lift because it was calling at a fortified camp at Katum and they needed him there to interrogate a high-ranking Vietnamese regular officer.

Cazalet was only five feet six or seven, with the kind of hair that had red highlights. His eyes were brown, his broken nose a legacy of his boxing days and, in spite of the tan, the bayonet scar that bisected his right cheek was white. It was to become his trademark in the years ahead.

Sitting there now in his camouflaged uniform, sleeves rolled up, the Special Forces beret tilted forward, he looked like what war had made him, a thoroughly dangerous man. The young medic cum air gunner, Harvey, and Hedley, the black crew chief, watched him and approved.

‘He’s been everywhere or so they say,’ Hedley whispered, ‘Paratroops, Airborne Rangers and now Special Forces. His old man’s a senator.’

‘Well, excuse me,’ Harvey said. ‘So what do you get for the man who has everything?’ He turned to toss his cigarette out of the door and stiffened. ‘Hey, what gives down there?’

Hedley glanced out, then reached for the heavy machine-gun. ‘We got trouble, right here in River City, Lieutenant.’

Cazalet joined him. There were paddy fields below and banks of reeds stretching into infinity. A cart was blocking the causeway that crossed the area and what passed for a local bus had stopped, unable to continue.

Harvey peered over his shoulder. ‘Look, sir, it’s pyjama night at the Ritz again.’

There were Viet Cong down there, at least twenty, in their conical straw hats and black pyjamas. A man got out of the bus, there was the distinctive crack of an AK47 and he fell. Two or three women emerged and ran, screaming, until the rifle fire cut them down.

Cazalet went to the pilot and leaned over. ‘Take us down and I’ll drop out and see what I can do.’

‘You must be crazy,’ the pilot said.

‘Just do it. Go down, drop me off and then get the hell out of here and fetch the cavalry, just like good old John Wayne.’

He turned, found himself an M16 and several pouches of magazines and slung them around his neck. He clipped half a dozen grenades to his belt and stuck some signalling flares in the pockets of his camouflage jacket. They were going down fast and the VC were shooting at them, Hedley returning the fire with the heavy machine-gun.

He turned, grinning, ‘You got a death wish or something?’

‘Or something,’ Cazalet said, and as the helicopter hovered just above the ground, he jumped.

There was a call, ‘Wait for me.’ When he turned, Harvey was following him, his medical bag over one shoulder.

‘Crazy man,’ Cazalet said.

‘Aren’t we all?’ Harvey replied, and they ran through the paddy field to the causeway, as the helicopter lifted and turned away.

There were more bodies now and the bus was under heavy rifle fire, windows shattering. Screams came from inside, and then several more women emerged, two of them running for the reeds, and three Viet Cong appeared on the road further along, rifles ready.

Cazalet raised his M16 and fired several short bursts, knocking two of them down. There was silence for a moment and Harvey knelt beside one of the women and tried for a pulse.

‘She’s had it, for a start,’ he said, turning to Cazalet, and then his eyes widened. ‘Behind you.’

In the same moment, a bullet took Harvey in the heart, lifting him on to his back. Cazalet swung, firing from the hip at the two VC who had emerged on the causeway behind him. He caught one and the other slipped back into the reeds. Now, there was only silence.

There were five people left alive in the bus, three Vietnamese women, an old man travelling to the next village, and a dark-haired, pretty young woman who looked badly frightened. She wore a khaki shirt and pants and the shirt was stained with blood, someone else’s, not hers.

She’d been speaking in French to the old man earlier, and now he turned to her as a single bullet hit the fuel tank of the bus and flames erupted.

‘Not good to stay here, we must hide in the reeds.’ He repeated the same message in Vietnamese to the women.

They shouted something back to him and he shrugged and said to the young woman. ‘They are afraid. You come with me now.’

She responded instantly to the urgency in his voice, sliding out of the door after him, crouching, then starting to move. A bullet took him in the back and she ran for her life down the side of the causeway and plunged into the great banks of reeds. Cazalet, who was in their shelter a little further along the causeway, saw her go.

She forced her way through the water and mud, pushing the reeds aside, ploughing straight out into a dark pool to find two Viet Cong confronting her on the other side, AKs at the ready. Barely fifteen yards away, she could see every feature of these young faces: mere boys, not much more.

They raised their weapons, she braced herself for death, and then there was a terrible cry and Cazalet erupted from the reeds on her left, firing from the hip, blasting both soldiers into the water.

Voices called nearby and he said, ‘No talking.’ He stepped back into the reeds and she followed.

They seemed to move several hundred yards before he said, ‘This will do.’ They were on the edge of the paddy fields, protected by a final curtain of reeds. A small knoll rose above the water. He pulled her down beside him. ‘That’s a lot of blood. Where are you hit?’

‘It’s not mine. I was trying to help the woman sitting next to me.’

‘You’re French.’

‘That’s right. Jacqueline de Brissac,’ she said.

‘Jake Cazalet, and I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you,’ he replied in French.

‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘You didn’t learn that at school.’

‘No, a year in Paris when I was sixteen. My dad was at the embassy.’ He grinned. ‘I learned all my languages that way. He moved around a lot.’

Her face was spotted with mud, hair tangled as she tried to straighten it. ‘I must look a mess,’ she said, and smiled.

Jake Cazalet fell instantly and gloriously in love. What was it the French called it: the thunderclap? It was everything he’d ever heard. What the poets wrote about.

‘Have we had it?’ she said, aware of voices calling nearby.

‘No, the Medevac helicopter I was going to Katum in has gone to call up the cavalry. If we keep our heads down, we stand a good chance.’

‘But that’s strange, I’ve just been to Katum,’ she said.

‘Good God, what for? That really is the war zone.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘I was searching for my husband.’

Cazalet was aware of an unbelievably hollow feeling. He swallowed. ‘Your husband?’

‘Yes. Captain Jean de Brissac of the French Foreign Legion. He was in the Katum area with a United Nations fact-finding mission three months ago. There were twenty of them.’

What a strange sensation. Sorrow, sympathy…was that almost relief? ‘I remember hearing that,’ he said slowly. ‘Weren’t they all…?’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Caught in an attack. The Viet Cong used hand grenades. The bodies were not recognizable, but I found my husband’s bloodstained field jacket, and his papers. There’s no doubt.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘A pilgrimage, if you like. And I had to be sure.’

‘I’m surprised they let you come.’

She gave a small smile. ‘Oh, my family has a great deal of political influence. My husband was Comte de Brissac, a very old military family. Lots of connections in Washington. Lots of connections everywhere.’

‘So you’re a countess?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

He smiled. ‘Well, I don’t mind if you don’t.’

She was about to say something when they heard voices nearby, shouting to each other, and Cazalet called out in Vietnamese.

She was alarmed. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘They’re beating through the reeds. I told them there was no sign of us over here.’

‘Very clever.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank my dad for a year at the embassy in Saigon.’

‘There too?’ she said, smiling despite herself.

‘Yes, there too.’

She shook her head. ‘You are a most unusual man, Lieutenant Cazalet.’ She paused. ‘I suppose, if we get out of this, that I owe you something. Would you have dinner with me?’

Jake grinned. ‘Countess, it would be my pleasure.’

There was the distant thud of rotors rapidly approaching and several Huey Cobra gunships came in, line astern. Cazalet took two recognition flares from his pocket, a red and a green, and fired them up into the sky. The sound of the Viet Cong voices faded as they retreated and Cazalet took her hand.

‘The cavalry arriving in the nick of time, just like the movies. You’ll be OK now.’

Her hand tightened in his as they waded out into the paddy field and one of the gunships landed.

The Excelsior in Saigon was French Colonial from the old days and the restaurant on the first floor was a delight, a haven from the war, white tablecloths, linen napkins, silverware, candles on the tables. Cazalet had waited in the bar, a striking figure in his tropical uniform, the medal ribbons a brave splash of colour. He was excited in a way he hadn’t been for years. There had been women in his life, but never anyone who had moved him enough to contemplate a serious relationship.

When she entered the bar, his heart turned over. She wore a very simple beaded white shift, her hair tied back with a velvet bow, not much makeup, a couple of gold bracelets, a diamond ring next to her wedding ring. Everything was elegance and understatement and the Vietnamese head waiter descended on her at once, speaking fluent French.

‘A great pleasure, Countess.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Lieutenant Cazalet is waiting at the bar. Would you care to sit down straight away?’

She smiled and waved to Jake, who approached. ‘Oh, yes, I think so. We’ll have a bottle of Dom Pérignon. A celebration.’

‘May I ask the occasion, Countess?’

‘Yes, Pierre, we’re celebrating being alive.’

He laughed and led the way to the corner table on the outside veranda, seated them and smiled. ‘The champagne will be here directly.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked Cazalet.

‘Not if I can have one as well.’

As he leaned across to give her a light, he said, ‘You look wonderful.’

She stopped smiling, very serious, then smiled again. ‘And you look very handsome. Tell me about yourself. You are a regular soldier?’

‘No, a volunteer on a two-year hitch.’

‘You mean you chose to come here? But why?’

‘Shame, I think. I avoided the draft because I was at college. Then I went to law school at Harvard. I was working on a doctorate.’ He shrugged. ‘Certain things happened, so I decided to enlist.’

The champagne arrived, and menus. She sat back. ‘What were these things?’

So he told her everything, exactly what had happened in the cafeteria and its consequences. ‘So here I am.’

‘And the boy who lost an arm?’

‘Teddy Grant? He’s fine. Working his way through law school. I saw him when I went home on leave. In fact, he works for my father now during his vacation. He’s bright, Teddy, very bright.’

‘And your father is some sort of diplomat?’

‘In a way. A brilliant lawyer who used to work for the State Department. He’s a senator now.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘And what did he think of your enlisting?’

‘Took it on the chin. Told me to come back in one piece and start again. When I was last on leave, he was campaigning. To be honest, it rather suited him to have a son in uniform.’

‘And a hero?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘No, but your medals do. But we’re forgetting the champagne.’ She picked up her glass. ‘What shall we drink to?’

‘Like you said, to being alive.’

‘To life, then.’

‘And the pursuit of happiness.’

They clinked glasses. ‘When do you go back?’ he asked.

‘To Paris?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m in no hurry, now. I don’t really know what I’m going to do next.’

‘Now that you’ve laid the ghosts?’

‘Something like that. Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s order.’

Jake Cazalet was deliriously happy, and afterwards, couldn’t even remember what he had had for dinner except that some sort of steak featured. A small band started to play and they moved inside and danced. She was so light in his arms; he was always to remember that, and the smell of her perfume.

And how they talked. He could never recall having such a conversation with anyone in his life. She wanted to know everything. They had a second bottle of champagne, and ice-cream and coffee.

He gave her another cigarette and sat back. ‘We shouldn’t be here. We should be up there in the mud.’

A shadow crossed her face. ‘Like Jean?’

‘I’m sorry.’ He was instantly contrite and reached for her hand.

She smiled. ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I told you I was through with ghosts, and then.… Listen, I’d like to take a ride round in one of those horse-drawn carriages. Will you come with me?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said, and pushed his chair back.

The streets of Saigon were as noisy as usual and crowded with cars, scooters and cyclists, people everywhere, girls propping up the walls outside the bars, looking for custom.

‘I wonder what they’ll all do when we go?’ Cazalet asked.

‘They managed after we left, the French,’ she said. ‘Life always goes on in one way or another.’

‘You should remember that,’ he said, and took her hand.

She didn’t resist, simply returned the pressure and peered out of the carriage. ‘I love cities, all cities, and particularly at night. Paris, by night, for example, and the feeling of excitement, that anything might happen just up there around the next corner.’

‘And usually doesn’t.’

‘You are not a true romantic.’

‘Teach me, then.’ She turned her face towards him in the shadows and he kissed her very gently, an arm sliding around her shoulder.

‘Oh, Jake Cazalet, what a lovely man you are,’ she said, and laid her head against his shoulder.

At the Excelsior, she got the key to her suite from reception, handed it to him without a word and went up the broad carpeted stairway. She paused at the door of the suite, waiting, and Cazalet unlocked the door and opened it. He stood to one side, then followed her in.

She crossed to the open French window and stood on the balcony looking down at the crowded street. Cazalet slipped his arms around her waist.

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘As we were saying, life is for living. Give me a few moments, then come in.’

Afterwards, Cazalet lay propped up against pillows, smoking. It had been the most wonderful experience of his entire life and now she slept quietly beside him. He checked his watch and sighed. Four o’clock and he was due at base for a briefing at eight.

He eased out of bed gently and started to dress. A muffled voice said, ‘You’re leaving, Jake?’

‘I’m on duty. Important briefing. Can we meet for lunch?’

‘That would be wonderful.’

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll see you later, my love,’ he said, and went out.

The briefing was at general-staff level and couldn’t be avoided. His colonel, Arch Prosser, caught him over coffee and said, ‘General Arlington wants words. You’ve been covering yourself with glory again.’

The General, a small energetic man with white hair, took his hand. ‘Damn proud of you, Lieutenant Cazalet, and your regiment is proud of you. What you did out there was sterling stuff. You’ll be interested to know that others share my view. It seems I’ve been authorized to promote you to captain.’ He raised a hand. ‘Yes, I know you’re young for the rank, but never mind that. I’ve also put you in for the Distinguished Service Cross.’

‘I’m overwhelmed, sir.’

‘Don’t be. You deserve it. I had the pleasure of meeting your father three weeks ago at a White House function. He was in tiptop form.’

‘That’s good to know, General.’

‘And very proud, and so he should be. A young man of your background could have avoided Vietnam and yet you left Harvard and volunteered. You’re a credit to your country.’

He shook hands vigorously and walked away. Cazalet turned to Colonel Prosser. ‘Can I get off now?’

‘I don’t see why not, Captain.’ Prosser grinned. ‘But you don’t leave this base until you call in at the quartermaster’s and get fitted with proper rank insignia.’

He parked his Jeep outside the Excelsior, went in and ran up the stairs, excited as a schoolboy. He knocked on the door of her suite and she opened it, her face wet with tears, and flung her arms around his neck.

‘Oh, Jake, thank God you’re here. I was just leaving. I didn’t know if I’d see you.’

‘Leaving? But…but what happened?’

‘They’ve found Jean. He’s not dead, Jake! A patrol picked him up in the bush, he’s badly wounded; they flew him down this morning. He’s at Mitchell Military Hospital. Will you take me?’

Jake felt the room spinning around him, but he spoke carefully. ‘Of course I will. I’ve got my Jeep outside. Is there anything you need?’

‘No, Jake, just get me there.’

Already, she was slipping away from him, like a boat making for different waters and not his.

At the hospital, he peered through the glass in the door of the private room and saw the man who was Captain Comte Jean de Brissac lying there, his head heavily bandaged, Jacqueline at his side with a doctor. They came out together.

Jake said, ‘How is he?’

It was the doctor who answered. ‘A bullet creased his skull and he was half-starved when they found him, but he’ll live. You’re both very lucky.’

He walked away, and Jacqueline de Brissac smiled through her tears. ‘Yes, aren’t we?’ Her voice caught. ‘Oh, God. What do I do?’

He felt incredibly calm, knowing that she needed his strength. The tears were streaming down her face and he took out his handkerchief and wiped them away gently. ‘Why, you go to your husband, of course.’

She stood there looking at him, then turned and opened the door into the private room. Cazalet went down the corridor to the main entrance. He stood on the top step and lit a cigarette.

‘You know what, Jake, I’m damn proud of you,’ he said softly and then he marched very fast towards the Jeep, trying to hold back the tears that were springing to his eyes.

When his time was up, he returned to Harvard and completed his doctorate. He joined his father’s law firm, but politics beckoned inevitably: congressman first and then he married Alice Beadle when he was thirty-five, a pleasant, decent woman for whom he had a great affection. His father had pushed for it, feeling it was time for children, but there weren’t any. Alice’s health was poor and she developed leukaemia, which lasted for years.

Over the years, Jake was aware of Jean de Brissac’s rise to the rank of full general in the French army. Jacqueline was a memory so distant that what had happened seemed like a dream; and then de Brissac died of a heart attack. There was an obituary in the New York Times, a photo of the General with Jacqueline. On reading it, Cazalet discovered there was only one child, a daughter named Marie. He considered writing, but then thought better of it. Jacqueline didn’t need an embarrassing echo of the past. What would be the point?

No, best to leave well enough alone.…

Once elected senator and regarded as a coming man, he had to take trips abroad on government business, usually on his own, for Alice simply wasn’t up to it. So it was that in Paris in 1989 on government business, he was once again on his own, except for his faithful aide and private secretary, a one-armed lawyer named Teddy Grant. Among other things there was an invitation to the Presidential Ball. Cazalet was seated at the desk in the sitting room of his suite at the Ritz when Teddy dropped it in front of him.

‘You can’t say no, it’s a command performance like the White House or Buckingham Palace, only this is the Elysée Palace.’

‘I haven’t the slightest intention of saying no,’ Cazalet told him. ‘And I’d like to point out it says Senator Jacob Cazalet and companion. For tonight, that means you, Teddy, so go find your black tie.’

Oh, I don’t mind,’ Teddy told him. ‘Free champagne, strawberries, good-looking women. For you, anyway.’

‘Good-looking French women, Teddy. But I’m not in the market any more, remember. Now get out of here.’

The ball was everything one could have hoped for, held in an incredible salon, an orchestra playing at one end. All the world seemed to be there, handsome men, beautiful women, uniforms everywhere, church dignitaries in purple or scarlet cassocks. Teddy had departed to procure some more champagne and Cazalet stood alone on the edge of the dance-floor.

A voice said, ‘Jake?’

He turned around and found her standing there, wearing a small diamond tiara and a black silk ballgown. ‘My God, it’s you, Jacqueline.’

The heart turned over in him as he took her hands. She was still so beautiful, it was as if time had stood still. She said, ‘Senator Cazalet now. I’ve followed your career with such interest. A future president, they say.’

‘And pigs might fly.’ He hesitated. ‘I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death last year.’

‘Yes. It was quick, though. I suppose one can’t ask for more than that.’

Teddy Grant approached with a tray holding two glasses of champagne. Cazalet said, ‘Teddy, the Comtesse de Brissac…an old friend.’

‘Not the Teddy Grant from that Harvard cafeteria?’ she smiled. ‘Oh, I truly am pleased to meet you, Mr Grant.’

‘Hey, what is this?’ Teddy asked.

‘It’s OK, Teddy, go and get another glass of champagne and I’ll explain later.’

Teddy left, looking slightly flummoxed, and he and Jacqueline sat down at the nearest table. ‘Your wife isn’t with you?’ she asked.

‘Alice has been fighting leukaemia for years.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘She’s a brave woman, but it dominates her life. That’s why we didn’t have any kids. You know, it’s ironic. My father, who died last year, too, urged me to marry Alice because he thought I should have a family. People worry about politicians who don’t.’

‘Don’t you love her?’

‘Oh, I have a great deal of affection for Alice, but love?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve only known love once.’

She touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Jake.’

‘So am I. We all lost – Alice, you, and me. I sometimes think I came off worst, having no kids.’

‘But you do, Jake,’ she said gently. Time seemed to stop for Jake. ‘What do you mean?’ he said at last.

‘Look over there, just at the French window to the terrace,’ Jacqueline said.

The girl’s hair was long, the white dress very simple. For a heart-stopping moment, it might have been her mother.

‘You wouldn’t kid a guy,’ he whispered.

‘No, Jake, that would be too cruel. She was conceived that one night in Saigon, and born in Paris in 1970. Her name is Marie and she is halfway through her first year at Oxford.’

Jake couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. ‘Did the General know?’

‘He assumed she was his, or so I thought, until the end, when the doctors told him just how bad his heart was.’

‘And?’

‘It seems that while he was in the hospital in Vietnam after being found up-country, someone sent him a letter. It told him that his wife had been seen with an American officer, who had not left her suite until four o’clock in the morning.’

‘But who –?’

‘A member of staff, we think. The maliciousness of it! Sometimes I despair of human beings. But he had known, all this time, my dear Jean. Before he died, he signed a declaration under the provisions of the Code Napoléon, stating that he was Marie’s titular father. It was to preserve her position and title legally.’

‘And she doesn’t know?’

‘No, and I don’t want her to, and neither do you, Jake. You’re a good man, an honourable man, but a politician. The great American public doesn’t take kindly to politicians who have illegitimate daughters.’

‘But it wasn’t like that. Dammit, everyone thought your husband was dead.’

‘Jake, listen to me. You could be president one day, everybody says that, but not with this sort of scandal hanging over you. And what about Marie? Isn’t it better if she just lives with her memory of her father, the General? No, if Marie isn’t told, that leaves only two people in the world who know – you and me. Are we agreed?’

Jake gazed at the lovely girl by the window, and then back at her mother. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

She took his hand. ‘I know. Now…would you care to meet her?’

‘My God, yes!’

She led the way to the French windows. ‘She has your eyes, Jake, and your smile. You’ll see.’

Marie de Brissac turned from speaking to a handsome young officer. ‘Mama,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve said it before, but you look incredible in that dress.’

Jacqueline kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Thank you, chérie.’

Marie said, ‘This is Lieutenant Maurice Guyon of the French Foreign Legion, just back from the campaign in Chad.’

Guyon, very military, very correct, clicked his heels and kissed Jacqueline’s hand. ‘A pleasure, Countess.’

‘And now allow me to introduce Senator Jacob Cazalet from Washington. We’re good friends.’

Guyon responded with enthusiasm. ‘A pleasure, Senator! I read the article about you last year in Paris Soir. Your exploits in Vietnam were admirable, sir. A remarkable career.’

‘Well, thank you, Lieutenant,’ Jake Cazalet said. ‘That means a lot, coming from someone like you.’ He turned and took his daughter’s hand. ‘May I say that, like your mother, you look wonderful.’

‘Senator.’ She had been smiling, but now it faded and there was only puzzlement there. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before?’

‘Absolutely.’ Jake smiled. ‘How could I have possibly forgotten?’ He kissed her hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to dance with your mother.’

As they circled the floor, he said to Jacqueline, ‘Everything you said – everything – is true. She’s wonderful.’

‘With such a father, she would be.’

He looked down at her with enormous tenderness. ‘You know, I think I never stopped loving you, Jacqueline,’ he said. ‘If only.…’

Hush,’ she said, putting her fingers to his lips. ‘I know, Jake, I know. But we can be happy with what we have.’ She smiled. ‘Now, let’s put some life into those feet, Senator!’

He never saw her again. The years rolled on, his wife finally died from the leukaemia that had plagued her for years, and it was a chance meeting with the French Ambassador at a function in Washington three years after the Gulf War that brought him up to date. He and Teddy were standing with him on the lawn at the White House.

The Ambassador said, ‘Congratulations would seem in order. I understand the presidential nomination is yours for the asking.’

‘A little premature,’ Jake said. ‘There’s still Senator Freeman, if he decides to run.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Mr Ambassador, he can’t fail,’ Teddy said.

‘And I must believe you.’ The Ambassador turned to Cazalet. ‘After all, as everyone knows, Teddy is your éminence grise.’

‘I suppose so.’ Jake smiled. Then, he didn’t know why – was it the music? – he said, ‘Tell me, Ambassador, there’s a friend of mine I haven’t seen in many years, the Comtesse de Brissac – do you know her?’

An odd expression came over the Ambassador’s face, then he said, ‘Mon Dieu, I was forgetting. You saved her life in Vietnam.’

‘Hell, I’d forgotten that one,’ Teddy said. ‘That’s how you got your DSC.’

‘You are not in touch?’ the Ambassador said.

‘Not really.’

‘The daughter was engaged to a Captain Guyon, a fine boy. I knew the family. Unfortunately, he was killed in the Gulf.’

‘I am very sorry to hear that. And the Countess?’

‘Cancer, my friend, at death’s door, as I understand it. A great pity.’

Cazalet said to Teddy, ‘I’ve got to get out of here, and fast. Two things.’ He was walking rapidly along a White House corridor. ‘Get in touch with our embassy in Paris and check on the present condition of the Comtesse de Brissac, then phone the airport and tell them to get the Gulfstream ready for a flight to Paris.’

His mother’s death a couple of years before had left him very wealthy, although with his interest in politics, he was content to put it all in a blind trust and leave the finances to others. However, it did give him the privileges of rank and the Gulfstream private jet was one of them.

Teddy was already speaking over his mobile phone, and as they reached the limousine, he said, ‘They’ll call me.’ They got in the rear and he closed the glass partition between them and the driver. ‘Jake, is there trouble? Anything I should know about?’

Cazalet did an unusual thing for him during the day. He reached for the bar and selected a crystal glass. ‘Pour me a Scotch, Teddy.’

‘Jake, are you OK?’ Teddy said anxiously.

‘Sure I am. The only woman I ever truly loved is dying of cancer and my daughter is all alone, so give me a Scotch.’

Teddy Grant’s eyes widened and he poured. ‘Daughter, Jake?’

Cazalet took the Scotch down in one swallow.

‘That was good,’ he said, and then he told him everything.

In the end, the mad dash across the Atlantic proved fruitless. Jacqueline de Brissac had died two weeks before. They had missed the funeral by five days. Cazalet seemed to find himself moving in slow motion and it was Teddy who saw to everything.

‘She was laid to rest in the Brissac family mausoleum, that’s in a cemetery at Valence,’ he said, turning from the phone in their suite at the Ritz.

‘Thanks, Teddy, we’ll pay our respects.’

Cazalet looked ten years older as they settled in the limousine, and Teddy Grant cared for him more than any other person on this earth, more even than he cared for his long-term partner, who was a professor of physics at Yale.

Cazalet was the brother he’d never had, who’d taken interest in his career ever since the cafeteria incident at Harvard, had given him a job with the family law firm, had given him the totally unique job of being his personal assistant, and Teddy had grabbed it.

Once, at a Senate committee meeting, he’d sat at Cazalet’s shoulder, monitoring and advising on the proceedings. Afterwards, a senior White House liaison had come up to Cazalet, fuming.

‘Hell, Senator, I truly object to this little cocksucker constantly appearing at these proceedings. I didn’t ask for fags on this committee.’

The room went quiet. Jake Cazalet said, ‘Teddy Grant graduated magna cum laude at Harvard Law School. He was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery in the field in Vietnam and the Vietnamese Cross of Valor. He also gave an arm for his country.’ His face was terrible to see. ‘But more than that, he is my friend and his sexual orientation is his own affair.’

‘Now, look here,’ the other man said.

‘No, you look here. I’m off the committee,’ and Cazalet had turned to Grant. ‘Let’s go, Teddy.’

In the end, when the President had heard, it was the White House staffer who got moved, not Jake Cazalet, and Teddy had never forgotten that.

It was raining at the cemetery and slightly misty. There was a small records office, with a clerk on duty, and Teddy went in to find the location. He returned with a piece of paper and a single rose in a Cellophane holder, got in the limousine and spoke to the driver.

‘Take the road north, then left at the top. We’ll get out there.’

He didn’t say anything to Cazalet, who sat looking tired and tense. The cemetery was old and crowded with a forest of Gothic monuments and gravestones. When they got out, Teddy raised a black umbrella.

‘This way.’ They followed a narrow path. He checked the instructions on the paper again. ‘There it is, Senator,’ he said, strangely formal.

The mausoleum was ornate, with an angel of death on top. There was an arched entrance to an oaken door banded with iron and the name de Brissac.

‘I’d like to be alone, Teddy,’ Cazalet told him.

‘Of course.’ Teddy gave him the rose and got back into the limousine.

Jake went into the porch at the door. There was a tablet listing the names of members of the family laid to rest there, but there was a separate one for the General. Jacqueline de Brissac’s name was in gold beneath it and newly inscribed.

There were some flower holders and Jake took the rose from its wrapping, kissed it and slipped it into one of the holders, then he sat down on the stone bench and wept as he had never wept in his life before.

A little while later – he didn’t know how long – there was a footstep on the gravel, and he looked up. Marie de Brissac stood there, wearing a Burberry trenchcoat and a headscarf. She held a rose just like his own and Teddy Grant stood behind her, his umbrella raised.

‘Forgive me, Senator, this is my doing, but I thought she should know.’

‘That’s all right, Teddy.’ Cazalet was filled with emotion, his heart beating.

Teddy went back to the limousine and the two of them were left staring at each other. ‘Don’t be mad at him,’ she said. ‘You see – I already knew. My mother told me a year or two after we met at the ball, when she was first ill. It was time, she said.’

She put her rose into one of the other holders. ‘There you are, Mama,’ she said softly. ‘One from each of us, the two people in the world who loved you best.’ She turned and smiled. ‘So here we are, Father.’

As Cazalet wept again, she put her arms around his neck and held him close.

Afterwards, sitting on the bench, holding hands, he said, ‘I must put things right. You must allow me to acknowledge you.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘My mother was adamant about that, and so am I. You are a great senator, and as president of the United States of America you could achieve remarkable things. Nothing must spoil that. An illegitimate daughter is the last thing you need. Your political opponents would have a field day.’

‘Screw them.’

She laughed. ‘Such language from a future president. No, my way is best. Only you and I know, the perfect cover.’

‘And Teddy.’

‘Ah, yes, lovely Teddy. Such a good man and your true friend. My mother told me about him. You mustn’t be annoyed that he spoke to me.’

‘I’m not.’

She raised her voice. ‘Teddy, come here.’

Teddy Grant got out of the limousine and joined them. ‘I’m sorry, Jake.’

‘You did right, Teddy, I’m grateful, but she won’t allow me to go public. Tell her she’s wrong.’

‘No, I’m afraid she’s right. You could cripple your chances. The opposition would make it look real dirty. That’s politics.’

Jake’s heart churned, but in his head, he knew they were both right. Damn it! ‘All right.’ Cazalet turned to her, still holding her hand. ‘But we must see each other on a regular basis.’

She smiled gently and raised her eyebrows to Teddy, who said, ‘I’m sorry, Jake, but there would be talk. Hell, the press would jump on it. They’d think you’d found yourself a new girlfriend.’

Cazalet’s shoulders sagged. She touched his face gently. ‘Perhaps the odd occasion, some public function. You know the kind of thing.’

‘God, but this is painful,’ he said.

‘You are my father and I love you, and not because you were that glorious young war hero who saved my mother in some God-forsaken swamp. It’s the decency of a man who nursed his wife through an appalling illness to the very end and never wavered that I admire. I love you, Jake Cazalet, for yourself, and I’m truly glad to be your daughter.’ She held him close and turned to Teddy, who had tears in his eyes. ‘Look after him, Teddy, I’m going now.’ She stepped out into the rain and walked away.

‘God help me, Teddy, what am I going to do?’ Jake Cazalet said brokenly.

‘You’re going to make her proud of you, Senator. You’re going to be the best damn president our country has ever seen. Now let’s go.’

As they walked to the limousine, Cazalet said, ‘Kennedy was right. Anyone who believes in fairness in this life has been seriously misinformed.’

‘Sure, Senator, life’s a bitch, but it’s all we’ve got,’ Teddy said, as they got into the limousine. ‘Oh, and by the way, I just had a call on my mobile. Senator Freeman’s decided not to run. The nomination is yours. We’re on our way.’



LONDON (#u6848c91c-48c7-58de-8ce0-0f2911598292)




2 (#ulink_c53efb5e-f3b7-596c-8f2c-2811118b7679)


Rain swept in across London from the west during the night, driven by a cold wind, hard and relentless. By morning, the wind had dropped, but when the prison officer in navy-blue mackintosh opened the gate to the exercise yard at Wandsworth Prison, the rain itself was more relentless than ever. The officer was called Jackson and sported a clipped military moustache, which was hardly surprising as he was a former Grenadier Guard.

He pushed Dermot Riley forward. ‘On your way.’

Riley, dressed only in prison denims, peered out. The yard, surrounded by high brick walls, was empty.

‘I’ll get soaked,’ he said in a hard Ulster accent.

‘No, you won’t. I’m being good to you.’ Jackson held out a small folding umbrella.

‘I’d rather go back to my cell,’ Riley said morosely.

‘One hour’s exercise a day, that’s what it says in regulations, then we bang you up for the other twenty-three. Can’t have you associating with honest crooks, can we? You know how much they’d like to get their hands on a piece of IRA scum like you. That bomb in the West End last week killed sixteen people and God knows how many injured. You’re not popular, Riley, not popular at all. Now get on with it.’

He shoved Riley into the rain and locked the door behind him. Riley pressed the button on the folding umbrella and it opened. He took a tin of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one with a cheap plastic lighter and started to walk.

Funny how walking in the rain gave him a lift and the cigarette tasted good. On the other hand, anything was better than the solitary life he led for twenty-three hours a day in that cell. So far he had endured six months of it, which only left fourteen and a half years to go. Sometimes he thought he was going mad when he considered the prospect of those years stretching into infinity. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d sent him back home to a prison in Ulster. At least he’d have been serving his time with old comrades, but here at Wandsworth.…

At that moment the door opened and Jackson appeared. ‘Get over here, Riley, you’ve got a visitor.’

‘A visitor?’ Riley said.

‘Yes, your brief.’ Riley stood there in the rain, the umbrella over his head and Jackson added impatiently, ‘Your brief, your lawyer, you stupid Irish git. Now move it.’

Jackson didn’t take him to the general visiting hall, but opened a door at the end of a side corridor. There was a table, a chair at each end and a large barred window. The man who stood there peering out of it wore a fawn Burberry trenchcoat over a dark brown suit. The white shirt was set off by a college-type striped tie. He had black curling hair a pleasant, open face and horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked around forty.

‘Ah, Mr Riley. I don’t know whether you will remember me. I was in court the day you were sentenced. George Brown.’

Riley played it very cool indeed. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘I’ve been retained to look into the question of an appeal on your case. There were certain irregularities, statements by witnesses which might well have been tainted.’ He turned to Jackson, who stood by the door. ‘I wonder if you’d mind stepping outside, Mr…?’

‘Jackson, sir’.

‘I think you’ll find if you check Section Three regulations, that where a question of appeal is being considered, a lawyer and his client are entitled to privacy.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Jackson said.

The door closed behind him, and Riley said, ‘What the hell is going on? I’ve never seen you in my life before and I’ve already had any hope of an appeal turned down by the Home Secretary.’

Brown took a leather cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered him one. ‘Fifteen years,’ he said, as he gave Riley a light. ‘That’s a long time. Bad enough here, but they’ll be sending you to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight soon. Toughest nick in Britain and the hardest cons. Like the coffin lid closing when they get you in there. I know about these things. I am a lawyer, although naturally, my name isn’t Brown.’

‘What’s your game, fella?’ Riley demanded.

‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’ Riley did as he was told and Brown carried on. ‘I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse, just like in The Godfather.’

‘And what might that be? A fresh appeal?’

‘No.’ Brown walked to the window and peered out. ‘How would you like to be free?’

‘Escape, you mean?’ Riley said.

‘No, I mean really free. Slate wiped clean.’

Riley was stunned and his voice was hoarse as he said, ‘I’d do anything for that – anything.’

‘Yes, somehow I thought you might, but there’s even more to it. Do as I tell you and you’ll not only be a free man once more, you’ll have twenty thousand pounds in your hand to start fresh again.’

‘My God,’ Riley whispered. ‘And who would I have to kill?’

Brown smiled. ‘No one, I assure you, but let me ask you a question. Do you know Brigadier Charles Ferguson?’

‘Not personally, no,’ Riley said. ‘But I know of him. He runs an intelligence unit specializing in anti-terrorism. They call it the Prime Minister’s private army. It’s got nothing to do with the SIS or MI5. I know one thing; it’s given the IRA a bad time in the last few years.’

‘And Sean Dillon?’

‘Jesus, is that bowser in this?’ Riley laughed. ‘Sure and I know Sean like my own self. We fought the bloody war together in Derry back in the seventies, and little more than boys. Led those Brit soldiers a right old dance through the sewers, but the word is Sean works for Ferguson these days.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘His mother died giving birth to him and he and his dad went to London. Sean had a genius for acting. He could change himself even without makeup. I’ve seen him do it. The Man of a Thousand Faces, that’s what Brit Intelligence called him, and they never managed to put a finger on him in twenty years.’

‘His father was killed by British soldiers on a visit to Belfast, I understand,’ Brown said.

‘That’s right. Sean was nineteen, as I remember. He went home, joined the movement and never looked back. At one time he was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA had.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘He never liked the bombing, though they say he was behind that mortar attack on Ten Downing Street during the Gulf War. After that, he cleared off to Europe and offered himself as a sort of gun for hire to anybody who’d pay. One minute he’d be working for the PLO, the next blowing up Palestinian gunboats in Beirut. He was even-handed, was Sean.’

‘And where did Ferguson come in? I’ve heard the story, but I’d like it confirmed.’

‘Well, among his other talents, our Sean can fly just about anything that can fly. He was running medicine for children into Bosnia and got shot down. It seems the Serbs were going to shoot him and Ferguson turned up and did a deal of some sort, blackmailed Sean into going to work for him.’

‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ Brown said.

‘That’s about it. It hasn’t made him too popular with the Provos back home.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t, would it?’

There was a pause. Finally, Riley said, ‘Look, what do you want?’

‘Sean Dillon, actually.’ Brown smiled and offered him another cigarette. ‘Or to put it another way, the people I represent want him.’

‘And who might they be?’

‘None of your business, Mr Riley, but I think I can guarantee that if you do exactly as I say, you’ll have your freedom and we’ll have Dillon. Does that give you a problem?’

‘Not in the slightest.’ Riley smiled. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘To start, you apply to see the governor and ask for Ferguson. Say you have important information for his ears only.’

‘Then what?’

‘Ferguson is certain to want to see you. There’s been a series of small doorstep bombs in Hampstead and Camden during the past two weeks. It’s a known fact that the IRA have at least three Active Service Units operating in London at the moment.’ He took a piece of paper from a wallet and passed it across. ‘You tell Ferguson he’ll find an Active Service Unit at that address plus a supply of Semtex and fuses and so forth.’

Riley looked at the paper. ‘Holland Park.’ He looked up. ‘Is this kosher?’

‘No ASU, just the Semtex and timers, enough to show you were telling the truth. Not your fault if there’s no one there.’

‘And you expect Ferguson to get my sentence squashed for that?’ Riley shook his head. ‘Maybe if he’d been able to nick an ASU.’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t do.’

‘Yes, he’ll want more and you’re going to give it to him. Two years ago, an Arab terrorist group called the Army of God blew up a jumbo jet as it was lifting off from Manchester. More than two hundred people killed.’

‘So?’

‘Their leader was a man called Hakim al-Sharif. I know where he’s been hiding. I’ll tell you and you tell Ferguson. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get his hands on that bastard and he’s certain to use Dillon to pull the job off.’

‘And what do I do?’

‘You offer to go with him, to prove you’re genuine in this thing.’ Brown smiled. ‘It will work, Mr Riley, but only if you do exactly as I tell you, so listen carefully.’

Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man with a shock of grey hair, wearing a crumpled fawn suit and a Guards Brigade tie. He was frowning slightly as he pressed his intercom.

‘Brigadier?’

‘Is Dillon there, Chief Inspector?’

‘Just arrived.’

‘I’ll see the both of you. Something’s come up.’

The woman who led the way was around thirty and wore a fawn Armani trouser suit. She had close-cropped red hair and black horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not so much beautiful as someone you would look at twice. She could have been a top secretary, a company director, and yet this was Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, product of an orthodox Jewish family, MA in Psychology from Cambridge, father a professor of surgery, grandfather a rabbi, both hugely shocked when she had elected to join the police. A fast-track career had taken her to Special Branch, from where Ferguson had procured her secondment as his assistant. In spite of her appearance and the crisp English upper-class voice, she had killed in the line of duty on three occasions to his knowledge, and had taken a bullet herself.

The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was small, no more than five feet five, with the kind of fair hair that was almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. His eyes seemed to lack any kind of colour and were very clear and he was handsome enough, a restless, animal vitality to him. The left corner of his mouth was permanently lifted into the kind of smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously, perhaps never had.

‘God save the good work, Brigadier,’ he said cheerfully in the distinctive accent that was Ulster Irish.

Ferguson laid down his pen and removed his reading glasses. ‘Dermot Riley. He ring a bell for you, Dillon?’

Dillon took out an old silver case, selected a cigarette and lit it with a Zippo lighter. ‘You could say that. We were not much more than boys fighting together in the hard days in the seventies in the Derry Brigade of the Provisional IRA.’

‘Shooting British soldiers,’ Hannah Bernstein said.

‘Well, they shouldn’t have joined,’ Dillon told her cheerfully and turned back to Ferguson. ‘He was lifted last year by Scotland Yard’s Anti-Terrorist Squad right here in London. Supposed to have been a member of one of the Active Service Units.’

‘As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.’

‘True,’ Dillon said. ‘But when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.’

‘And good riddance,’ Hannah said.

‘Ah, well now, everyone has their own point of view,’ Dillon told her. ‘To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.’

‘Not any more he doesn’t,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve just had a call from the governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.’

‘Really?’ Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. ‘Now why would he want to do that?’

‘Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? If you had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and has another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.’

‘And you want me?’ Dillon said.

‘Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, Chief Inspector, I’d like your input.’ He pushed back his chair and stood. ‘The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,’ and he led the way out.

They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.

Riley said. ‘Sean, is that you?’

‘As ever was, Dermot.’ Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled and passed it to him.

Riley grinned. ‘You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?’

‘We did indeed, old son, but times change.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly changed,’ Riley said. ‘And from one side to the other.’

‘All right,’ Ferguson broke in. ‘So you’ve had the old-pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?’

‘Out, Brigadier.’ Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. ‘Six months is enough. I can’t face any more, I’d rather be dead.’

‘Like all those people you killed,’ Hannah said.

‘And who might you be?’

‘A DCI from Special Branch,’ Dillon told him, ‘so mind your manners.’

‘I was fighting a war, woman,’ Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.

‘And now you’ve had enough of the glorious cause,’ Ferguson said. ‘So what have you got for me?’

Riley appeared to hesitate and Dillon said, ‘Hard as nails this old bugger, Dermot, but very old-fashioned. A man of honour, so tell him.’

‘All right.’ Riley raised a hand. ‘You people always thought there were three Active Service Units operating in London. There was a fourth and a different kind of set-up. Nice house in Holland Park. Three guys and a woman, all with good jobs in the City. Another thing – all handpicked because they’d been born in England or raised here. Perfect for deep cover.’

‘Names?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘It won’t do you any good. Not one of them has a police record of any kind, but here goes.’

He rattled off four names, which Hannah Bernstein wrote down in her notebook. Dillon watched impassively.

Ferguson said, ‘Address?’

‘Park Villa, Palace Square. It’s on old Victoria Place in a nice garden.’

‘So you had dealings with them?’ Dillon asked.

‘No, but a friend of mine, Ed Murphy, was their supplier. He got a little indiscreet one night. You know how it is with the drink taken. Anyway, he told me all about them.’

‘And where’s Murphy now?’

‘Rotated back to Ireland last year.’

Dillon turned to Ferguson and shrugged. ‘If it was me, I’d be long gone, especially after Dermot was lifted.’

‘But why?’ Hannah demanded. ‘There’s no connection.’

‘But there always is,’ Dillon said.

‘Stop this bickering,’ Ferguson told them. ‘It’s worth a try.’

He banged on the door, and when it opened and Jackson appeared, took an envelope from his pocket. ‘Take that to the governor and get it countersigned. It’s a warrant for this man’s release into my custody. Afterwards, take him back to his cell to collect his things. We’ll be waiting in my Daimler in the courtyard.’

‘Very well, Brigadier.’ Jackson stamped his booted feet as if back on the parade ground and stood to one side as they filed past.

A number of people were waiting in the rain outside the main gate for prisoners on release. Among them was the lawyer who had called himself George Brown, standing beside a London black cab, an umbrella over his head. The driver looked like your average London cabbie, which he was, a very special breed, dark curly hair flecked with grey, a nose that had at some stage been broken.

‘Do you think it’s going to work?’ he asked.

At that moment, the gates opened and several men emerged, the Daimler following.

‘I do now,’ Brown said.

As the Daimler passed, Riley, sitting beside Dillon and opposite Ferguson and Hannah, glanced out and recognized Brown at once. He looked away.

Brown waved to a Ford saloon on the other side of the road and pointed as it moved away from the kerb and went after the Daimler.

Brown got into the cab. ‘Now what?’ the driver asked.

‘They’ll follow them. Ferguson’s got to keep him somewhere.’

‘A safe house?’

‘Perhaps, but what would be safer than having him stay at Dillon’s place in Stable Mews, very convenient for Ferguson’s flat just round the corner in Cavendish Square. That’s why I’ve made the arrangements I have. We’ll see if I’m right. In the meantime, we wait here. I chose visiting day because I was just one of two or three hundred people and no one at reception will remember me, but the prison officer who took me to Riley will. Jackson is his name.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The present shift should have just finished. We’ll wait and see if he comes out.’

Which Jackson did twenty minutes later, and hurried away along the street to the nearest tube station. A keen snooker player, he was in a tournament at the British Legion that evening and wanted to get home to shower and change.

The tube was as busy as usual, and as he entered the station the black cab pulled in at the kerb and Brown got out and went after him. Jackson went down the escalator and hurried along the tunnel, Brown close behind but keeping a few people between them. The platform was crowded and Jackson pushed his way through and waited on the edge. There was the sound of the train in the distance and Brown slipped in closer as the crowd surged forward. There was a rush of air, a roaring now as the train appeared, and Jackson was aware of a hand against his back, the last thing he remembered in this life as he plunged headfirst on to the track and directly into the path of the train.

Outside, the black-cab driver was waiting anxiously. He’d already had to turn down several fares, was sweating a little and then Brown emerged from the station entrance, hurried along the pavement and got in the back.

‘Taken care of?’ the driver asked, as he switched on his engine.

‘As the coffin lid closing,’ Brown told him, and they drove away.

Ferguson said, ‘You’ll stay with Dillon at his place. Only five minutes’ walk from my flat.’

‘Very convenient,’ Riley said.

‘And try and be sensible, there’s a good chap. Don’t try playing silly buggers and making a run for it.’

‘And why would I do that?’ Riley said. ‘I want to walk away from this clean, Brigadier. I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.’

‘Good man.’

At that moment, the Daimler turned into Stable Mews, negotiating a grey BT van parked on the pavement, a manhole cover raised behind a small barrier. A telephone engineer wearing a hard hat and a distinctive yellow oilskin jacket with the BT logo printed across the back worked in the manhole.

Ferguson said, ‘Right, out you get, you two. The Chief Inspector and I have work to do.’

‘When will we make the hit?’ Dillon asked.

‘Sometime tonight. Sooner rather than later.’

The Daimler moved away and Dillon unlocked the door of the cottage and led the way in. It was small and very Victorian, with a scarlet and blue Turkish carpet runner up the hall. A door stood open to a living room, polished wood-block floor, a three-piece suite in black leather, oriental rugs scattered here and there. Above the fireplace was an oil painting, a scene of the Thames by night in Victorian times.

‘Jesus,’ Riley said, ‘that’s an Atkinson Grimshaw and worth a powerful lot of money, Sean.’

‘And how would you be knowing that?’ Dillon asked.

‘Oh, once I had to visit Liam Devlin at his cottage at Kilrea outside Dublin. He had at least six Grimshaws on the walls.’

‘Five now,’ Dillon said, and splashed Bushmills whiskey into two glasses on the sideboard. ‘He gave that one to me.’

‘So the old bugger is still alive.’

‘He certainly is. Eighty-five and still claiming seventy.’

‘The living legend of the IRA.’

‘The best,’ Dillon said. ‘On my best day and his worst, the best. To Liam.’ He raised his glass.

Outside on the corner of the mews, the man working in the manhole got out, opened the door of the van and went inside. Another man dressed as a BT engineer sat on a stool manipulating a refractive directional microphone, a tape recorder turning beside it.

He turned and smiled. ‘Perfect. Heard everything they said.’

At nine o’clock that evening, Palace Square in Holland Park was sealed off by the police. Ferguson, Dillon and Riley sat in the Daimler at the gate of Park Villa and watched armed police of the Anti-Terrorist Squad smash the front door down with their hammers and flood inside.

‘So far so good,’ Ferguson said.

Dillon took the car umbrella, got out and lit a cigarette and stood in the pouring rain. Hannah Bernstein emerged from the front door and came towards them. She wore a black jump suit and flak jacket, a holstered Smith and Wesson pistol on her left hip.

Ferguson opened the door. ‘Any luck?’

‘A stack of Semtex, sir, and lots of timers. Looks as if we’ve really nipped some sort of bombing campaign in the bud.’

‘But no Active Service Unit?’

‘I’m afraid not, Brigadier.’

‘I told you,’ Dillon said. ‘Probably long gone.’

‘Sod it!’ Ferguson told him. ‘I wanted them, Dillon.’

Riley said, ‘Well, I kept my side of the bargain. Not my fault.’

‘Yes, but not enough,’ Ferguson told him.

Riley was really working very well. He added a little anxiety to his voice. ‘Here, you won’t send me back, not to Wandsworth?’

‘I don’t really have much choice.’

Riley switched to panic. ‘No, not that. I’ll do anything. Lots of things I could tell you, and not just about the IRA.’

‘Such as?’

‘Two years ago. The jumbo from Manchester that blew up over the Irish Sea. Two hundred and twenty dead. That Arab fundamentalist lot, the Army of God, were behind that and you know who was in charge.’

Ferguson’s face had gone very pale. ‘Hakim al-Sharif.’

‘I can get him for you.’

‘You mean you know where that murderous bastard is?’

‘I spoke with him last year. He was also supplying arms for the IRA.’

Ferguson raised a hand. ‘That’s enough.’ He looked up at Hannah. ‘Get in, Chief Inspector. We’ll go to Dillon’s cottage and pursue this further.’

The kettle in Dillon’s kitchen was the old-fashioned kind that whistled when it boiled. Ferguson was on the telephone, checking in to the office, and Riley was on the couch by the fireplace, Hannah Bernstein at the window.

She got up as the kettle sounded, and Dillon said, ‘None of that. It wouldn’t be politically correct. I’ll make the tea.’

‘Fool, Dillon,’ she told him.

He made a large pot, put it on a tray with milk and sugar and four mugs and took it in. ‘Barry’s Tea, Dermot,’ he said, naming one of Ireland’s favourite brands. ‘You’ll feel right at home.’

Hannah poured and Ferguson put the phone down. He took the tea Hannah offered and said. ‘All right, let’s start again.’

Riley said, ‘Before I was lifted here in London last year, I was pulled in by the chief of staff in Dublin as a courier. I had to fly to Paris, visit a certain bank where there was a briefcase in a safe deposit. All I know is it was a lot of money in American dollars. I never knew how much. I understood it was a down-payment against an arms shipment to Ireland.’

‘And then?’

‘I had exact instructions and I followed them. Flew to Palermo in Sicily, where I hired a car and drove across to the south coast of the island, a fishing port called Salinas, a real nothing of a place. I was told to phone a certain number and simply say: “The Irishman is here.”’

‘Go on,’ Ferguson urged.

‘Then I was to wait at this bar on the waterfront called the English Café.’

The story was so good that Riley was almost believing in it himself, and it was Dillon who said, ‘And they came?’

‘Two men in a Range Rover. Arabs. They took me to this villa by the sea about six or seven miles out of Salinas. Nothing else around. There was a jetty, some sort of motor boat.’

‘And Hakim al-Sharif?’ Hannah asked.

‘Oh, yes. Very hospitable. He checked out the cash, gave me a sealed letter for the chief of staff in Dublin and made me stay the night.’

‘How many people?’ Dillon asked.

‘The two fellas that picked me up were obviously his minders, then there was an Arab couple in a small cottage next door. The woman cooked and her husband was a general handyman. It seemed as if they looked after the place when he was away.’ He drank some of his tea. ‘Oh, and there was a younger Arab woman who lived with them. I think she was there to make Hakim happy on occasions. That’s how it seemed, anyway.’

‘Anything else of interest?’ Ferguson asked.

‘Well, he wasn’t your ordinary Muslim. Drank a great deal of Scotch whisky.’

‘So he opened up?’ Dillon said.

‘Only to the extent that his tongue loosened. Kept going on about the jobs he’d pulled and how he’d made fools of the intelligence services of a dozen countries. Oh, and he told me he’d had the villa for six years. Said it was the safest base he’d ever had, because all the local Sicilians were crooks of one sort or another and everybody minded their own business.’

‘And he’s still there?’ Hannah asked.

Riley managed to sound reluctant. ‘I don’t see why not, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

There was silence. Ferguson said, ‘God, I’d love to get my hands on him.’

‘Well, if he is there, and I think there’s a fair chance he is,’ Riley said, ‘you could get what you want. I mean, it’s another country, but you knock people off from other countries all the time, don’t tell me you don’t.’

‘It’s certainly a thought.’ Ferguson nodded.

‘Look, send Dillon,’ Riley said. ‘Send whoever you want and I’ll go with them, put myself on the line every step of the way.’

‘And make a run for it first chance you get, Dermot boy,’ Dillon said.

‘Jesus, Sean, how many times do I have to tell you? I want out of this clean. I don’t want to be on the run for the rest of my life.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘Brigadier?’

Ferguson made his decision. ‘Take him out for a meal or something, Dillon. I’ll phone you in two hours.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Right, Chief Inspector, we have work to do.’

He went out, she raised her eyebrows at Dillon and followed.

Dillon went to a drawer in the sideboard, opened it and took out a silenced Walther, which he tucked into the waistband of his cords at the rear under his coat.

‘Like they say in those bad movies, Dermot, one false move and I’ll kill you.’

‘No, you won’t, Sean, because I’m not going to make one.’

‘Good, then it’s the King’s Head on the other side of the square. Great pub grub. They do a shepherd’s pie like your mother used to make, and after six months in Wandsworth, I’d say you could do with.’

Riley groaned. ‘Just show me the way.’

They hadn’t been back at the cottage for more than five minutes when the phone went. Dillon picked it up.

‘Ferguson,’ the Brigadier said. ‘This is the way of it.’

Dillon listened intently, then nodded. ‘Fine. We’ll expect you at nine o’clock in the morning.’

He put the phone down and lit a cigarette. Riley said, ‘Is it on?’

Dillon nodded. ‘Ferguson’s been in touch with the Marine Commando Special Boat Squadron at Akrotiri, in Cyprus. A Captain Carter and four men have been given the job. They’ll leave for Sicily by boat, posing as fishermen. Weather permitting, they should make it to Salinas by early evening tomorrow.’

‘And you and me?’

‘Ferguson will pick us up at nine with Hannah Bernstein and take us out to Farley Field. That’s an RAF proving ground. You and I, plus Bernstein, fly in the department’s Lear jet to Sicily. We drive to Salinas. Carter will make himself known on arrival. The Lear will fly on to Malta.’

‘Why Malta?’

‘Because that’s where we go after Carter and his boys snatch Hakim. You and I go in with them, by the way.’

‘Just like old times.’

‘Short sea voyage. Do you good after Wandsworth.’

Riley nodded. ‘Would you anticipate any problem with Hakim at Malta?’

‘None at all. They’re on our side. I mean, it isn’t Bosnia. A shot of something to subdue him, and the Lear, after all, bears RAF roundels. By the time Hakim has stopped being sick, he’ll be in London.’

In the BT van, the man at the directional microphone nodded to his friend, then turned off the tape recorder.

‘I got everything. You close the manhole cover and clear up while I call in.’

A moment later, he was speaking to the man called Brown. ‘Right, see you soon.’

He switched off the phone and got out of the van and went round to the driving seat. A moment later, his colleague joined him.

‘Perfect,’ the one behind the wheel said. ‘Couldn’t be better. Our people are already waiting in Salinas, and Riley and Dillon will be there tomorrow evening.’

‘What happened?’

The driver eased out into the square and told him. When he was finished the other man said, ‘Special Boat Squadron. They’re hot stuff.’

‘It will be taken care of. All in the plan, exactly as Judas envisaged. He’s a genius, that man – a genius.’

He turned out of the square into the main stream of traffic and drove away.




3 (#ulink_16f5d530-dd15-5267-8e9e-f1417878614b)


The Lear jet they were using stood on the apron in front of one of the hangars. It was very official-looking, with RAF roundels, and the two pilots who stood waiting by the cabin door wore RAF overalls with rank insignia.

As the Daimler stopped, Ferguson said, ‘All nice and official. It should make things easy at Malta.’ He took a small leather case from his pocket and gave it to Hannah Bernstein. ‘You’ll find a hypodermic in there, ready charged. Just give our friend Hakim a shot in the arm. He’ll stay on his feet, but he won’t know what time of day it is, and here’s a passport I got Forgery to make up for him. Abdul Krym, British citizen.’ He took another from his inside pocket and passed it to Riley. ‘There’s yours, Irish variety. I thought it would go better with the accent. Thomas O’Malley.’

‘Now isn’t that the strange thing?’ Riley said. ‘And me with a cousin once removed called Bridget O’Malley.’

‘I haven’t the slightest interest in your family connections,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Just get on board, there’s a good chap, and try doing as you’re told.’

They all got out and approached the Lear. Flight Lieutenant Lacey, in command, was an old hand and had been attached to Ferguson’s section for two years now. He introduced his fellow pilot, Flight Lieutenant Parry.

Ferguson said, ‘How long to Sicily, then, Flight Lieutenant?’

‘Headwinds all the way today, Brigadier. Can’t see it taking less than a good five hours.’

‘Do your best.’ Ferguson turned to the others. ‘Right, on you go and good luck.’

The Brigadier watched as they went up the steps, one by one. The door closed. Ferguson stepped back as the engines started and the Lear taxied away to the far end of the field. It thundered along the runway and lifted.

‘Up to you now, Dillon,’ he said softly, then turned and walked back to the Daimler.

It was all a dream, Riley decided, and he might wake up in his cell at Wandsworth instead of sitting here on the leather club seat in the quiet elegance of the Lear. It had all worked out as Brown had promised.

He watched Hannah Bernstein, glasses removed, take some papers from her briefcase and start to read them. A strange one, but a hell of a copper from what he had heard, and hadn’t she shot dead that Protestant bitch, Norah Bell, when she and Michael Ahern had tried to assassinate the American President on his London visit?

Dillon came through from the cockpit area, slid into the chair opposite. He opened the bar cupboard. ‘Would you fancy a drink, Dermot? Scotch whisky, not Irish, I’m afraid.’

‘It’ll do to take along.’

Dillon found a half-bottle of Bell’s and splashed some into a couple of glasses. He passed one to Riley and offered him a cigarette.

‘Cigarettes and whisky and wild, wild women, isn’t that what the song says, only not for the Chief Inspector. She thinks I’m taking years off my life.’

She glanced up. ‘And so you are, Dillon, but you go to hell in your own way.’

She went back to her work and Dillon turned to Riley. ‘The hard woman, but she loves me dearly. Tell me, was that a fact about you having a cousin called O’Malley?’

‘Jesus, yes,’ Riley said. ‘Didn’t I ever mention her? My mother died when I was five. Derry, that was, and I had a ten-year-old sister, Kathleen. My old man couldn’t cope, so he sent for my mother’s niece, Bridget O’Malley, from a village called Tullamore between the Blackwater river and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A drop of the real old Ireland that place, I can tell you.’

‘And she raised you?’

‘Until I was eighteen.’

‘And never married?’

‘She couldn’t have children, so she could never see the point.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘Her father was a widower. Her eldest brother had died fighting for the Brit army in the Far East somewhere, so when her father passed away, she inherited the farm outside Tullamore.’

‘So she went back?’

‘A small place, but her own.’

‘Did you keep in touch?’

‘She put me up more than once when I was on the run, Sean, though she doesn’t approve of the IRA. Mass three times a week, that’s Bridget. It’s only a small farm, forty cows, a few pigs, goats, a small herd of sheep on the mountainside.’

‘And you liked it when you were lying low there?’

‘Liked it?’ Riley’s face was pale. ‘She always said she’d leave it to me. She only has a couple of retired old boys from the village to help out so there was plenty to do. There I was, the stench of the war zone still in my nose, up the mountain to see to the sheep in the rain with that Alsatian of hers, Karl, snapping at my heels. And you know what, Sean? I loved it, every minute of it. Isn’t that the strange thing?’

‘Not really. Roots, Dermot, that’s what we all need and your roots are in her.’

‘And what about you, Sean, where are your roots?’

‘Maybe nowhere, nowhere at all. A few cousins scattered here and there that I haven’t seen in years and probably frightened to death of me.’ He smiled. ‘Take my advice, old son. Once out of this, get back to Ireland and that farm outside Tullamore. You’ve been offered a miracle. From death in life at Wandsworth Prison to your present situation.’

‘I know,’ Riley said. ‘It’s like the stone being rolled aside from the mouth of the grave on the third day.’

‘Exactly.’ Dillon yawned. ‘I’ll have a little snooze now. Give me a push in an hour,’ and he closed his eyes.

Riley watched him for a while. A good stick, Sean, one hell of a comrade in the old days fighting the Brits in Derry. On one memorable occasion when Riley had taken a bullet in the left leg, Dillon had refused to leave him, had hauled him to safety through the sewers of the city.

He glanced at Dillon, sleeping now. Sorry, Sean, he wanted to say, but what would have been the point? He couldn’t face going back to Wandsworth and another fourteen and a half years of living hell, so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep himself.

At around two o’clock in the afternoon they came in over the sea, Palermo to one side, and landed at Punta Raisi. Lacey obeyed orders from the tower and taxied to a remote area at the far end of the airport, where a number of private planes were parked. There was a small man in a cloth cap and old flying jacket standing in front of the hangar, and a Peugeot was parked to one side.

‘And who might he be?’ Riley asked.

‘Don’t let appearances deceive you, Mr Riley,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s Colonel Paolo Gagini of the Italian Secret Intelligence Service. He’s put more Mafia godfathers inside than anyone I know and he’s an old friend of ours.’

Parry got the door open and Lacey went after him, the rest of them following.

Gagini came forward. ‘Chief Inspector, nice to see you again, and you, Dillon. Still around and still in one piece? Amazing.’

Dillon took his hand. ‘This is Tom O’Malley, a colleague.’

Gagini looked Riley over and laughed out loud. ‘A colleague, you say? Ah, well, it takes all sorts.’

‘Stop playing policeman, Paolo,’ Hannah told him.

‘Anything for you, Chief Inspector. I’ve always found beauty with brains more exciting than beauty on its own, and anything for my old friend Charles Ferguson. I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t want to know, only try to keep it out of the papers.’ He turned to Lacey. ‘And what can I do for you, Flight Lieutenant?’

‘I need to refuel and then it’s Malta next stop.’

‘Good. Let me dispose of my friends here first.’ He turned and led the way to the Peugeot. The driver got out, a small, eager, dark-haired man in a check shirt and jeans.

‘Colonel?’

Gagini put a hand on the man’s head. ‘Luigi, I made you a sergeant because I thought you had a certain intelligence. This lady is a chief inspector, so treat her accordingly. Mr Dillon and Mr O’Malley are colleagues. You drive them across the island and drop them at Salinas. Afterwards, you return.’

‘Yes, Colonel.’

‘And if you cock this up in any way, I’ll have your balls.’

Luigi smiled and held open the rear door. There was a bank of two seats. ‘Chief Inspector.’

Hannah kissed Gagini on the cheek and got into the rear seat. Dillon and Riley sat in the other. Gagini smiled through the open window. ‘Good hunting, my friends.’

He stepped back and Luigi drove away.

It was some saint’s day or other, and as they passed through Palermo they slowed to a crawl as the traffic became snarled up with various religious processions. There was an enormous catafalque being carried by hooded men in robes, an ornate statue of the Virgin standing on top.

‘Would you look at that?’ Riley said. ‘A religious lot, these people.’

‘Yes,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘But no ordinary Virgin. Haven’t you noticed the knife in her heart?’

‘That’s Sicily for you,’ Dillon said. ‘Death is like a cult here. I don’t think your cousin Bridget would like it at all, Dermot.’

‘She would not,’ Riley said forcefully, but looked out of the open window all the same, fascinated.

They moved out of Palermo into the heart of the island, following the route usually taken by tourists driving across to Agrigento on the south coast, and the scenery was spectacular.

They passed peasants on donkeys, vegetables for market in panniers, old men in tweed caps and patched suits, usually with a lupara, the short-barrelled shotgun favoured by Sicilians, slung from a shoulder.

There were women in black, working in the fields or walking in a line at the side of the road, baskets on their heads, seemingly impervious to the sun; villages, with buildings that were centuries old, open drains down the centre of the street, the smell of urine strong in the sun.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but give me Ireland any day of the week. This is a poor sort of place,’ Riley said.

‘Still very medieval,’ Hannah Bernstein observed.

Luigi spoke for the first time and in excellent English. ‘These are poor people ground down by poverty. Great landowners and the Mafia have sucked them dry for years, and in Sicily, there is only the land. Olive groves, vineyards and, these days, the tourists.’

‘Soaked in blood over the years,’ Dillon said. ‘Everybody’s had a piece, from the Arabs to the Normans. Did you know Richard the First of England was once king here?’ he asked Hannah.

She showed surprise. ‘No, I didn’t. You learn something new every day.’

‘Isn’t that a fact?’ Dillon said, and lit a cigarette.

At the same moment, in Corfu, Marie de Brissac was walking down the cliff path from the small cottage she had rented on the north-east coast of the island.

She was a slim woman of twenty-seven, although she looked younger. She wore a T-shirt and khaki shorts, and a straw hat shadowed a calm, intelligent face with high cheekbones. Her fair hair was tied into a ponytail and she carried a cold-box in one hand, her easel under the arm, and in the other hand was her paintbox.

The horseshoe beach was delightful and gave her views across to Albania on one hand and to Greece on the other. A folding chair was where she had left it behind a rock, and an umbrella. She positioned them to her satisfaction, then set up her easel and started.

Watercolours were her favourite, much more than oils. She did a quick charcoal sketch of the scene before her, catching a fishing boat as it passed, then faded it down and started to paint.

She still hadn’t got over the death of her beloved mother. The cottage had been a refuge, at least in her mind. No staff, just a peasant woman who arrived on a donkey three times a week with fresh bread and milk and firewood. Time to reflect on the meaning of life and its purpose; and to paint, of course.

She opened the cold-box. Amongst the other things in there was a bottle of Chablis, ice-cold. She uncorked it and poured a glass.

‘Strange,’ she said softly, ‘but everyone seems to die on me. First the General, then Maurice in that stupid Gulf War and now Mama. I wonder what I’ve done?’

She was not aware of any sound of approach, only the voice saying, ‘Excellent, I particularly admire that blue colour-wash and the way you soak it in to the shoreline.’

She glanced up and found him standing there. Probably about her own age, with blond hair and a strong tanned face. He wore jeans and an old reefer jacket. His English had a slight accent that she couldn’t place.

She said, ‘I don’t want to sound unwelcoming, but this is a private beach.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that, just as I’m aware that you are the Comtesse de Brissac.’

She knew then, of course, that this was no casual interloper, that there was purpose here. ‘Who are you?’

‘What’s in a name?’ He smiled. ‘Let’s say David Braun.’ He took the bottle of Chablis from the cold-box and examined the label. ‘Interesting.’ He poured a glass and sampled it. ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’ Strange, but she felt no sense of fear. This was no casual encounter, no threat of rape.

He whistled and called out, not in English this time, and a young man came down the path to join him and she recognized the language at once.

‘Hebrew,’ she said. ‘You spoke in Hebrew. I’ve been to Israel. I recognize the language.’

‘Good.’ He finished his wine. ‘Now then,’ he said in English, ‘pack up the lady’s things and follow us up to the cottage.’

‘What’s this all about?’ she asked calmly.

‘All in good time, Comtesse.’ He gestured with one hand. ‘After you, if you please.’

A Ford station wagon was parked outside the cottage. The other young man put her painting things in the rear and she saw that it was also filled with her suitcases.

‘This is Moshe, by the way,’ David Braun told her. ‘He started packing up the moment you left. The cupboard, as they say, is bare. I know you’ve only been using taxis while you’ve been here, so the old woman, when she turns up on her donkey, will think you’ve just up and left.’

‘To where?’

He opened the rear door. ‘Your carriage awaits, and an interesting plane ride. What could be better?’

She hesitated, then did as she was told and he got in beside her. As Moshe drove away, she said, ‘And the final destination?’

‘Ah, now you’re expecting too much. Just enjoy the ride. The view over there, for example.’

She turned automatically, was aware of a prick in her bare right arm, turned and saw a plastic medical hypo in his hand.

‘Damn you!’ she said. ‘What was that?’

‘Does it matter?’ He tossed the hypo out of the open window. ‘You’ll sleep now – a nice long sleep. You’ll actually feel better when you wake.’

She tried to reply, but her eyes felt heavy, and suddenly he just wasn’t there any more and she plunged into darkness.

In Sicily, the Peugeot was really into the high country, Monte Cammarata rising six thousand feet to one side.

‘That looks like rough country,’ Riley said.

Luigi nodded. ‘Salvatore Giuliano made his home up there for years. The army and the police couldn’t catch him. A great man, a true Sicilian.’

‘A great bandit, he means,’ Hannah said to Riley, ‘who paid the rent for some poor old woman now and then and liked to see himself as Robin Hood.’

‘God, but you take a hard line, woman,’ Dillon said. ‘Giuliano wasn’t such a bad ould stick.’

‘Just the kind of man you would approve of.’

‘I know, it’s wicked I am.’ At that moment, they entered a village and he added, ‘A pitstop, Luigi. I could do with the necessary and so could all of us, I suspect.’

‘Of course, signore.’

They paused outside a trattoria with a few rough wooden tables and chairs under an awning. The proprietor, an old, grey-haired man wearing a soiled apron, greeted them. Luigi whispered to him, then turned.

‘The toilet is at the back, Chief Inspector.’

‘On your way,’ Dillon told her cheerfully. ‘We’ll take turns.’

She followed Luigi, who went to the bar area to order the drinks. It was dark in there and the smell of the toilet was unmistakable. Dillon and Riley lit cigarettes as some kind of compensation. The only concession to modern living was an espresso machine.

Luigi turned. ‘Coffee OK?’

‘Why not?’ Dillon said.

Hannah emerged from the shadows and made a face. ‘I wouldn’t linger, gentlemen. I’ll wait outside.’

Dillon and Riley found the back room, which was in an appalling state. Dillon went first and shuddered when he came out. ‘Make it quick, Dermot, a man could die in there.’

Luigi was still getting the coffees and Dillon moved to the beaded entrance, pausing to light another cigarette. There was a cry of indignation from Hannah. He stepped outside and dropped the cigarette.

She was seated at one of the tables and two young men had joined her, poverty-stricken agricultural workers from the look of it, in patched jackets, scuffed leather leggings and cloth caps. One sat on the table, a shotgun slung over one shoulder, laughing, the other was stroking the back of Hannah’s neck.

‘I said stop it!’ She was truly angry now and spoke in Italian.

The man laughed and ran his hand down her back. Dillon punched him in the kidneys, grabbed him by the collar and ran him headlong to one side so that he stumbled over a chair and fell. In virtually the same movement, he turned and gave the one sitting on the edge of the table the heel of his hand, feeling the nose go, knocking him to the ground.

Dermot called, ‘I’m with you, Sean,’ and came out through the bead curtain on the run. The one who had gone down first sprang a knife in his right hand as he came up and Dermot grabbed for the wrist, twisted and made him drop it. The other pulled the sling of the lupara over his head and stood, his face a mask of blood. As he tried to cock it, Dillon knocked it to one side and gave him a savage punch to the stomach, and the man dropped the gun.

There was a single shot as Luigi arrived and fired into the air. He suddenly seemed a different man, pistol in one hand, warrant card in the other.

‘Police,’ he said. ‘Now leave the lupara and clear off.’

They shambled away. The old man appeared, strangely unconcerned, four espressos on a tray. He placed it in the centre of the table.

‘Sorry for the fuss, grandad,’ Dillon said in excellent Italian.

‘My nephew and his friend.’ The old man shrugged. ‘Bad boys.’ He picked up the lupara. ‘I’ll see he gets this back and there will be no charge. I’m sorry the signorina was molested in this way. It shames me.’

He went inside and Dillon took one of the coffees. ‘He’s ashamed. It was his nephew and a friend.…’

‘I heard what he said,’ Hannah told him. ‘My Italian is as good as yours.’

Dillon turned to Riley. ‘Thanks, Dermot.’

‘Nothing to it,’ Riley said. ‘Just like the old days.’

‘You move quick, signore,’ Luigi said.

‘Oh, he does that all right,’ Hannah said, as she drank her coffee. ‘Boot and fist, that’s our Dillon, and you should see him with a gun.’

Dillon smiled amiably. ‘You have a way with the words, girl dear. Now drink up and let’s be moving.’

As they moved down towards the south coast, things changed, the landscape became softer.

‘During the war, the Americans came through here on their way through the Cammarata to Palermo. The Italian soldiers fled after receiving a Mafia directive to support the Americans against the Germans,’ Luigi told them.

‘And why would they do that?’ Dillon asked.

‘The Americans released from jail in New York the great Mafia don, Lucky Luciano.’

‘Another gangster,’ Hannah said.

‘Perhaps, signorina, but he got the job done and the people believed in him. He went back to prison in America, but was released in 1946. On the pardon, it said: For services to his country.’

‘And you believe in such fantasy?’ she asked.

‘During the campaign, my own father saw him in the village of Corleone.’

Dillon laughed out loud. ‘Now that’s a showstopper if ever I heard one.’

As the landscape softened, there were flowers everywhere, on the slopes knapweed with yellow heads, bee orchids, ragwort and gentians.

‘So beautiful,’ Hannah sighed. ‘Yet centuries of violence and killing. Such a pity.’

‘I know,’ Dillon said. ‘Just like the Bible. As for me, I’m just passing through.’

He closed his eyes and Riley glanced at him and it was the plane all over again and he felt as guilty as hell. But there was nothing he could do after all. Salinas soon, and it would all be over. Some comfort in that.

Marie de Brissac surfaced in a kind of instant moment, one second nothing, dark as the grave, the next pale evening light. The first thing she was aware of was that she felt fine in herself, no headache, no heaviness, and that seemed strange.

She was lying on a large four-poster bed in a room with a vaulted ceiling and panelled walls of dark oak. There was oaken furniture, heavy and old, and a tapestry on the far wall with some sort of medieval scene on it. What seemed to be the outer door was also oak and studded with iron bands. There was another door beside the bed itself.

There was a large window, barred, of course, a table and three chairs beside it. The man who had called himself David Braun sat there reading a book. He glanced up.

‘Ah, there you are. How do you feel?’

‘Fine.’ She sat up. ‘Where am I?’

‘Oh, in another country, that’s all you need to know. I’ll get you some coffee, or tea if you prefer it.’

‘No, coffee would be fine, strong, black and two sugars.’

‘I shan’t be long. Look around.’

He opened the door and went out and she heard a key turn in the lock. She got up, crossed to the other door, opened it and found herself in a large old-fashioned bathroom. The toilet, basin and bath with a stand-in shower looked straight out of the nineteenth century, but on the shelf beside the wash basin there was a range of toiletries. Soaps, shampoos, talcum powder, deodorants, a selection of sanitary napkins. There was even an electric hairdryer, combs and hairbrushes, and it occurred to her that all this had very probably been procured for her.

Her belief was further reinforced by her discovery on the desk in the bedroom of a carton of Gitanes, her favourite cigarettes, and a couple of plastic lighters. She opened a pack, took a cigarette and lit it, then went to the window and peered out through the bars.

The building, whatever it was, was situated on the edge of a cliff. There was a bay below with an old jetty, a speedboat moored there. Beyond that was only a very blue sea, the light fading as dusk fell. The key turned in the door behind her, it opened and Braun entered carrying a tray.

‘So, you’ve settled in?’

‘You could call it that. When do I get some answers?’

‘My boss will be along in a few minutes. It’s up to him.’ He poured coffee for her.

She picked up the book he had been reading. It was in English, an edition of T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. ‘You like poetry?’ she asked.

‘I like Eliot.’ He misquoted: ‘In our end is our beginning and all that. He says so much so simply.’ He walked to the door and paused. ‘He won’t want you to see his face, so don’t be alarmed.’

He went out and she finished her coffee, poured a second cup and lit another cigarette. She paced up and down for a while, trying to make sense of it all, but the truth was that there wasn’t any sense to it. Behind her, the key rattled in the lock and as she turned, the door opened.

David Braun came in and stood to one side, and it was the man following him who shocked her. He seemed about six feet tall, with good shoulders, and wore a black jump suit. What had shocked her was the black knitted ski-mask he wore, through which his eyes seemed to glitter. All in all, as sinister-looking a creature as she had ever seen in her life.

His voice, when he spoke, was good Boston American. ‘A pleasure, Countess, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’

‘My God, you’re American, and I thought you were Israelis when I heard Hebrew spoken.’

‘My dear Countess, half the men in Israel speak English with an American accent. That’s where most of us received our education. Best in the world.’

‘Really?’ she said. ‘A matter of opinion.’

‘Yes, I was forgetting. You went to Oxford and the University of Paris.’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘I know everything about you, Countess – everything. No secrets.’

‘And I know nothing about you. Your name, for example.’

She could see his teeth through the slit for his mouth and it was as if he smiled. ‘Judas,’ he said. ‘Call me Judas.’

‘Very biblical,’ she said, ‘but, alas, an unfortunate connotation.’

‘Oh, yes, I know what you mean, Judas betraying Christ in the Garden.’ He shrugged. ‘But there were sound political reasons. Judas Iscariot was a Zealot. He wanted his country free of the Romans.’

‘And you?’

‘I just want my country free of everybody.’

‘But how does that concern me, for God’s sake?’

‘Later, Countess, later. In the meantime, David will see to your every need. You’ll have to eat in here, naturally, but if there’s anything special you’d like, just ask him. Plenty of books on the shelves and you’ve got your painting. I’ll speak to you again.’

Braun opened the door for him and followed him out. Judas pulled off the hood and ran his fingers through close-cropped, copper-coloured hair. He had a strong face, high cheekbones, blue eyes, and there was a restless vitality to him. He looked around fifty years of age.

‘See to her, David,’ he said. ‘Anything she wants for the moment.’

‘Consider it done.’ Braun hesitated. ‘She’s a nice woman. Do you really intend to go through with it if you don’t get what you want?’

‘Certainly,’ Judas said. ‘Why, are you weakening on me, David?’

‘Of course not. Our cause is just.’

‘Well, keep that in the front of your mind. I’ll see you later.’

As he turned, Braun said, ‘Any news from Aaron and the other two?’

‘He called in from Salinas on his ship’s radio. It marches, David.’ The man who called himself Judas smiled. ‘It’s going to work. Just keep the faith.’

He walked away along the stone-flagged corridor and Braun unlocked the door and went in. She turned from the window.

‘There you are. So the big bad wolf has gone?’

He ignored the remark. ‘I know you’re not a vegetarian. On the menu tonight is vichyssoise, followed by grilled fresh sea bass, potatoes, a mixed salad and an assortment of fruit to follow. If you don’t care for the fish, there are lamb chops.’

‘You sound like a waiter, but no, it will suit very well indeed.’

‘Actually, I’m the cook. Would you care for a white wine.’

‘No, claret would calm my nerves and I’ve never subscribed to the idea that you should drink red or white because the food dictates it. I drink to suit me.’

‘But of course, Countess.’ He half-bowed in a slightly mocking way and moved to the door.

As he opened it, she said, ‘And David?’

He turned. ‘Yes, Countess?’

‘As you like Eliot so much, here’s a quote from The WasteLand for you.’

‘And what would that be, Countess?’

‘I think we are in rats’ alley where the dead men lost their bones.’

He stopped smiling, turned, opened the door and went out. The key clicked in the lock, and suddenly she was afraid.




4 (#ulink_cc1e8767-904c-5694-82f8-8f1cfbbadcdf)


Salinas was a scattering of houses, a harbour enclosed by two jetties and jammed with small fishing boats. Luigi drove along the waterfront and stopped outside the establishment with the sign over the door that said English Café.

‘God knows why it has this name,’ Luigi said.

‘Perhaps they serve a full English breakfast,’ Dillon said. ‘English tourists like that.’

‘What tourists?’ Luigi said, and shrugged. ‘Anyway, here you are. I’ll just turn round and drive back to Palermo.’

They got out and Hannah shook his hand. ‘Grateful thanks, Sergeant. One cop to another.’ She smiled and kissed him on the cheek and he drove away.

Dillon led the way up the steps. The night was warm, and as darkness fell, there were lights on some of the boats out in the harbour. He opened the door and went in. Half a dozen fishermen were at the bar and it was a poor sort of place, very hot and the ceiling fan didn’t seem to be working.

He waved to the barman and turned to the others. ‘It’s a dump. Let’s sit outside.’

They did just that, taking a table by the veranda rail, and the barman appeared. ‘What have you got to eat?’ Hannah asked him in Italian.

‘We only do one main dish each day, signorina. Tonight it’s cannelloni ripieni. The way our chef does it, there’s a special stuffing of savoury meat and onions. You could have a salad with it.’

‘Good, and bring us a bottle of wine,’ Dillon told him. ‘Something cold.’





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