The President’s Daughter Page 5

  “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 driver’s seat. A moment later, his friend 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, his friend 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.

  THREE

  The Lear jet they were using stood on the apron in front of one of the hangars. It was very official-looking, with RAF rondels, 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 told him. “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, a 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.”

  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, 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, No-rah 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 whiskey, 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 whiskey 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 laying 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.<
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  “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, my 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 favored 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 and the villages, buildings that were centuries old, open drains down the center 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 northeast coast of the island.

  She was a slim woman, twenty-seven at the time and looked younger. She wore a tee 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 paint box.

  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.

  Watercolors were her favorite, 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 Maurice in that stupid Gulf War, then the general, and now Maman. 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 color 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 it?”

  “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 waken.”

  She tried to reply, but her eyes felt heavy, and suddenly he just wasn’t there anymore 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.

  Lu
igi nodded. “Salvatore Guiliano 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. “Guiliano 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 pit stop, Luigi. I could do with the necessary and so could all of us, I suspect.”

  “Of course, signor.”

  They paused outside a trattoria with a few rough wooden tables and chairs under an awning. The proprietor, an old, gray-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 okay?”

  “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.