The President's Daughter (9 page)

Dillon said, “What about the real Carter and his men? Did you kill them, too?”

“No need. They got in this afternoon and tied up on the other side of the jetty. Moshe swam across and waited until they all went below for a meal or perhaps a conference. He boarded with a canister of Calsane and released it down the companionway. It’s a nerve gas that knocks you out for twelve hours. Only temporary, no ill effects afterwards.”

“As far as you know.”

Carter smiled. “Got to go. We’ll have words later.”

He went out and Dillon turned to Riley. The boat wasn’t moving very fast, obviously easing out through the small fleet of fishing boats. Riley poured another whiskey, looking hunted.

Dillon said, “So you don’t know who they are?”

“I swear on the Virgin, Sean. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I want my money and I want out.”

“Really? And when do you go over the side with a bullet in the head?”

Riley looked shocked. “Why in the hell would they do that?”

“Because they don’t need you anymore. You’ve served your purpose. Christ, Dermot, are you thick or something? You heard Carter. You’re dealing with thoroughly ruthless people.” Dillon was actually feeling angry. “They not only stiffed Hakim and his two goons, they also killed the
caretaker and his wife and the daughter. They simply don’t take prisoners, and I don’t care what they say, Calsane gas is still experimental and there’s a high chance of permanent brain damage.”

“Holy Mother of God!” Riley moaned.

“So who needs you, Dermot?”

“Sean, what do I do?”

“It’s staring you in the face. You’ve got my five thousand dollars operating money, you’ve got a passport. Over the side with you before we’re out of the harbor, but be quick about it.”

Riley seemed galvanized into action. “By Christ, and I will.” He hesitated. “I can’t take you with me, Sean, the handcuffs.”

“Oh, get on with it,” Dillon told him.

Riley opened the door at the top of the companionway cautiously and peered out. One of the men was on the prow. Carter and the one he had called Arnold were in the wheelhouse. The boat was edging forward, threading its way between the little ships of the fishing fleet. Riley dodged across the deck, went over the rail, hung there for a moment, then eased into the water. It was surprisingly warm and he swam under the stern of a fishing boat, turned and watched the lights of the boat move out of the harbor entrance.

“Good luck, Dillon, you’re going to need it,” he said softly, turned and swam to some steps, then hurried along the jetty. He had the money and the passport. Palermo next stop and a plane to Paris and from there to Ireland and safe amongst his own people again. He couldn’t get there fast enough.

As the boat moved out to sea, Carter went down the companionway and found Dillon still in place on the bench seat. He frowned. “Where’s Riley?”

“Long gone,” Dillon told him. “After hearing how you dealt with Hakim and company, it occurred to him that you might just find him as disposable.”

“Oh, you persuaded him? I’m surprised, Mr. Dillon, after the way he betrayed you.”

“Come off it, old son, he didn’t have much choice. I’d have done the same faced with that kind of prison sentence, and Dermot and I go back a long way.”

Carter called in English, “Arnold, get down here.”

He opened a drawer and found a leather case, removed a hypodermic, and filled it from a small bottle.

“What do I call you?” Dillon asked.

Carter smiled. “Why not? It’s Aaron, Mr. Dillon, and this is Arnold,” he added, as the other man entered. “Turn Mr. Dillon over, Arnold.”

Arnold did as he was told. Dillon felt a hard finger tap on the back of his right hand, then the needle.

“I hope this one isn’t as experimental as Calsane.”

“A derivative of Pethidine, but it lasts longer.”

“No sense in asking where we’re going?”

“None at all.” Aaron nodded to Arnold. “Take him to the cabin and lock him in.”

Dillon managed to make it along the corridor, was aware of the door being opened, the bunk bed, but after that, nothing.

Hannah got through to Ferguson with no trouble at all, using her satellite-linked mobile phone. He was at his flat in Cavendish Square, sitting beside the fire in the drawing room, and he listened patiently while she filled him in.

“My God, but they really shafted us on this one, whoever they are.”

“But what would they want with Dillon, sir? And what about the real Carter?”

“God knows, but we’ll know soon enough. They said they’d be in touch and they also said Dillon would be back. We’ll just have to wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll contact Lacey at Malta and tell him to fly back to Palermo to pick you up in the morning, and I’ll ask Gagini to send the car back for you.”

“I’d be grateful,” she said.

“Just come home, Chief Inspector, nothing else to be done at the moment.”

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while, then phoned Wandsworth Prison and asked to speak to the head of security.

Dillon came half-awake in the darkness of the cabin. His handcuffs had been taken off and it was very dark. He tried to make sense of the luminous dial of his watch, which appeared to indicate that he had been out for about eight hours. The motion of the ship indicated a reasonably fast speed and he stood up, felt by the door, and found the light switch.

The porthole was bolted tight and painted black. His mouth was bone dry, but there was a small corner basin and a plastic cup, which he filled with water several times, sitting on the edge of the bed. A key turned in the door, it opened, and Aaron came in. A different man was behind him carrying a tray.

“I thought you’d be up and about by now,” Aaron said. “This is Raphael, by the way, bearing gifts. There’s a razor and shaving cream and shampoo. You’ll find a little shower room through that door. More importantly, a flask of tea, milk and ham sandwiches.”

“Ham?” Dillon said. “And you a nice Jewish boy?”

“Yes, disgraceful, isn’t it, but then, as I told you, I went to St. Paul’s. We’ll see you later.”

They left and Dillon started on the sandwiches, which were excellent, then had a cup of tea. He felt surprisingly good considering the drug, and afterwards, stripped, had a shower and a shave and dressed again. Afterwards, he got his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. There were books on a shelf. He glanced through them and found an old copy of
From Russia with Love
by Ian Fleming.
James Bond.
Somehow it seemed appropriate, and he got on the bunk bed and started to read.

It was a couple of hours later when the key turned and the door opened. Aaron came in, with Arnold at his back.

Dillon held up the book. “Did you know this is a first edition? They’re bringing a fat price at the auctions these days.”

“I’ll remember that,” Aaron said. “Sorry to be a bore, but it’s time for bed again, Mr. Dillon. Hand out, please.”

And as there wasn’t much Dillon could do about that, he complied. Aaron tapped the back of the hand and applied the needle.

“You’re sure I won’t end up a vegetable?” Dillon asked.

“No chance, Mr. Dillon. You’re a very important man. In fact, you’d be surprised at how important a man you are.”

But Dillon was already falling back against the pillow, the sounds fading.

At that moment, Marie de Brissac, seated by the window of her room, painting, glanced up as the door opened and David Braun came in carrying a tray. He placed it on the table. There were cakes and a jug of coffee, and he stood back to look at the painting.

“Excellent. My sister used to paint in watercolors. It’s a difficult medium.”

“You say she used to?”

“She’s dead, Countess. I had two sisters. They were killed when an Arab terrorist blew up a student bus in Jerusalem.”

She was shocked and it showed. “I’m very sorry, David, truly sorry,” and she reached for one of his hands.

His reaction was electric and most disturbing, particularly the realization of the effect this wonderful woman had on him. He pulled away hastily.

“It’s all right. Five years ago. I’ve learned to cope. It’s my mother I’m sorry for. She never got over it. She’s in a psychiatric unit.” He managed a ghastly smile. “I’ll see you later.”

He went out and Marie de Brissac sat there, wondering, and not for the first time, whether God had had an off-day when he’d decided to create the world.

This time when Dillon surfaced he was in a room very similar to Marie de Brissac’s, paneled walls, four-poster bed, a vaulted ceiling. He felt surprisingly clear-headed and checked his watch, which indicated a time lapse of some twelve hours since leaving Sicily.

He got up and went to the barred window, saw very much the same view Marie had—the cliffs, the beach, the jetty—the only difference being that the motor launch was now tied up on the other side from the speedboat. He visited the bathroom, and it was on the return that the door opened and Aaron entered.

“Ah, up and about.”

He stood to one side and Judas entered in the black hood and jump suit. He was smoking a cigar and his teeth gleamed as he smiled. “So, Sean Dillon. They tell me
you were the best the IRA had. Why did you change?”

“Well, as a great man once said, as the times change, all men change with them.”

“A point, but a man like you would need a better reason than that.”

“Let’s say it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Afterwards, you worked everyone. ETA in Spain, the PLO, then the Israelis. You blew up Palestinian gunboats in Beirut harbor.”

“Ah, yes,” Dillon agreed, “but for that I was very well paid.”

“You certainly don’t take sides.”

Dillon shrugged. “Now that really doesn’t pay.”

“Well, this time you’re going to take my side, old buddy.”

“Go stuff yourself,” Dillon told him. “Let’s face it, I don’t even know you.”

“Just call me Judas.”

“Jesus, son, and now you must be joking.”

Aaron said in Hebrew, “Why waste time?”

Judas replied in the same language. “We need him, and don’t worry, I know how to handle him.” He turned to Dillon and said in Hebrew, “And I really do know how to handle you, don’t I?”

Although Dillon’s Hebrew was far from perfect, he understood but decided not to advertise the fact.

“Look, I don’t understand a word.”

Judas laughed. “Of course not, just trying you out. I’ve seen your record in Mossad files, and they’re thorough. That account of the job you did for them in Beirut. Fair Arabic, but no Hebrew.”

“I know what
shalom
means.”

“Well,
shalom
to you, and now you can follow me.”

“Just one more thing,” Dillon said. “Excuse my insatiable curiosity, but are you a Yank?”

Judas laughed. “I’m really getting tired of being asked that. Why do you all assume that an Israeli can’t be an Israeli if he speaks good American English?”

He turned and went out, and Aaron gestured with one hand. “This way, Mr. Dillon.”

The study was huge and spacious, with an enormous stone fireplace and tapestries on the walls. Leaded windows stood open, the scent of flowers from some gardens beyond. Judas sat down behind a large cluttered desk and gestured to a chair opposite.

“Sit down. You’ll find cigarettes in the silver box.”

Aaron leaned against the wall beside the door. Dillon took a cigarette and lit it from a desk lighter. “When the boy here spoke Hebrew to his chums on the boat, I at least recognized the language.”

“Yes, I noticed that on your Mossad file. A talent for languages. Everything from Irish to Russian.”

“It’s a kink in my brain, languages,” Dillon told him, “like some people can calculate quicker than a computer.”

“Then why not Hebrew?”

“I don’t speak Japanese, either. I only worked for Mossad the once, as you know, and if you know as much as you say, you’ll be aware that the Beirut operation was an in-and-out job. Three days and I was away with the check on a Swiss bank clutched in one greedy hand. Anyway, who in the hell are you and what’s this all about?”

“Well, you know we’re Israelis, but we’re patriotic Israelis willing to go to any lengths to preserve the integrity of our country.”

“Like shoot Prime Minister Rabin?”

“That was none of our affair. Frankly, we have more important things to do.”

“So what are you, some sort of latter-day Zealots?”

“Not really, old buddy,” Judas said cheerfully. “They wanted the Romans out and were strong patriots, but we go back to an earlier tradition. My country under Syrian domination, the Temple defiled, our religion, our whole way of life threatened.”

“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.”