The President’s Daughter Page 16

  “Damn you!” he said.

  “No, damn you!” Hannah Bernstein told him.

  Onwards from Dorking, Aaron made for Horsham. On the other side, he moved further into Sussex toward the River Arun, finally turning into a maze of country lanes following signs to Flaxby. He reached it, the kind of village which was a single pub and a scattering of houses. A mile on, he turned into a narrow lane that emerged into a huge overgrown airfield, a tower and several hangars decaying with age. He braked to a halt outside the hangars.

  He went round and opened the rear doors. “All out.”

  He put a hand up and helped Hannah. She said in Hebrew, “Where are we, or am I being naive?”

  “Not really. We’re in the depths of rural Sussex. This used to be a Lancaster bomber base during the Second World War. Notice the lengthy runway, still usable in spite of the grass and weeds. We need a long runway.”

  Engines started up, and a moment later a Citation jet moved out of one of the hangars. It stopped close by and the door opened, steps dropping down.

  “Do I get to know our destination?” Hannah asked.

  “Magical mystery tour. Take her on board, Moshe.”

  Moshe urged her up the ladder, and one of the pilots pulled her in and seated her. Outside, Aaron said to Brown, “On your way. We’ll be in touch.”

  “I suppose if I was an Arab fundamentalist I’d say, ‘God is good,”’ Brown told him.

  “But he is,” Aaron said. “Our God, anyway.”

  He went up the steps, pulling them up behind him, and closed and locked the door. The Citation taxied to the end of the field and turned. It paused, thundered down the runway, and lifted. Brown watched it go, then got into the ambulance and drove away.

  In one of the control rooms of the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson, Dillon, Riley, and Blake Johnson sat back and watched as the operator ran the relevant section of the video through.

  “All right, enhance the image and work through the crowd.”

  The operator did as she was told, bringing up a larger image, concentrating on faces, and Riley cried out, “That’s him there in the raincoat with the briefcase.”

  “Freeze where possible,” Ferguson urged.

  There were a number of views of Brown from the front and from the side, all different perspectives.

  “That should do,” Dillon said. “Now print.”

  In a matter of seconds the machine had disgorged several colored prints of various views of the man calling himself George Brown. Dillon passed them to Blake one by one.

  “There’s our man.” He turned to the operator. “You can go now.”

  “But how do we find him, Dillon?” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “And where the hell is the Chief Inspector? It’s six-thirty.”

  The mobile Judas had given Dillon sounded in his pocket. Dillon pulled it out and switched on. He held it up, face expressionless, and handed it over to Ferguson.

  The Brigadier said, “Ferguson here.”

  “This is Judas, old buddy. I figured you might have hung on to that special mobile I gave the late, lamented Sean Dillon.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I thought you might be short one Detective Chief Inspector.”

  Ferguson had to breathe deeply to stay in control. “What are you saying?”

  “She’s winging her way toward me at this very moment at thirty thousand feet in her very own private Citation jet.”

  “But why?”

  “Just to make sure you don’t step out of line, Brigadier. It’s not one, but two of them now. One wrong move and they both die. Have a good night.”

  The line went dead and Ferguson switched off the mobile, his face pale. “That was Judas. He says he’s got Hannah.”

  There was a heavy silence and Blake Johnson said, “I suppose I’ll have to inform the President.”

  “Yes, by all means. Use the phone in my office.” Blake went out and Ferguson said, “What in the hell are we going to do?”

  “It alters nothing,” Dillon said and took a deep breath to combat his rage. “Our task’s still to find Judas.”

  “And how do we set about that?”

  “With these.” Dillon held up the photos. “We find Brown.”

  “Well, we can’t put him on bloody television,” the Brigadier said.

  “Then we’ll have to find another way.”

  The President switched off the Codex in his sitting room, sat there for a while, and then buzzed for Teddy, then he went and poured a whiskey. He was drinking it when Teddy came in.

  “Anything I can do, Mr. President?”

  “I’m beginning to think there’s nothing anyone can do. I’ve just spoken to Blake. The good news is that Riley has put a face to the phoney lawyer on the video.”

  “That’s great,” Teddy said.

  “The bad news is that Judas has kidnapped Chief Inspector Bernstein. Not one, Teddy, but two to worry about now. He told Ferguson it was to keep him in line.”

  “The sadistic swine,” Teddy said.

  “Which is true, but doesn’t help at all,” the President told him.

  “One thing we do know,” Dillon said. “He’s a lawyer, because he told Riley that he was, isn’t that true, Dermot?”

  “Definitely.” Dermot frowned. “He knew his way round, knew the system. I had a sod of a prison officer in charge of me and Brown sorted him with no trouble at all. Anyway, what about me? Anything more I can do?”

  “Not really,” Ferguson said. “Go and wait in the outer office. I’ll have someone arrange a bed for the night. We have rooms here for special circumstances. I’ll see you’re on your way back to Ireland in the morning.”

  “Thanks.” Dermot turned to Dillon. “Sorry, Sean.”

  “Not your fault. Good luck, Dermot.”

  Riley went out. Ferguson said, “What in the hell do we do?”

  Dillon smiled suddenly. “I’ve just had a thought. We could go to the man who has the widest knowledge of criminal lawyers of any man I know, because he’s used them so much.”

  “And who in the hell do you mean?”

  “Harry Salter.”

  “Good God, Dillon, the man’s a gangster.”

  “Which is exactly my point.” Dillon turned to Blake. “Are you game?”

  “I sure as hell am.”

  “Good, we’ll get a car from the pool and I’ll show you something of the murkier side of the London underworld.”

  “Harry Salter,” Dillon said to Blake as they drove along Horse Guards Avenue, “is in his late sixties, a dinosaur. He did seven years for bank robbery when he was in his mid-twenties. Never been in prison since. He has warehouse developments, pleasure boats that show you the delights of the Thames, and he still hangs on to his first buy, a pub on the Thames at Wapping called the Dark Man.”

  “And he still works the rackets?”

  “Smuggling mainly. Illegal duty-free cigarettes and booze from Europe. Big business since the Common Market has exploded. Diamonds from Amsterdam are a possibility, too.”

  “You haven’t mentioned drugs or prostitution,” Blake said. “Could we possibly be into an old-fashioned gangster here?”

  “Exactly. Mind you, he’ll blow your kneecap off if you cross him, but that’s business. He’s your kind of people, Blake.”

  “Well, I look forward to meeting him.”

  As they moved down Wapping High Street, Blake said, “I wonder why Judas didn’t snatch Hannah at the same time he took you in Sicily?”

  “He needed her to go back to Ferguson as a witness to what happened is my guess. Sure, he could have taken her, too, and got in touch with Ferguson personally, but leaving it to her made it stronger. It meant that Ferguson knew beyond any doubt that what had happened was true.”

  “Yes, that makes sense.” Blake nodded. “But I think we have an unstable guy here. He likes to play games.”

  “He certainly does.”

  “You’ve used Salter before?”

  “
Oh, yes, he helped me out on a little gig I had a while back where I had to prove I could breach security at the House of Commons and make it to the terrace by the river front. He doesn’t run much of a gang these days, just his nephew, Billy, a real tearaway that one, and two minders, Baxter and Hall. The rest is accountants and an office, all legitimate.”

  They turned along Cable Wharf and pulled up outside the Dark Man. It was an old-fashioned London pub, a painted sign of a sinister-looking individual in a black cloak swinging in the wind.

  “This is it,” Dillon said. “Let’s go.”

  He pushed open the door and entered the saloon. There were no customers, the place totally deserted. At that moment, the door at the rear of the bar opened and the barmaid came through, a trim blonde in her forties, her hair swept up from a face that was heavily made up. She was called Dora, and Dillon knew her well. She looked upset.

  “It’s you, Mr. Dillon. I thought the bastards might have come back.”

  “Take a deep breath, Dora. Where is everybody?”

  “The customers all made themselves scarce and who can blame them? Harry and the boys were in the corner booth having shepherd’s pie half an hour ago when Sam Hooker and four of his men came in with sawed-off shotguns.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s working the river these days like Harry, pleasure boats as a front. Wanted a partnership, but Harry told him to stuff it.”

  “So what happened?”

  “They took Harry, Baxter, and Hall. Billy put up a fight, but they knocked him unconscious. I’ve just been seeing to him in the kitchen. Come through.”

  She lifted the bar flap and led the way into the kitchen. Billy Salter sat at the table drinking Scotch, a pump action shotgun in front of him. He was twenty-six, a hard young man who’d done prison time for assault and affray. Just now, the left side of his face was bruised and swollen. He glanced up.

  “Dillon, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping to see your uncle. I need his help on something, only it looks more like he could do with mine.”

  “Fucking Sam Hooker, I’ll do for him myself.”

  “All on your own with that shotgun? Don’t be a silly boy, Billy. According to Dora, Hooker has four goons with him. Who do you think you are, Dirty Harry? It only works in the movies because the script makes it work.”

  Billy poured a little more whiskey into his glass and looked at Blake. “Who’s your friend?”

  “If I said he was former FBI you wouldn’t believe me. Blake Johnson.”

  “Your face doesn’t look too good,” Blake said. “Maybe a cracked cheekbone. I’d say you need the casualty department of your nearest hospital.”

  “Stuff that. What I need is Sam Hooker’s head on a platter.”

  “Well, you won’t get that standing here,” Dillon told him. “Where did they take him?”

  “Hooker usually operates from a pleasure boat called the Lynda Jones. He ties up at the old dock at Pole End. That’s half a mile downriver from here.”

  Dillon turned to Blake. “Look, this is personal, you don’t need to get involved.”

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t let’s stand around talking,” Blake said. “Let’s do it,” and he led the way out.

  Pole End was a desolate place, a symbol of the decay of what had once been the greatest port in the world, rusting cranes etched against the night sky. Dillon braked to a halt some distance away and they got out, Billy carrying the shotgun, and approached the dock.

  “Damn it to hell,” Billy said. “Will you look at that. They’ve moved her. That’s the Lynda Jones out there.”

  There were two arms to the docks stretching out into the river, the area between about three hundred yards across, and the Lynda Jones was anchored in the center.

  “You’re sure that’s where your uncle will be?” Blake asked.

  “Where else? Another thing, why move out there to the middle of the dock?” Billy said. “I’ll tell you. Because it’s impossible for anyone to get out there without them knowing.”

  “Not quite,” Dillon said. “I introduced you to scuba diving the other year, Billy, remember? And didn’t Harry see the possibilities? I happen to know you went to Barbados on holiday and got your diving certificate.”

  “So what?”

  “Come on, Billy, you’ve been working a new racket. Diamonds from Amsterdam dropped overboard with a floating marker from ships passing upriver. You go out later underwater and retrieve them. That means you have the diving gear at the Dark Man, right?”

  “Okay, so you’ve got me, but what are you getting at?”

  “You hurry back to the pub, pick up an inflatable, a tank, fins, and a mask and get back here fast. Don’t bother with a diving suit.”

  “You mean you’re going to swim out there?”

  “Can you think of anything else to do?”

  “But there’s five of them.”

  “Well, that means with the way I’m loading my Walther, I’ll have two rounds for each of them. On your way, Billy, and don’t forget a dive bag. Here are the keys.”

  Billy hurried away and Blake went to the edge of the dock and peered down through the shadows. He straightened. “Not even a rowboat down there. Are you sure about this, Sean?”

  “Why not? All I need to do is hold them up, free Salter and the other two, and bring the boat in.”

  “You sure as hell make it sound easy.”

  They looked out toward the lights of the boat. There was a burst of laughter. “People on deck,” Dillon said.

  “I make it three, and one of them’s going down the ladder,” Blake said. “It’s kind of dark down there, but I think there must be a boat.”

  Which there was, for an engine roared into life and a speedboat moved across the water toward the dock. Dillon and Blake stayed in the shadows by a crane.

  “You’re bigger than me, so get him from the rear, hand over his mouth and not a sound, while I have words,” Dillon said.

  “You’re on.”

  Strange, but standing there in the shadows, Blake Johnson felt more alive than he’d done in years, and he flexed his hands, waiting, as the speedboat coasted in to the stone steps. The man behind the wheel got out and came up. As he reached the dock, Blake moved fast and grabbed him.

  Dillon put the barrel of the Walther under the man’s chin. “Not a sound or I’ll kill you. This is a silenced weapon. They won’t hear a thing. Do you understand?” The man nodded, Blake removed his hand. Dillon said, “Salter and his boys are out there with Hooker – right?”

  The man was terrified. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the main saloon.”

  “Nicely tied up?” The man nodded and Dillon said, “Hooker and three others, so what are you doing here?”

  “There’s a Chinese restaurant on the main road. Hooker phoned an order through to them. He sent me to get it.”

  “Considerate of him. That’s a nice tie you’re wearing.” Dillon pulled it off and passed it to Blake, who tied the man’s wrists.

  “Are you thinking what I am?” Blake asked.

  “I presume so. The minute you see me board at the stern, you and Billy come out in the speedboat. Hooker will think it’s his man with the Chinese.” He grinned. “Shows you where greed gets you.” He shook the man fiercely. “Where’s your transport?”

  “Over there in that old warehouse.”

  Dillon marched him over and found a Ford van parked in the darkness. Blake opened the rear doors and Dillon shoved the man in. “Not a sound or I’ll come back, and you know what that will mean.”

  They closed the doors and returned to the edge of the dock.

  Billy arrived a few minutes later, engine off, coasting down a slight incline over the cobbles. He switched off, got out, and went and opened the trunk of the car.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Tell him, Blake,” Dillon said, opened the rear door of the car, sat on the seat and
undressed down to his underpants, slipping his glasses into a jacket pocket.

  He pulled on the inflatable jacket, then clamped the tank to it. “Give me five minutes. The light under the awning at the stern is bright enough for you to see me go over the rail, then you two come out in the speedboat like I said.”

  “Bloody cold out there,” Billy told him.

  “Not for long.” Dillon put his Walther in the dive bag and hung it around his neck, then he went down the steps, sat on the last one and pulled on his fins. He adjusted his mask, reached for his mouthpiece, and slipped into the dark waters.

  Billy was right, it was bitterly cold, but he kept on going, surfacing once to check his position, then going back under. He surfaced again by the anchor line, dumped the inflatable, the tank, his mask, and the fins, then pulled himself up to the anchor chain port. He peered through cautiously. The stern deck under the awning was empty, the sound of laughter coming from the saloon and then a cry of pain. Dillon hauled himself through, took the dive bag from around his neck and produced the Walther. He waved to the dock, and as he moved toward the saloon, the speedboat started up.

  There was another cry of pain and he peered in through the porthole in the door. Salter and his two minders, Baxter and Hall, were seated on three chairs, arms bound behind them. A large man in a dark suit, presumably Hooker, was holding a butane cylinder, the kind of thing used for stripping paint. His brutal face had an expression of joy on it as he touched the flame to Baxter’s left cheek.

  Baxter yelled in pain, and Harry Salter said, “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”

  “Really?” Hooker said. “I don’t think so, because by the time I’ve finished you’ll be a well-done hamburger. How’s this for starters?”

  The trouble was there were only two of his men there, laughing, glasses in their hands, so where was the third? But Dillon couldn’t afford to wait, and as Hooker advanced on Salter, he flung open the door and stepped in.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Hooker stared stupidly at him. “What in the hell have we got here? Take him, boys.”

  One of them slipped a hand inside his pocket and Dillon shot him in the thigh.