The President’s Daughter

by Jack Higgins

  “I said stop it!” She was truly angry now and spoke in Italian.

  The man laughed and ran his hand down her back. Dillon punched him in the kidneys, grabbed him by the collar, and ran him headlong to one side so that he stumbled over a chair and fell. In virtually the same movement, he turned and gave the one sitting on the edge of the table the heel of his hand, feeling the nose go, knocking him to the ground.

  Dermot called, “I’m with you, Sean,” and came out through the bead curtain on the run. The one who had gone down first sprang a knife in his right hand as he came up, and Dermot grabbed for the wrist, twisted, and made him drop it. The other pulled the sling of the lupara over his head and stood, his face a mask of blood. As he tried to cock it, Dillon knocked it to one side and gave him a savage punch to the stomach, and the man dropped the lupara.

  There was a single shot as Luigi arrived and fired into the air. He suddenly seemed a different man, the pistol in one hand, the warrant card in the other.

  “Police,” he said. “Now leave the lupara and clear off.”

  They shambled away. The old man appeared, strangely unconcerned, four espressos on a tray. He placed it in the center of the table.

  “Sorry for the fuss, grandad,” Dillon said in excellent Italian.

  “My nephew and his friend.” The old man shrugged. “Bad boys.” He picked up the lupara. “I’ll see he gets this back and there will be no charge. I’m sorry the signorina was molested in this way. It shames me.”

  He went inside and Dillon took one of the coffees. “He’s ashamed. It was his nephew and a friend…”

  “I heard what he said,” Hannah told him. “My Italian is as good as yours.”

  Dillon turned to Riley. “Thanks, Dermot.”

  “Nothing to it,” Riley said. “Just like the old days.”

  “You move quick, signor,” Luigi said.

  “Oh, he does that all right,” Hannah said as she drank her coffee. “Boot and fist, that’s our Dillon, and you should see him with a gun.”

  Dillon smiled amiably. “You have a way with the words, girl dear. Now drink up and let’s be moving.”

  As they moved down toward the south coast, things changed, the landscape became softer.

  “During the war, the Americans came through here on their way through the Cammarata to Palermo. The Italian soldiers fled after receiving a Mafia directive to support the Americans against the Germans,” Luigi told them.

  “And why would they do that?” Dillon asked.

  “The Americans released from jail in New York the great Mafia don, Lucky Luciano.”

  “Another gangster,” Hannah said.

  “Perhaps, signorina, but he got the job done and the people believed in him. He went back to prison in America, but was released in nineteen forty-six. On the pardon, it said: For services to his country.”

  “And you believe in such fantasy?” she asked.

  “During the campaign, my own father saw him in the village of Corleone.”

  Dillon laughed out loud. “Now that’s a showstopper if ever I heard one.”

  As the landscape softened, there were flowers everywhere, on the slopes knapweed with yellow heads, bee orchids, ragwort and gentians.

  “So beautiful.” Hannah sighed. “Yet centuries of violence and killing. Such a pity.”

  “I know,” Dillon said. “Just like the Bible. As for me, I’m just passing through.”

  He closed his eyes and Riley glanced at him and it was the plane all over again and he felt as guilty as hell, but there was nothing he could do after all. Salinas soon, and it would all be over. Some comfort in that.

  Marie de Brissac surfaced in a kind of instant moment, one second nothing, dark as the grave, the next pale evening light. The first thing she was aware of was that she felt fine in herself, no headache, no heaviness, and that seemed strange.

  She was lying on a large four-poster bed in a room with a vaulted ceiling and paneled walls of dark oak. There was oaken furniture, heavy and old, and a tapestry on the far wall with some sort of medieval scene on it. What seemed to be the outer door was also oak and studded with iron bands. There was another door beside the bed itself.

  There was a large window, barred, of course, a table, and three chairs beside it. The man who had called himself David Braun sat there reading a book. He glanced up.

  “Ah, there you are. How do you feel?”

  “Fine.” She sat up. “Where am I?”

  “Oh, in another country, that’s all you need to know. I’ll get you some coffee, or tea if you prefer it.”

  “No, coffee would be fine, strong, black, and two sugars.”

  “I shan’t be long. Look around.”

  He opened the door and went out and she heard a key turn in the lock. She got up, crossed to the other door, opened it, and found herself in a large old-fashioned bathroom. The toilet, basin and bath with a stand-in shower looked straight out of the nineteenth century, but on the shelf beside the wash basin there was a range of toiletries. Soaps, shampoos, talcum powder, deodorants, a selection of sanitary napkins. There was even an electric hairdryer, combs and hairbrushes, and it occurred to her that all this had very probably been procured for her.

  Her belief was further reinforced by her discovery on the desk in the bedroom of a carton of Gitanes, her favorite cigarette, and a couple of plastic lighters. She opened a pack, took a cigarette and lit it, then went to the window and peered out through the bars.

  The building, whatever it was, was situated on the edge of a cliff. There was a bay below with an old jetty, a speedboat moored there. Beyond that was only a very blue sea, the light fading as dusk fell. The key turned in the door behind her, it opened, and Braun entered carrying a tray.

  “So you’ve settled in?”

  “You could call it that. When do I get some answers?”

  “My boss will be along in a few minutes. It’s up to him.” He poured coffee for her.

  She picked up the book he had been reading. It was in English, an edition of T. S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets. “You like poetry?” she asked.

  “I like Eliot.” He misquoted: “In our end is our beginning and all that. He says so much so simply.” He walked to the door and paused. “He won’t want you to see his face, so don’t be alarmed.”

  He went out and she finished her coffee, poured a second cup, and lit another cigarette. She paced up and down for a while, trying to make sense of it all, but the truth was that there wasn’t any sense to it. Behind her, the key rattled in the lock, and as she turned the door opened.

  David Braun came in and stood to one side, and it was the man following him who shocked her. He seemed about six feet tall, with good shoulders, and wore a black jump suit. The shock was the black knitted ski mask he wore, through which his eyes seemed to glitter. All in all, as sinister-looking a creature as she had ever seen in her life.

  His voice, when he spoke, was good Boston American. “A pleasure, Countess, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “My God, you’re American, and I thought you were Israelis when I heard Hebrew spoken.”

  “My dear Countess, half the men in Israel speak English with an American accent. That’s where most of us received our education. Best in the world.”

  “Really?” she said. “A matter of opinion.”

  “Yes, I was forgetting. You went to Oxford and the University of Paris.”

  “You’re well informed.”

  “I know everything about you, Countess – everything. No secrets.”

  “And I know nothing about you. Your name, for example.”

  She could see his teeth through the slot for his mouth and it was as if he smiled. “Judas,” he said. “Call me Judas.”

  “Very biblical,” she said, “but, alas, an unfortunate connotation.”

  “Oh, yes, I know what you mean, Judas betraying Christ in the Garden.” He shrugged. “But there were sound political reasons. Judas Iscariot was a Zealot. He wanted his co
untry free of the Romans.”

  “And you?”

  “I just want my country free of everybody.”

  “But how does that concern me, for God’s sake?”

  “Later, Countess, later. In the meantime, David will see to your every need. You’ll have to eat in here, naturally, but if there’s anything special you’d like, just ask him. Plenty of books on the shelves, and you’ve got your painting. I’ll speak to you again.”

  Braun opened the door for him and followed him out. Judas pulled off the hood and ran his fingers through close-cropped, copper-colored hair. He had a strong face, high cheekbones, blue eyes, and there was a restless vitality to him. He looked around fifty years of age.

  “See to her, David,” he said. “Anything she wants for the moment.”

  “Consider it done.” Braun hesitated. “She’s a nice woman. Do you really intend to go through with it if you don’t get what you want?”

  “Certainly,” Judas said. “Why, are you weakening on me, David?”

  “Of course not. Our cause is just.”

  “Well, keep that in the front of your mind. I’ll see you later.”

  As he turned, Braun said, “Any news from Aaron and the other two?”

  “He called in from Salinas on his ship’s radio. It marches, David.” The man who called himself Judas smiled. “It’s going to work. Just keep the faith.”

  He walked away along the stone-flagged corridor, and Braun unlocked the door and went in. She turned from the window.

  “There you are. So the big bad wolf has gone?”

  He ignored the remark. “I know you’re not a vegetarian. On the menu tonight is vichyssoise, followed by fresh sea bass, grilled, potatoes, a mixed salad, and an assortment of fruit to follow. If you don’t care for the fish, there are lamb chops.”

  “You sound like a waiter, but no, it will suit very well indeed.”

  “Actually, I’m the cook. Would you care for a white wine?”

  “No, claret would calm my nerves, and I’ve never subscribed to the idea that you should drink red or white because the food dictates it. I drink to suit me.”

  “But, of course, Countess.” He half-bowed in a slightly mocking way and moved to the door.

  As he opened it, she said, “And David?”

  He turned. “Yes, Countess.”

  “ ‘As you like Eliot so much, here’s a quote from The Waste Land for you.”’

  “And what would that be, Countess?”

  “ ‘I think we are in rats’ alley where the dead men lost their bones.”’

  He stopped smiling, turned, opened the door, and went out, closing it. The key clicked in the lock, and suddenly she was afraid.

  FOUR

  Salinas was a scattering of houses, a harbor enclosed by two jetties and jammed with small fishing boats. Luigi drove along the waterfront and stopped outside the establishment with the sign over the door that said English Café.

  “God knows why it has this name,” Luigi said.

  “Perhaps they serve a full English breakfast,” Dillon said. “English tourists like that.”

  “What tourists?” Luigi said and shrugged. “Anyway, here you are. I’ll just turn round and drive back to Palermo.”

  They got out and Hannah shook his hand. “Grateful thanks, Sergeant. One cop to another.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek and he drove away.

  Dillon led the way up the steps. The night was warm, and as darkness fell, there were lights on some of the boats out there in the harbor. He opened the door and went in. Half a dozen fishermen were at the bar, and it was a poor sort of place, very hot, and the ceiling fan didn’t seem to be working.

  He waved to the barman and turned to the others. “It’s a dump. Let’s sit outside.”

  They did just that, taking a table by the veranda rail, and the barman appeared. “What have you got to eat?” Hannah asked him in Italian.

  “We only do one main dish each day, signorina. Tonight it’s cannelloni ripieni. The way our chef does it, there’s a special stuffing of savory meat and onions. You could have a salad with it.”

  “Good, and bring us a bottle of wine,” Dillon told him. “Something cold.”

  He explained the meal prospects to Riley, and the barman appeared with three glasses and an ice-cold bottle. He splashed some into a glass and Dillon sniffed it.

  “This is the stuff. Passito. Strong, very strong. Three glasses and you’re on your back.” He grinned at Hannah. “I’d make it lemonade if I were you, girl dear.”

  “Go stuff yourself, Dillon.”

  At that moment, the barman came out, followed by a stout lady who carried a tray with three plates on it and a basket of bread. He deposited all this on the table and he and the woman departed.

  The meal was, in fact, excellent, and Riley cleaned his plate. “God help me, but that bread was the best since I last tasted my cousin Bridget’s baking.”

  “It was good, I’ve got to admit that,” Dillon said, “although I’m not too certain that it was strictly kosher.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Hannah told him coldly. “The Bible doesn’t tell me to starve myself in difficult circumstances. Now I’ll take another glass of wine.”

  As Dillon poured, a quiet voice said in good public-school English, “Chief Inspector Bernstein?” They all turned and looked at the man who stood at the bottom of the steps. “Jack Carter.”

  He was of medium height and wore a salt-stained sailor’s cap, reefer coat with tarnished brass buckles, and jeans. His face was tanned and he was younger than Dillon had thought he would be. Perhaps twenty-five and certainly no more.

  Hannah made the introductions. “This is Sean Dillon and Thomas O’Malley. They’re…”

  “I know very well who they are, Chief Inspector. I’ve been well briefed.”

  He joined them on the veranda and Dillon offered him a glass of wine, but Carter shook his head. “I’ve already made inquiries about our friend Hakim’s villa when we first arrived, discreetly, of course. There’s not much like it in this area, so it was easy to find. We took a run past it.”

  “Was that wise?” Hannah asked.

  “No problem. A lot of fishing boats around here, and the motor launch we’re using doesn’t look much different, not with a few nets draped around it. Further discreet inquiries at the village store indicate that Hakim is in residence. His two goons were in for supplies this morning.”

  “Very efficient,” Dillon said. “So when do we go in?”

  “Tonight around midnight. No sense in hanging about, and the Lear’s waiting at Malta. We’ll go down to the boat and I’ll show you how I intend to make our move. Needless to say, I’m going to need Mr. Riley’s input…”

  “Mr. O’Malley,” Dillon said.

  “Yes, of course. Then I’ll need Mr. O’Malley’s input. He, after all, has actually been inside the place.” He turned to Hannah. “You’ll hold the fort here until we return, Chief Inspector. They do have rooms upstairs.”

  She nodded. “I’ll walk down to the boat with you, just to see for myself. Then I’ll come back and book in.”

  It was quiet on the waterfront, water lapping against the breakwater, music playing from somewhere, cooking smells. The boat was a forty-foot cruiser festooned with nets, as Carter had indicated. Two men in knitted caps and reefer coats worked on deck forward of the wheelhouse.

  “I know it doesn’t look much, but she can do twenty-five knots,” he said, and called, “Only me,” and added to Hannah, “I’ve two more with me, but they’re ashore at the moment. This way.”

  He went down the companionway and into the main saloon. There were a couple of charts spread across the table.

  “Here you are,” he said. “Salinas, and there’s the villa to the east. I’ve circled it in red.”

  They all leaned over the table, and Riley found that he was sweating and felt a distinct need to throw up. It was Hannah who broke the tension.

  “Nothing more for me
here, so I’ll go back to the English Café, book a room, then I’ll phone Ferguson on my mobile just to bring him up to date.”

  She went up the companionway, the others following. When they reached the deck, Dillon said, “Grand legs you’ve got on you, girl, and well shaped. Must come from pounding the beat when you were a constable.”

  “Mind your manners, Dillon,” she said severely, but put a hand on his arm. “Try and stay in one piece. You’re a bastard, but for some reason I can never fathom, I like you.”

  “You mean there’s still a chance for me?”

  “Oh, go to hell,” she said and walked away along the jetty.

  “We’d better go and have a look at that chart again,” Carter said and led the way below. Dermot followed, his heart pounding, for he knew this must be it.

  Dillon leaned over the table, and Carter said, “By the way, are you carrying, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your usual Walther?”

  It was then, as some instinct, the product of twenty years of the wrong kind of living, told Dillon he was in very bad trouble indeed, that Carter produced a Browning.

  “Hands on head, old chap, nothing silly.” He felt in Dillon’s pockets and found the Walther in one of them. “There we are. Hands behind your back.”

  Dillon did as he was told, and Carter took some handcuffs from the table drawer and handed them to Riley. “Cuff him.”

  Dillon shook his head. “Naughty, Dermot, very naughty.”

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

  Dillon, having once worked for Israeli intelligence, recognized the language at once. It was not one of his best, but he knew enough to get by.

  One of the seamen appeared in the entrance. “I’m here, Aaron. You’ve got him, then?”

  “What does it look like? You and Raphael make ready for sea. I’ve got to go after the woman.”

  “Will you kill her?”

  “Of course not. We need her to communicate to Ferguson in London. Go on, get moving.” He turned to Riley. “You stay here and watch him.”

  “What about my money?” Riley asked thickly.