The President’s Daughter

by Jack Higgins

  “Help? Archie, you’ve done me the greatest service of your career. One day you’ll know why, but for the moment, total secrecy.”

  “Mr. President, you have my word.”

  When Teddy came into the Oval Office, the President was standing at the window. He turned and the energy in him was visible. “Don’t say a word, Teddy, just listen.”

  When he was finished, Teddy said, “It all fits. Judas told Dillon he’d had relatives killed. I mean, it all damn well fits.”

  “So, all the indications are that she and Chief Inspector Bernstein are at this Castle Koenig place. When they kidnapped her, telling her she was going for a plane ride before they drugged her, it was just a bluff.”

  “So what do we do, send in Navy Seals, borrow the SAS from the Brits?”

  “No way, Teddy. The first sign of trouble he’d kill them.” Cazalet reached for the Codex. “Let’s get Ferguson.”

  In fact, Ferguson had just finished speaking to Dillon in the Gulfstream on the way back to London. He listened to what Cazalet had to say.

  “Teddy is right, it fits, Mr. President. I’m afraid Rocard, the de Brissac lawyer, has followed Berger to an early grave, but before he died, he indicated a Corfu connection.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I have associates in Corfu, because for some years we’ve operated illegal traffic to Albania just across the water which is, as you know, still Communist-dominated. The people I use are entirely the right kind for this sort of operation. Dillon and Blake Johnson will be arriving at Farley Field in the Gulfstream. I’ll join them there, bring them up to date, and we’ll leave for Corfu at the soonest possible moment. Trust me, Mr. President. I’ll stay in close touch.”

  Jake Cazalet switched off the Codex, and Teddy said, “Well?”

  So the President told him.

  Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then called a number in Corfu. A woman answered the phone and spoke in Greek.

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “Brigadier Ferguson,” he said in English. “Is that you, Anna?”

  “It is, Brigadier. Good to hear from you.”

  “I need that good-for-nothing rogue of a husband of yours, Constantine.”

  “Not tonight, Brigadier, he’s working.”

  “I know what that means. When will he be back?”

  “Maybe four hours.”

  “Tell him I’ll call, and make sure he’s there, Anna. A big payday.”

  He put the phone down, went to the sideboard and poured a Scotch, and stood at the window savoring it. “Right, you bastard, we’re coming to get you,” he said.

  At that moment, Constantine Aleko was at the wheel of his fishing boat, the Cretan Lover, halfway between the coast of Corfu and Albania, his head apparently disembodied in the light of the binnacle. It was raining slightly and there was a slight wind from the sea.

  Aleko was fifty years of age. Once a lieutenant commander in the Greek Navy, he had ended a reasonably distinguished career by punching a captain in a drunken fight over a woman in a Piraeus bar.

  So, he had come home to Corfu to the little port of Vitari, had used his compensation money as a down payment on the Cretan Lover, a supposed fishing boat that had the kind of engines that could take her to twenty-five knots.

  Backed by his beloved wife, Anna, he had worked the smuggling trade for all it was worth, using the extensive knowledge of the Albanian coast that he had gained in the Greek Navy to his own advantage. The cigarette trade was particularly lucrative. The Albanians would pay almost anything for British and American brands.

  Of course they were tricky bastards and needed watching, which was why he had his two nephews, Dimitri and Yanni, on his side, and his wife’s cousin, old Stavros. It was Stavros who brought him coffee now, as rain streamed against the wheelhouse window.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. That Albanian bastard, Bolo, I don’t trust him an inch. I mean, he tried to do us down last time on that cargo of Scotch whiskey.”

  “It’s taken care of, you old worrier, believe me. I know how to handle scum like Bolo.” Constantine drank the coffee. “Excellent. Here, take the wheel for me. I want a word with the boys.”

  Stavros took over and Aleko crossed the deck, passing the draped nets, the baskets of fish, and went down the companionway. In the main saloon, Dimitri and Yanni were pulling on diving suits. There were two Uzi submachine guns on the table.

  “Hey, Uncle,” Yanni said. “You think these Albanian apes will try and take us?”

  “Of course he does, stupid,” Dimitri said. “Otherwise why would we be bothering?”

  “Bolo owes me five thousand American dollars for this cargo of Marlboro cigarettes,” Aleko said. “I’ve good reason to think he’ll try to take them for nothing. So – you know what to do. You don’t need tanks. Just go over at the right time and swim to the other side of his boat and don’t forget these.”

  He lifted one of the Uzis, and Dimitri said, “How far do we go?”

  “They try to shoot you, you shoot them.”

  He left them to it and went back on deck. When he went into the wheelhouse, he lit two cigarettes and gave one to Stavros.

  “A good night for it.”

  “It better be,” Stavros told him, “because if I’m not much mistaken, there they are now.”

  The other boat was rather similar, nets draped from the mast to the deckhouse. There were a couple of men working in the stern deck, apparently sorting fish in the sickly yellow light of a lamp that hung from one corner of the wheelhouse. There was a man at the wheel, someone Aleko hadn’t seen before, and Bolo was standing beside him, smoking a cigarette. He was forty-five, a large man, shoulders huge in the reefer coat he wore, and the face beneath the peaked cap had the kind of reckless charm possessed only by the truly insincere. He came out on deck.

  “Hey, my good friend Constantine. What have you got for me this time?”

  “What you asked for, Marlboro cigarettes, for which you will pay me five thousand American dollars with your usual reluctance.”

  “But, Constantine, I’m your friend.” Bolo took a bundle of notes from his pocket bound with a rubber band. “Here, check it for yourself. It’s all there.” He tossed it across. “Where are my cigarettes?”

  “Under the nets here. Show them, Stavros.”

  As Aleko quickly counted the money, Stavros removed the nets, revealing several cardboard packing cases. Bolo’s two deckhands joined him and manhandled them across. When they were finished, they stepped back over the rail.

  Aleko looked up. “So, it’s all here. Amazing.”

  “Yes, isn’t it, and now I’ll have it back.”

  Bolo reached inside the wheelhouse and produced a Second World War machine pistol, the German variety known as the Schmeisser and much favored by Italian partisans. His two deckhands took out revolvers.

  “I might have known,” Aleko said. “The leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

  “I’m afraid not. Now give me the money back or I’ll kill the lot of you and sink your damn boat.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  Dimitri and Yanni, black-cowled figures in their rubber suits, were sliding under the rail on the other side of the Albanian boat. They stood up holding the Uzis ready, menacing figures.

  Yanni said, “Good evening, Captain Bolo.”

  The Albanian turned in alarm and Yanni fired a short burst that caught Bolo in the right arm and tore the Schmeisser from his grasp. Dimitri had already taken careful aim and loosed off a single shot that took one of the deckhands in the back of the leg. He went down and the other dropped his gun and raised his hands.

  “I enjoyed that,” Aleko said. “Back on board, boys, and cast off.”

  As the gap widened, Bolo stood clutching his blood-soaked sleeve, his face twisted with pain. “Damn you, Constantine.”

  “You’re only a beginner.” Aleko waved. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other for a while.�
��

  The boys went below to change, and Stavros made coffee while Aleko took the wheel. When the old man returned, he put the mug of coffee on the chart table and said, “One thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t we take back the cigarettes?”

  “A bargain is a bargain.” Aleko grinned. “But I just called up the gunboat working the channel tonight. Lieutenant Kitros in command. He once served under me in the navy. I’ve given him their position, but it wouldn’t be much good without hard evidence.”

  “The cigarettes?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You wonderful bastard.”

  “Yes, I know. Now let’s get back home to Vitari.”

  Vitari was a small fishing port on the northeast coast of Corfu, and home was a taverna on a hill overlooking the harbor. Anna was in sole charge, a handsome, heavily tanned woman who wore a headscarf and a traditional peasant dress in black. She was devoted to her husband, her only regret the fact that she’d been unable to bear him children.

  There were a dozen fishermen in the bar, a young local girl seeing to their wants, and greetings were exchanged when the crew of the Cretan Lover entered.

  “You three get a drink,” Aleko said. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Anna.”

  She was at the stove, stirring lamb stew in a black pot, and turned, smiling. “A successful night?”

  He kissed her on the forehead, poured himself a glass of red wine from a jug on the table, and sat down. “Bolo tried to take us.”

  Her face darkened. “What happened?” He told her, and when he was finished she said, “The swine. I hope Kitros finds him. He should get five years.”

  “Oh, Kitros will get him all right. I trained that young man myself.”

  “You had a phone call from London, England. Brigadier Ferguson.”

  Aleko straightened. “What did he want?”

  “He just said it would be a big payday and that he’d call back.”

  “That sounds interesting. He’s always paid well, anyway.”

  “And so he should. Those drops you made him on the Albanian coast, that’s dangerous work, Constantine. If the Communists got their hands on you…”

  He cut in. “You worry too much, woman.” He got up and slipped his hands around her waist. “It’s a good job I love you.”

  Stavros and the boys came in with their drinks. “Still lovebirds at your age?” Stavros said.

  “Oh, shut up and sit,” Anna said.

  They did as she told them and she laid plates. Aleko said, “Anna tells me our old friend Brigadier Ferguson phoned me from London.”

  They were all immediately interested. “What for?” Yanni demanded. “Albania again?”

  “I don’t know,” Aleko said. “A big payday is what he said and he’s phoning back.”

  “Hell, that sounds good,” Dimitri said.

  Anna brought the pot and started to spoon out the stew. “Stop it, the lot of you, and just eat.”

  It was perhaps ten minutes later that the phone rang in the small office and Aleko got up and went in.

  “Brigadier,” he said in excellent English. “And what can I do for you? Albania again?”

  “Not this time. Tell me what you know about a place called Castle Koenig.”

  “About fifteen miles north of here on the coast. Owned by an American family for many, many years. Name of Levy.”

  “Is anyone there now to your knowledge?”

  “They employ a local couple to caretake. It was inherited by a son named Daniel. Some sort of war hero. Vietnam, I think. He’s even fought for the Israelis. He just comes and goes, that’s what I hear. Quite popular with the locals. Look, what is this?”

  “I’ve reason to believe he’s holding two women there at the moment. One of them is my assistant, a Chief Inspector Bernstein. It doesn’t matter who the other is, it’s classified.”

  “This is a political thing?”

  “More a terrorist thing,” Ferguson said. “I’m going to fly out as soon as possible by private jet, and I’ll have two first-class operatives with me. We intend to get those women out, Constantine, and I need your help. There would be very big money in this.”

  “Forget that for the moment. What are friends for? When will you arrive?”

  “Sometime in the morning. I’ll have a Range Rover waiting at the airport, and we’ll drive across the island and join you at the taverna. The Cretan Lover is in good condition, I trust?”

  “Perfection. You’re thinking of going in by sea?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ve got an idea. Give me a contact number.”

  “No problem. I’ll give you my mobile. It’s satellite-linked so you can even get me on the plane. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll take a run up there now. If I go by motorbike I’ll be there in half an hour. I’ve got a cousin called Goulos, who has a small farm near the castle. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Aleko returned to the kitchen, took his reefer coat from behind the door, and pulled it on. “But you haven’t finished your meal,” Anna told him.

  “Later, this is important.” He opened a drawer, took out a Browning and checked it, and put it in his pocket.

  “What is this?” Stavros said.

  Aleko said, “I’ll tell you all about it later. I’m taking your Suzuki, Yanni, so let’s have the keys.”

  Yanni complied. “Where are you going?”

  “To see my cousin Goulos. There’s something funny going on at Castle Koenig and I’d like to know what it is,” and he went out.

  The message waiting for Dillon and Blake when they arrived at Farley Field was explicit. They were to wait to hear from Ferguson. They joined the pilots in the RAF officers’ mess for a meal and were halfway through it when Dillon’s mobile sounded. He nodded to Blake, got up and went out of the front door of the mess, taking the call standing on the tarmac.

  “I know you’ve been hanging around up there for some time,” Ferguson said, “but a lot’s happened. I know where she is, Corfu, and I know who Judas is.”

  “But how?”

  So Ferguson brought him up to date.

  When the Brigadier was finished, Dillon said, “What now?”

  “I’ll be joining you at Farley soon. Ask Captain Vernon to prepare a flight plan. I should be hearing from Aleko, of course.”

  “So we hit from the sea?”

  “That would seem logical.”

  “We’ll need tooling up.”

  “Aleko has a rather extensive range of equipment, but I’ll bring a few items from the armorer.”

  “Fine. We’ll see you when we see you, then.”

  Dillon went back to the mess and sat down. “That was Brigadier Ferguson,” he said to Captain Vernon. “He’d like you to file a flight plan to Corfu.”

  Blake looked up, frowning.

  “That might not be possible before the morning.” Vernon pushed his plate away and stood up.

  “I’ll come with you,” Lieutenant Gaunt said and followed him.

  “What the hell is going on?” Blake asked.

  “We’ve found them, thanks to Teddy and that black raven sketch. It wasn’t Israeli, Blake, it was American. Judas is one of your own.”

  “Then tell me, for Christ’s sake,” Blake demanded. “Everything.”

  When the armorer at the Ministry of Defense knocked on the door of Ferguson’s office, he found Ferguson at the window looking out at Horse Guards Avenue.

  “Ah, Mr. Harley.”

  “Brigadier.” Harley almost clicked his heels. A retired sergeant-major, he had served in the Korean War with Ferguson. “How can I assist, Brigadier?”

  “A black operation, Sergeant-Major, very black. Your authorization is on the desk there.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Harley picked it up, folded it and put it in a pocket, then took out pad and pen. “What would you require?”

  “Three flak jackets, very latest model, an
d in black. Black jump suits to go with them. Stun grenades, night-vision goggles, also a pair of good night-vision binoculars.”

  “Weaponry, sir?”

  “Handguns, silenced of course, and silenced machine pistols of some sort. What would you suggest?”

  “Silenced Brownings for the pistols, sir, still the preferred handgun of the SAS, and I’d stick to the Uzi for a machine pistol. The latest model the Israelis have come up with is a superb silenced version. Anything else?”

  “Semtex is always useful. I’m thinking of blowing doors.”

  “I’ll make up a box for you. Small charges for five-second timer pencils and three- or four-quarter-pound blocks for anything bigger, plus a selection of assorted timers.”

  “Excellent. At your soonest, Sergeant-Major, and delivered to Farley Field.”

  “I’ll see to it myself, sir.” Harley folded the pad. “Sounds like the kind of order Mr. Dillon would have given me.” He hesitated. “I heard a whisper, sir. I hope it isn’t true.”

  “Farley Field, Sergeant-Major, at your soonest.”

  “Of course, sir,” and Harley went out.

  Aleko made good time on the main road, turning into a narrow track when he was close to his destination, negotiating the way slowly over the uneven surface in the light of the headlamp. When he rode into the yard of the farm, it was midnight, but there was still a light in the kitchen and a dog barked. Aleko switched off the engine and pushed the Suzuki up on its stand. The door opened and Goulos, an aging man with gray hair, appeared, holding a shotgun.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s your cousin, Constantine, you fool. Put the gun away.”

  The dog had rushed out, still barking, but now started to whine and lick Aleko’s hand.

  “What kind of time is this?” Goulos demanded.

  “Ask me in and I’ll explain.”

  “Well, come in. My wife’s away so you’ll have to make do with me.”

  Aleko took a package from the Suzuki’s side bag and followed him. It was a country kitchen with stone floor, open fire, and pinewood furniture. He put the package on the table.