He stood some distance from the limousine, called the President on his mobile, and told him what he’d discovered.
“It certainly sounds promising, Teddy, but where does it lead us?”
“We could check on the family background. I mean, father an attorney, living on Park Avenue. He must have been important. I use the past tense because he’s either dead or very old.”
“I’ve just had a thought,” Cazalet said. “Archie Hood. He’s been the doyen of New York attorneys for years.”
“I didn’t think he was still alive,” Teddy said.
“Oh, yes, he’s eighty-one. I saw him at a fund-raiser in New York three months ago when you were in L.A. Leave it to me, Teddy, and you get back here as quick as you can.”
Teddy made his way to the limousine, where Hilton held the door open for him. “Okay, sergeant, Mitchell at your fastest. I’ve got to get back to Washington as soon as possible.”
It was about four o’clock when Rocard put on his raincoat and went downstairs. The concierge was polishing the mirror in the hall and paused.
“Ah, Monsieur Rocard, you are back.”
“So it would appear.”
“Two gentlemen were trying to reach you this morning. They said it was legal business.”
“Then if it’s important, they’ll come back. I’m going to have an early dinner at one of the bâteaux mouches.”
He went out and walked to his car, and at that moment Dillon pulled the Peugeot in at the curb on the other side of the road.
Blake pulled out the photo fax that Max Hernu had sent Ferguson. “It’s him, Sean.”
Rocard was already getting into his car and drove away. “Let’s see where he’s going,” Dillon said and went after him.
Rocard parked on the Quai de Montebello opposite the Ile de la Cité, not too far from where Dillon’s boat was tied up. There were a number of pleasure boats moored there, awnings over the aft and fore decks against the weather. Rocard ran through the rain and went up the gangplank of one of them.
“What’s this?” Blake asked as Dillon parked at the side of the cobbled quai.
“Bâteaux mouches,” Dillon told him. “Floating restaurants. Sail up the river and see the sights and have a meal at the same time, or just a bottle of wine if that’s your pleasure. They follow a timetable.”
“Looks as if they’re getting ready to cast off now,” Blake said. “We’d better move it.”
The two deck hands who were starting to pull in the gangway allowed them to board and they moved into the main saloon, where there was a bar and an array of dining tables.
“Not many people,” Blake said.
“There wouldn’t be with weather like this.”
Rocard was at the bar getting a glass of wine from the look of it. He took it and crossed to a stairway and mounted to the upper deck.
“What’s up there?” Blake asked.
“Another dining deck, but pretty exposed. The kind of thing that’s fun in fine weather. We’d better get a drink and see what he’s up to.”
They moved to the bar and Dillon asked for two glasses of champagne. “You intend to dine, gentlemen?” the barman asked.
“We’ll see,” Dillon replied in his excellent French. “I’ll let you know.”
They crossed to the stairs and went up. As he had indicated, this was another dining deck, but the sides were open and rain was blowing in. The crew had stacked the chairs in the center and the rain increased in force and mist drifted across the river.
There were other boats, of course, barges tied together in lines of three, and another restaurant boat passing in the opposite direction.
“It’s quite something,” Blake said.
Dillon nodded. “A great, great city.”
“So where is he?”
“Let’s try the stern promenade.”
It was reached by a door with a glass panel in it. Outside were three or four tables under an awning. Rocard was sitting at one of them, the glass of wine in front of him.
“Best get on with it,” Blake said.
Dillon nodded and opened the door and led the way through. “A wet evening, Monsieur Rocard,” he said.