The President's Daughter (19 page)

“God, I hope so,” Riley said fervently.

At that moment, Devlin was paying off the taxi outside the Irish Hussar. When he went in, it was half full and many of the drinkers nodded in recognition and he heard his name mentioned. Michael Leary and the Chief of Staff were in the end booth.

“God save all here.” Devlin sat down and neither of them said a word. “God save you kindly was the answer to that.”

“Liam, what in the hell have you done?” Leary demanded.

“Cut his own throat is what he’s done,” the Chief of Staff said.

Devlin waved to a waitress. “Three large Bushmills over here.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and eyed the
Chief of Staff. “I haven’t always approved of the tactics, but haven’t I always supported the organization?”

“You’ve served us well,” the Chief of Staff said reluctantly.

“None better,” Leary agreed.

“Then why would I lie now, and me an old man with one foot in the grave?”

“Ah, fug you, Liam,” the Chief of Staff said. “Get on with it.”

So Devlin gave them a truncated version of the story, embellished a little.

“A phoney lawyer called Brown sees Dermot in Wandsworth and offers him a way out. Contact Ferguson and say he would offer knowledge of where a very nasty terrorist called Hakim was hanging out. Sicily, as it happens.”

“So?”

“Well, the whole thing was a scam by another Arab fundamentalist group who Dillon had done a bad turn to. They knew it was Dillon that Ferguson would send after Hakim, and Riley, as ordered, offered to go with him to show good faith.”

“And what happened?”

“Oh, they grabbed Dillon at some Sicilian fishing port, Riley with them, only by this time he was beginning to suspect he’d get shafted himself, so he jumped overboard while they were leaving harbor and swam back. The rest you know.”

“No, we don’t,” Leary said, but the strange thing is it was the Chief of Staff who was laughing.

“Go on,” he said, “and how did Dillon get away? I mean, it must have been good.”

“He had one gun in his pocket, another in his waistband at the rear under his coat. They found those and
missed the Walther he had under his left trouser leg in an ankle holster. He shot three and took to the water himself. Of course, when he reached the shore, Dermot was long gone.”

“And that’s the way of it?” the Chief of Staff said.

“Absolutely. Dermot’s wanted in London for one purpose only. To see if he can put a face to this phoney lawyer, Brown, on the security video. Once he’s done that, he’s free.”

“I see.”

“Nothing to do with the IRA in any of this,” Devlin said. “My word on it. The person who’s really scored is Dermot. He could have been sitting in a cell for the whole fifteen years, even twelve if he got remission, the Brits are the losers on that one. I’d have thought you’d have liked that.”

The Chief of Staff glanced at Leary, then grinned reluctantly. “All right, Liam, you win. Riley can come home and we’ll drink to it.”

When Ferguson picked up his phone, Devlin said, “So there you are, you old sod. Are they in yet?”

“Too early,” Ferguson said. “Long car trip once they’ve landed. You did sterling work.”

“Keep the soft soap for those who need it. Tell Dillon I’ve good news for Riley. I’ve seen Leary and the Chief of Staff and he’s to be allowed home.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I told them a half-truth, if you like.” He carried on and told Ferguson the story he had sold to Leary and the Chief of Staff.

Ferguson said, “My God, you’re the most incredible man I’ve ever known.”

“I agree with you.” Devlin laughed. “Tell Sean to watch his back,” and he put the phone down.

Hannah drove out of the Ministry of Defense garage in her red Mini car, the one she found best in London traffic. She parked on the forecourt of her ground floor flat in Ebury Place, unlocked the door, and went in.

The man who called himself George Brown straightened behind the wheel of the black Ford Escort parked along the street and reached for his mobile.

“She’s here. Get over as quickly as you can. If she leaves before you get here, I’ll follow and contact you.”

Hannah at that moment was having a quick shower. She stepped out, toweled dry, then put on fresh underwear and a blouse. She found a fawn trouser suit, dressed, and went downstairs.

She phoned her father’s office in Harley Street, only to discover from his secretary that he was doing a heart and lung transplant at the Princess Grace Hospital that would probably take eight hours.

Not that it mattered, for she knew who she really wanted to see. She grabbed her handbag, went out, and drove away in the Mini car just as an ambulance turned the corner. Brown cursed and went after her, but five minutes later and proceeding along the Embankment beside the Thames, was comforted to find the ambulance on his tail.

The driver was Aaron Eitan, Moshe in the seat beside him. “Keep close,” Moshe said. “This traffic is terrible.”

Aaron laughed. “It’s years since I last drove in London. What fun.”

Rabbi Thomas Bernstein was seated at his study desk, a small but distinguished-looking man with a snow-white
beard and hair topped by a plain
yarmulke
in black velvet. There was a knock, the door opened, and his granddaughter came in.

He put down his pen and held out his arms. “So there you are, light of my life.”

She embraced him warmly. “Your sermon for
Shab-bes?”

“Queen of the week. It’s like show business. I have to catch their attention. How are you?”

“Busy.”

He laughed. “I’ve learned enough about you and your work to know that means you’re on a big case.”

“The biggest.”

He stopped smiling. “Can you tell me about it?”

“No, highly secret and all that.”

“You’re troubled. Why?”

“All I can say is there’s a Jewish element and it disturbs me.”

“In what way?”

“Let me ask you a question. The man who shot Prime Minister Rabin—”

He interrupted her. “Murdered is a more accurate word.”

“The man who did that, and those who support him, claimed some sort of biblical authority for what he did.”

His voice was stern. “No such authority exists in either the Bible or the Torah. That despicable act of violence was a great sin in the eyes of God.”

“So, if I had to hunt down such people, it would not disturb you?”

“Because they are Jews? Why should it? We are the same as other people. Good, bad, average, sometimes evil.”

“Tell me,” she said, “why does God allow these things to happen, the evil that men do?”

“Because he gave us free will, the possibility of choice. In that lies the only true meaning of salvation.” He held her hands. “Trust in what you believe is right, child, do what you have to do. You have my blessing as always.”

She kissed his forehead. “I must go. I’ll see you soon.”

She went out. He sat staring at the door, then started to pray for her.

T
he ambulance was parked in the street, Brown’s black Escort behind it, and he stood beside it. As she came out of the gate of the small garden in front of her grandfather’s house, she had to pass the Escort and the ambulance to get to her Mini car. Brown knocked on the rear doors of the ambulance and spoke to her at the same time.

“Detective Inspector Bernstein?”

She paused instinctively, turning toward him. “Yes, who are you?”

The doors of the ambulance opened and Moshe jumped down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her between the doors. Aaron reached down and lifted her inside. Moshe followed and produced a pistol with a silencer.

“Now be good, Chief Inspector. If he had to shoot you, no one would hear a thing.” Aaron took her handbag, opened it, and removed her Walther. “I’ll look after this.”

“Who are you?”

“Jews like you, Chief Inspector, and proud of it.”

“Maccabees?”

“You are well informed. Wrists, please.” He cuffed
them in front of her with plastic handcuffs. “Now behave yourself.”

He got out and closed the doors. Brown said, “I’ll be right behind. I’ll join you in Dorking.”

“Let’s get moving, then,” Aaron told him, and he got behind the wheel and drove away.

Moshe said, “You want a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” she said in Hebrew.

He smiled delightedly and replied in kind. “But of course, I should have known.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“You’ll never get away with it.”

“I’m ashamed of you, Chief Inspector, that’s just a line from a bad movie. We are Maccabees, as Dillon must have told you. We can do anything. We kidnapped the President’s daughter. We kidnapped Dillon and where is he now? On a slab in a Washington morgue.”

“So you animals did that, too? I wasn’t sure, now I know. How do you justify that?”

“He served his purpose, but Dillon was the kind of man who could have become a serious liability.”

“You had him murdered?”

“Sometimes the end does justify the means and our cause
is
just. More important than the life of a man like Dillon.”

“That sounds familiar.” Hannah nodded. “Ah, yes, Hermann Göring, nineteen thirty-eight. Don’t let’s get upset over the deaths of a few Jews, that’s what he said.”

Moshe was pale and the pistol trembled in his hand. “Shut your mouth!”

“Gladly. Actually, I’d rather not talk to you at all,” Hannah Bernstein told him.

• • •

In his office, Ferguson checked his watch. It was just after five and no sign of Hannah yet. At that moment, his phone rang and he switched on the Codex. “Ferguson.”

“It’s me,” Dillon said. “Just hit Farley Field. Thanks for the RAF Range Rover.”

“Straight down to the Ministry,” Ferguson told him. “So much traffic in and out of our garage, you’ll be swallowed up.”

“No one would recognize me, anyway.”

“One good thing. No directional microphones in here. I’ve had a fresh detection outfit brought in so we’re secure.”

“All except for our computer system,” Dillon said. “See you soon.”

Aaron reached Dorking within half an hour and pulled into the parking lot of a huge supermarket crammed with vehicles. Brown parked his car and came round and Aaron leaned out.

“Okay, you get in the back. Afterwards, drive back here in the ambulance, dump it, and clear off in your own car.”

“Fine.”

Brown went round, opened the rear door and climbed in, closing it behind him. Hannah looked him over as the ambulance drove away, and a kind of realization dawned. “Well, now, you wouldn’t be George Brown by any chance?”

Brown was put out. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, an informed guess. Put it down to twelve years as a copper. One develops a nose for these things.”

“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?”