“Ferguson.”
“Hi, old buddy, just thought I’d let you know she arrived in one piece. She’s having dinner with the countess now. It’s countdown time, Brigadier. How long have we got? Three days. Dear me, Jake Cazalet must be going through hell.”
He started to laugh and Ferguson switched off the phone.
TWELVE
As the Gulfstream lifted off from Farley Field the following morning, Captain Vernon came on over the speaker.
“We’ll be able to land at Charles de Gaulle, but the weather isn’t good. Heavy rain and mist in Paris itself.”
He switched off and Blake made a cup of coffee, and tea for Dillon. “Imagine that bastard phoning Ferguson like that.”
“He likes sticking pins in people.”
“Well, I’d sure as hell like to stick pins in him. How are we going to play this, Sean?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. What do you think?”
“Frankly, I don’t see how we can avoid a face-to-face confrontation.”
“The same tactic we employed with Berger.”
“Something like that.”
“And how far would you be prepared to go to save the President’s daughter, Blake? Can I shoot an ear off, put a bullet through his kneecap?”
Blake frowned. “For God’s sake, Sean.”
“The point of the exercise is to save Marie de Brissac’s life. Now, how far do I go? I mean, what if Rocard is made of sterner stuff than Berger? What if he tells us to get stuffed? All I’m trying to say is if you don’t like what I do, just step out of the room.”
Blake raised a hand defensively. “Give me a break. Let’s see how it goes, okay? And there’s Teddy checking out the 801st Airborne at Fort Lansing. Maybe he’ll come up with something.”
Judas was in his study at that moment, having risen early, seated behind the desk, going through papers and running the fingers of one hand through his cropped hair, when his special phone rang.
“Yes,” he said and listened. After a while, he nodded. “Thanks for the information.”
“Damn!” he said softly and flicked the intercom. “Aaron, get in here.”
Aaron entered a moment later. “Was there something?”
“Hell, no, I just wanted to let you know Berger’s dead. I had a call from one of my London people. He was knocked down by a bus in Camden High Street. It was reported on the local television news.”
“Unfortunate,” Aaron said.
“Yes, he was useful to us.”
“Are you ready for breakfast?”
“Yes, I’ll have it with you. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Aaron went out and Judas sat there for a moment, then picked up his special mobile and punched in Rocard’s number in Paris. A metallic voice replied in French. “Michael Rocard here. I’ve gone to Morlaix for three days. I’ll be back Wednesday.”
Judas cursed softly in Hebrew, then said, “Berger’s been killed in an accident in London. Contact me as soon as you can.” He switched off, got up, and went out.
When Blake and Dillon crossed the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle and went into the arrival hall, a young woman in a Burberry trenchcoat came forward to greet them, a large envelope in one hand.
“Mr. Dillon, I’m Angela Dawson from the Embassy. Brigadier Ferguson asked for these.” She held up the envelope and passed it over. “Also I’ve got a car for you outside. This way, please.”
She was efficiency itself as she led them to the main entrance and out to the parking lot. She stopped beside a blue Peugeot and handed the keys to Dillon. “Good luck, gentlemen.”
She walked away briskly and Blake said, “Where in the hell did Ferguson find her?”
“Oxford, I suspect,” Dillon said and got behind the wheel. “Let’s get moving.”
The weather report had been accurate for once, pouring rain and clinging gray mist. Blake said, “What a greeting.”
“I like Paris,” Dillon told him. “Rain, snow, mist, I don’t give a damn. It always excites me. I’ve a place here.”
“An apartment?”
“No, a boat on the Seine. I lived in it, on and off, for years during what Devlin would have called my dark period.” He turned along Avenue Victor Hugo and pulled in at the curb. “This looks like it.”