The President’s Daughter

“But why?”

He sat on the edge of the table as he talked to her. “Just listen and you’ll see the connection.” And he told her all about Sicily and the people who were killed there, then about Judas and the Maccabees, and finally about the Nemesis plan.

When he was finished, she could only shake her head, her turn to be stunned. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “It’s so awful. All that death, and on such a grand scale.”

“Personally, I believe Judas is barking mad, but then many extremists are.”

“But they’re Jewish. You don’t—”

“You don’t expect Jews to be terrorists? And who was it assassinated Prime Minister Rabin? All it takes is one small, hard, dedicated group. Take Ireland. More than twenty-five years of the bomb and the bullet, thousands killed, hundreds of thousands wounded, sometimes crippled for life, yet at no time has there been more than three hundred and fifty active members of the IRA. The majority of the Irish people hate the violence and condemn it.”

She frowned. “You’re well informed.”

There was a question there, and he replied to it. “I’m from Belfast originally. When I was nineteen, I was a young actor in London. My father went home on a visit, got caught in an exchange of fire on a Belfast street, and died from British Army bullets.”

She said, “And you joined the IRA?”

“The kind of thing you’d do at nineteen. Yes, Countess, I became a gunman for the glorious cause, and once you put your foot on that road there’s no turning back.”

“But you changed. I mean, you work for British intelligence and this Brigadier Ferguson.”

“I didn’t have much choice. I had the prospect of a Serb firing squad in Bosnia in front of me or accepting Ferguson’s offer to go and work for him.”

“Doing the same sort of things you’d been doing,” she said shrewdly.

“Exactly, though usually on the side of the right.”

“I see.”

She was very calm, very still, and Dillon said, “I never believed in the bombs, Countess, and for what it’s worth—in Sicily? I’d have shot Hakim and his men, but not the old couple and the girl.”

“Yes, I think I believe you.”

He smiled then, that special Dillon smile, warm and immensely charming, changing his personality completely.

“You better had, Countess, because I’m the only friend you’ve got here.”

“I believe you, so give me one of those cigarettes and tell me what you think we should do.”

“I wish I knew.” He gave her a light from his old Zippo. “Interestingly enough, Judas didn’t say a word about you being Cazalet’s daughter, but he obviously knows.”

“Then why didn’t he tell you?”

“Oh, I think he enjoys playing games, like the cellar and the well last night. I think he wanted me to find out for myself.”

She nodded. “So he intends to use me as a bargaining counter to persuade my father to sign this order? This total destruction of three countries?”

“That’s about it.”

She shook her head. “Jake Cazalet is a good man, Mr. Dillon. I can’t believe he would sign such an agreement, no matter what the threat.”

“Normally I’d agree.” Dillon got up and walked to the window. “But with you, he obviously feels he has something out of the ordinary. A piece of leverage like no other.” He turned. “Tell me about it. Tell me about him and your mother. Anything and everything. It could help. There might be something there.”

“I don’t know if I can.” She frowned. “My mother told me how it happened, pieced it together over the years, and it was no sordid affair—anything but.” She laughed bravely, but her voice shook. “Rather tragic, really.”

“Nothing better to do, girl dear. Just tell me while we have the time. They could come for me at any minute.”

“Well, it started in Vietnam a long time ago,” she said. “My age actually, so that means it was twenty-eight years . . .”

EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

SICILY • LONDON

WASHINGTON

* * *

1997

SIX

Now that’s one hell of a story,” Dillon said.

She nodded. “Remember how he swept into power?”

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