The President’s Daughter Read online

  “Just like today, is that what you think?”

  “We are constantly under threat. I’ve lost relatives to Hamas bombs, Aaron there had a brother, a pilot, shot down over Iran. He was tortured to death. Another of my men lost two sisters in the bombing of a student bus. We all have our stories.” He relit his cigar, which had gone out.

  “So what’s this earlier tradition you mentioned?”

  “The Syrians were defeated by Judas called Maccabeus, which means the Hammer.”

  “Ah, light dawns.”

  “His followers were known as Maccabees, ardent nationalists who wished for national independence for our country. Under the leadership of Judas, they fought a guerrilla war with such success that they defeated Syrian armies much larger than their own, took Jerusalem, cleansed and reconsecrated the Temple.”

  “I know the story,” Dillon said.

  “From the redoubtable Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein?”

  “Now she does speak Hebrew,” Dillon said. “Anyway, she told me once what Chanukah was about.”

  “Celebrated every year in memory of what the Maccabees achieved. A small country became independent again.”

  “Until the Romans came.”

  “True, but we will not allow that to happen this time around.”

  Dillon nodded. “So you see yourself as Judas Maccabeus, and your followers, the fellas who knocked me off, for example, are twentieth-century Maccabees?”

  “Why not? In your game, codenames are a necessity, so Judas Maccabeus does very well.”

  “Leading an army of Maccabees.”

  “I don’t need an army, just a small group of dedicated followers.” Judas raised a hand. “No, believers, and a few hundred scattered around the world, Jews like myself who believe above everything else that the State of Israel must survive and are prepared to go to any lengths to ensure it.”

  “I’d have thought Israel has done a pretty good job of that. When the U.N. withdrew in nineteen forty-eight, you defeated six Arab countries. In the Six-Day War in nineteen sixty-seven, you defeated Egypt, Syria, and Jordan.”

  “True, but before my time. Yom Kippur was my war, in seventy-three, and we’d have lost it if the Americans hadn’t poured in fighter planes and weaponry for us. Since then, nothing but trouble. We live on the edge. Our settlers in the north never know when they’re going to come under attack, Hamas constantly wages bombing campaigns. Scud missiles in the Gulf War showed our vulnerability. It can’t go on.”

  Almost reluctantly, Dillon said, “I can see that.”

  “Even in Britain there are Muslims who call for the annihilation of Jews. Syria, Iran, and Iraq will never be happy until we are crushed. Saddam Hussein proceeds with the further development of chemical weapons, the mullahs in Iran call for war against America, the Great Satan. The bombing attack on the U.S. barracks in Dharan was only the start. It is a known fact that Iran is working on the production of a nuclear bomb. They have numerous training camps for terrorists. There are also nuclear research establishments in Syria.”

  “Common knowledge for years,” Dillon said. “So what else is new?”

  “Missiles purchased from Eastern Europe since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and as we saw in the Gulf War, Israel is vulnerable to such weapons.”

  Dillon reached for another cigarette, and Judas picked up the lighter near his right hand, leaned across, and gave him a light. It was tarnished silver, a black bird of some kind in bas-relief, with jagged lightning in its claws, obviously some military motif.

  Dillon said, “So – you’ve made your case. What’s the solution?”

  “It’s time to bring a stop to it, once and for all. Iraq, Syria, and Iran brought to heel for all time.”

  “And how in the hell do you achieve that?”

  “We don’t. The Americans will achieve it for us, under the inspired guidance of their President.”

  “Jake Cazalet?” Dillon shook his head. “Sure, and the good old U.S. of A. has always been willing to retaliate when pushed – the Gulf War proved that – but to take out three countries?” He shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

  “What I’m talking about are surgical airstrikes,” Judas said. “Total destruction of nuclear research sites for a start, and all chemical weaponry sites. Also nuclear power stations, and so on. Total destruction of the infrastructure. Ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads can also take out targets such as the Iranian Navy at Bandar Abbas. Army headquarters in all three countries are known targets. No need for a ground war.”

  “A holocaust?” Dillon said. “That’s what you mean? You’d be willing to go that far?”

  “For the State of Israel?” Judas nodded. “I can do no other.”

  “But the Yanks would never go for it.”

  “Now there you may be wrong. In fact, such a plan has existed at the Pentagon since the Gulf War. They call it Nemesis,” Judas told him. “There has never been any shortage of people in high command in the American military who would love to put it into action.”

  “So why haven’t they?”

  “Because as Commander-in-Chief, the President must sign the operational order, and he’s always rejected it. It’s been presented every year since the Gulf War to the President’s secret committee – the Future Projects Committee, they call it. Bizarre, isn’t it? It meets again next week. And this time, something tells me the result will be a little different.”

  “You think Jake Cazalet will sign?” Dillon shook his head. “You must be crazy.”

  “Special Forces in Vietnam,” Judas said. “Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, two Purple Hearts.”

  “So what?” Dillon said. “He’s worked harder for peace than any President in years. The kind of Democrat that even Republicans love. He’ll never sign a thing like Nemesis.”

  “Oh, I think he could when he hears what I have to say, and that’s where you come in, old buddy. Brigadier Ferguson has access to the President, courtesy of the British Prime Minister. You’ve actually met the President. Foiled a bomb plot by Protestant para-militaries to assassinate him when he was in London, and you’ve been of great assistance in helping out over one or two tricky bits as regards the Irish peace process or lack of it.”

  “So what?”

  “You can go and see him for me, you and Ferguson, if you like. All very hush-hush, of course. It has to be that way.”

  “Like hell I will,” Dillon told him.

  “Oh, I think you could be persuaded.” Judas got up and nodded to Aaron, who took a Beretta from the pocket of his reefer coat. “Let me show you.”

  “And what’s that come down to? Do you wire up what my old aunty Eileen would have called my extremities to a very large battery?”

  “No need. Time for you to reflect, that’s all. Now if you’d be kind enough to follow me?”

  He opened the door and went out, and Dillon shrugged and followed, Aaron bringing up the rear.

  They went along the corridor and down a series of wide stone steps, three levels in all. Dillon could hear someone calling out, high and shrill, a woman’s voice filled with terror.

  As they reached a lower level, Arnold and Raphael appeared from another corridor holding Marie de Brissac between them. She was struggling madly, obviously badly frightened, and David Braun came up behind and tried to soothe her.

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Listen to him, Countess,” Judas said. “He’s telling the truth. This is Mr. Dillon, by the way. I’ve brought him down here to show I mean business, and I always keep my word. Watch and learn, then you can go back to your nice warm room.”

  Aaron unbarred a great oaken door, opened it, and led the way in, switching on a light. It was an ancient cellar, stone block walls wet with moisture. There was a well in the center, a low, round brick wall and a bucket on a rope suspended from some kind of lifting mechanism.

  Judas picked up a stone and dropped it down. There was a hollow splashing. “Forty feet and on
ly four or five feet of water and mud,” he said. “Hasn’t been used in years. Kind of smelly and pretty cold, but you can’t have everything. Let the countess take a look.”

  She was shivering uncontrollably as Raphael and Arnold tried to pull her forward, and Dillon said to Judas, “What are you, a sadist or something?”

  The eyes glittered in the black hood and there was a pause that was broken by David Braun. “I’ll take her.” Arnold and Raphael stepped back and he put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right, I’m here. Trust me.”

  He moved her to the well and Judas picked up another stone and dropped it. “There you go.” There was a splash and then a kind of eerie whining. He laughed. “That must be the rats. They love it on account of the lower sewer that runs through. Isn’t this fun?” He turned to Dillon. “Or it will be when you stand in the bucket and we put you down.”

  In that one single moment, Dillon knew that he was facing madness, for Judas was enjoying himself too much, but he kept his cool.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. You obviously don’t know the first thing about sewers.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If you swallow human pathogens, you stand a great chance of dying, and if a rat bites you down there, you stand an even better chance of catching Weil’s disease. Only a fifty-fifty chance of dying from that when your liver packs in, so it strikes me you aren’t too concerned about keeping me around.”

  Judas exploded in rage. “Fuck you, you clever bastard. Now stand in the bucket or I’ll blow your head off.”

  He snatched the Beretta from Aaron and leveled it, and Marie de Brissac cried out, “No!”

  Dillon smiled at her. “I don’t know who you are, girl dear, but don’t worry. He needs me too much.”

  He got his feet into the bucket, and Raphael and Arnold lowered him down. He glanced up, saw Judas peering down at him, and then a few moments later he hit the water. His feet sank into a foot of mud and the water was to his chest. A moment later and the bucket was raised. He looked up at the circle of light and suddenly it went dark, and he was alone.

  The smell was terrible and the water very cold. He remembered a similar situation in Beirut once. He’d thought himself in the hands of Arab terrorists, had been put down a rather similar well with a Protestant terrorist from Ulster, who was trying to get into the uranium business. It had turned out to be an Israeli intelligence scam with the aim of breaking the other man down. It had still taken four baths for Dillon to get rid of the stink.

  He found a ledge in the brickwork and sat on it, arms folded against the cold, wondering who the woman was. Mystery piled on mystery here. Only one thing was certain. Judas was not only a fanatic, he was truly mad, and Dillon had never been so convinced of anything in his life.

  Something brushed across his thighs and swam away and he knew what it was.

  Marie de Brissac, in her room, was crying and David Braun held her close and suddenly found he was stroking her hair as he might that of a child.

  “You’re all right now,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

  “Oh, David.” She looked up, tears on her face. “I was so afraid, and Judas.” She shuddered. “He terrified me.”

  “He carries a great weight,” Braun said. “Many burdens.”

  “That man, the one he called Dillon, who is he?”

  “You mustn’t concern yourself. I know what would be good for you, a nice bath. I’ll turn the water on and then I’ll go and check on your dinner.”

  “Not tonight, David, I couldn’t eat a thing. But wine, David! God help me, I’m no drinker as a rule, but I need it tonight.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  He opened the door, went out and locked it and stood for a moment in the corridor, aware that his hands were shaking.

  “What’s happening to me?” he said softly and hurried away.

  Up to her neck in suds, Marie de Brissac smoked a cigarette and tried to relax. It was a bad dream, the whole thing, and the explosion of rage from Judas had been terrifying. But the man Dillon. She frowned, remembering the strange ironic smile on his face as they lowered him down. It was as if he didn’t give a damn and that didn’t make sense. And then there was David. She was woman enough to know what was happening. So be it. In her present situation, she would have to use every possible advantage.

  In London, it was raining, driving hard against the windows of Charles Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Square. Hannah Bernstein peered out through the window and Kim, Ferguson’s Ghurka batman, came in from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and cups on a tray.

  Ferguson, sitting by the fire, called, “Come on, Chief Inspector, no point in fretting. Have some coffee.”

  She joined him, sitting in the chair opposite, and Kim poured. “No news, sir.”

  “I know that,” he said. “But there will be. I mean, there has to be a meaning to all this.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You like Dillon, don’t you?”

  “If you mean do I fancy him, no. I don’t approve and never have. His past damns him.”

  “And still you like him?”

  “I know. It’s an absolute bastard, isn’t it, sir? But never mind.”

  “So how did you get on at Wandsworth?”

  “I saw Dunkerley, the head of security, and he told me pretty much what he told you when you phoned him. The prison is like a souk on visiting day. No way anyone in reception remembers Brown amongst several hundred people. As Mr. Dunkerley said, it was rather unfortunate that the prison officer, Jackson, the only one who handled Brown personally, was killed in that accident.”

  “Accident, my backside,” Ferguson said.

  “That’s what the police report says, sir. All available witnesses say he just fell forward.”

  “Too damn convenient. What about the Law Society?”

  “They have three George Browns on their books, or did. One died a month ago, the second is black, and the third is famous for going to court in a wheelchair.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve got a copy of the reception-area surveillance tape, but only one person could identify Brown from it.”

  “Riley?”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Oh dear,” Ferguson said. “And one more piece of news for you. Captain Carter has been in touch on the way back to Cyprus. He and his team were having a conference in the saloon of their boat when it appears they were gassed. They all passed out for several hours.”

  “Are they all right, sir?”

  “He’s not happy about two of them. They’ll book into the military hospital when they get in. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

  Dillon, colder than ever now, leaned back against the brick wall. “Jesus,” he said softly. “A fella could tire of this in no time at all.”

  There was a sudden flurry in the water and a rat slipped across his right leg. He brushed it away. “So there you are, you little rascal. Now behave yourself.”

  FIVE

  As they’d allowed him to keep his watch, Dillon was aware of the time, although whether that was a good thing or not, he wasn’t sure, for time seemed to stretch into eternity.

  He remembered noticing that it was four o’clock in the morning and then, in spite of the circumstances, he must have dozed because he came awake with a start, a rat leaping from his shoulder, and when he checked the time again, he found that it was seven-thirty.

  Not long after that, a light appeared up above and Judas leaned over. “You still in one piece, Dillon?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Good. We’ll take you up.”

  The bucket came down, Dillon scrambled his feet into the bucket and was hauled up slowly. As his head passed the brick wall, he saw Judas, Aaron, and Arnold standing there.

  “My God, but you stink, Dillon, you really do.” Judas laughed. “Get him out of here, Aaron, and carry on as I suggested.”

  He ran up the stairs ahead of them and
Aaron said, “I’ll take you back to your room. I think you need a shower.”

  “Or three or four,” Dillon said.

  He stripped in the bathroom and put the contaminated clothing into a black plastic bag Aaron had provided. Halfway through the second shower Arnold appeared and took the bag away. Dillon tried another shower and then a fourth. As he reached for a towel, Aaron glanced in.

  “Fresh clothes on the bed, Mr. Dillon.”

  “The right size, I trust.”

  “We know everything about you.”

  “Shoes? What about shoes?”

  “Those, too. I’ll be back when you’re dressed.”

  Dillon dried his hair, shaved, then went into the bedroom to discover fresh underwear, a checked shirt, jeans and socks, and a pair of sneakers. He dressed quickly and was combing his hair when the door opened and Aaron appeared.

  “That’s better. Are you ready for breakfast?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Then come this way.”

  He opened the door, led the way out and along the corridor, and stopped at another door. He opened it and stepped to one side.

  “This way, Mr. Dillon.”

  Marie de Brissac, at her easel, turned. She hesitated, paintbrush in hand, and Aaron said, “I’ve brought you some company. I’ll bring breakfast in a moment.” The door closed and the key turned.

  “Sean Dillon.” He held out his hand. “Countess, is it?”

  “Never mind that. Marie will do – Marie de Brissac. Did you have a bad time?”

  “A bad night, certainly. I’ll pinch one of those cigarettes if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  He lit one and blew out a plume of smoke. “Do you by any chance know where we are?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. And you?”

  “I’m afraid not. Last I recall, I was in a fishing port called Salinas in Sicily. I know by my watch that I was at least twelve hours at sea, but I was unconscious most of the time.”

  “The same with me. I was in Corfu when they kidnapped me. A plane ride was mentioned and then a needle in the arm, and I knew nothing until I woke up here.”