“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?”