“That’s better. Are you ready for breakfast?”
“You could say that.”
“Then come this way.”
He opened the door, led the way out and along the corridor, and stopped at another door. He opened it and stepped to one side.
“This way, Mr. Dillon.”
Marie de Brissac, at her easel, turned. She hesitated, paintbrush in hand, and Aaron said, “I’ve brought you some company. I’ll bring breakfast in a moment.” The door closed and the key turned.
“Sean Dillon.” He held out his hand. “Countess, is it?”
“Never mind that. Marie will do—Marie de Brissac. Did you have a bad time?”
“A bad night, certainly. I’ll pinch one of those cigarettes if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
He lit one and blew out a plume of smoke. “Do you by any chance know where we are?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. And you?”
“I’m afraid not. Last I recall, I was in a fishing port called Salinas in Sicily. I know by my watch that I was at least twelve hours at sea, but I was unconscious most of the time.”
“The same with me. I was in Corfu when they kidnapped me. A plane ride was mentioned and then a needle in the arm, and I knew nothing until I woke up here.”
“But what in the hell is it all about?” Dillon asked, and the door opened and Braun, not Aaron, came in with a tray.
“Good morning, Mr. Dillon—Countess.” He put the tray down. “Scrambled eggs, toast, marmalade, and English breakfast tea. Much better for you than coffee. I’ll be back.”
He went out and Dillon said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s eat it while it’s hot.”
“I agree,” she said.
They sat on either side of the table and talked as they ate. Dillon said, “So we don’t know where we are. Could be Italy or Greece, maybe even Turkey or Crete. Egypt would be a possibility.”
“A wide choice, but who are you, Mr. Dillon, and why are you here?”
“I work for a branch of British intelligence. I was in Sicily to arrest in a highly illegal manner a much-wanted Arab terrorist. My partner was with me, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch at Scotland Yard. The whole thing turned out to be a setup. They took me but left Hannah to report back to my boss, Brigadier Ferguson. What about you?”
“I was on a painting holiday in northeast Corfu on the coast, and on my own because I prefer it that way at the moment.”
“You’re French,” Dillon said.
“That’s right. I was painting at the beach when the one called David, David Braun, appeared, with another called Moshe. They packed up my clothes, and picked me up with no explanation. The rest you know.”
“There’s got to be a reason,” Dillon said. “I mean, what’s special about you? Tell me about yourself.”
“Well, my father was General Comte Jean de Brissac, and a war hero. He’s been dead for some years. My mother died a year ago and I still haven’t got over that. It means I am now Comtesse de Brissac. The title goes that way. From my mother or my father.”
“But nobody would snatch you for that reason,” Dillon told her.
“I am also wealthy. Perhaps they want a ransom.”
“That could have made sense, except that it doesn’t explain why they’ve snatched me.” He poured some more tea. “Look, from what this character Judas said to me, they’re some sort of Jewish extremist group.”
“Which makes it even more absurd. I have no Jewish connections.” She frowned. “Our family lawyer in Paris, Michael Rocard, is Jewish, but what’s that got to do with anything? He’s been a lawyer to the de Brissacs for at least thirty years. The cottage I rented in Corfu is his.”
“Is there anything else?” Dillon demanded. “Anything in your life? Come on, girl.”
“Not that I can think of.” But there was a great reluctance there and he seized on it at once.
“Come on, the truth.”
So she sighed and sat back. And she told him.
Dillon was stunned. He walked to the table by the window and helped himself to one of her cigarettes. “Jake Cazalet. That’s got to be the reason.”