Blake said, “Don’t be stupid, and pull yourself together. I’ll get you a cognac.”
He went inside. Rocard said, “What happened to Paul? Tell me.”
“We traced him and questioned him. He told us how you recruited him. I’d intended holding him in a safehouse until this thing was over, but he panicked, thought we meant him harm. He ran across the road and a bus hit him. That’s the truth.”
“Poor Paul.” Rocard’s eyes were moist. “We were . . .” He hesitated. “Friends.”
Blake returned with a large cognac. “Try that, it might help.”
“Thank you.”
“All right,” Dillon said. “So tell us how it happened to Marie. Come on, you’ve nothing to lose now.”
“Judas phoned and ordered me to buy a small cottage on the northeast coast of Corfu. I was to persuade Marie to holiday there.”
“Why Corfu?”
“I’ve no idea. It was easy to persuade her to go because, since her mother’s death, she’s filled her time by taking painting holidays all over the place.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that he would have a devious motive?” Blake asked.
“I’m used to obeying his orders, that’s the way he runs things. I didn’t think. The damage had been done.” He shook his head. “I just didn’t think. I’d no idea that what has happened would happen. I care for Marie, I always have since she was a child.”
“But you followed Judas blindly?” Blake said.
“Remember Auschwitz, Mr. Johnson. I’m a good Jew. I love my people, and Israel is our hope. I wanted to help, can’t you see that?”
And it was Dillon who put a hand on his shoulder. “I see. I can see perfectly.”
“Do you know what he intends to do with her?” Blake asked.
And Rocard didn’t, that became immediately plain. “Use her as some sort of bargaining counter, I suppose.”
“Actually, he’s going to execute her on Tuesday unless her father signs an executive order for an American military strike against Iraq, Iran, and Syria.”
Rocard was truly horrified, and seemed to age visibly. “What have I done? Marie, what have I done?” He got up and moved to the rail and looked up at the rain. “I didn’t mean any of this, as God is my judge.”
Dillon turned to Blake Johnson. “I believe the poor sod.”
He turned and Rocard had gone, vanished as if he had never been. He and Blake ran to the rail. Mist swirled across the river, it seemed as if an arm was raised, and then the mist rolled in again. Dillon straightened, hands braced against the rail.
“I’d say there’s just about so much pain a person can take.”
Blake turned to him and there was anguish in his face. “But we’ve failed, Sean, we’re no further forward. What are we going to do?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go down to the bar to get myself a very large Irish whiskey. After that, it’s back to London to break the bad news to Ferguson.”
The President had run into roadblocks in his attempts to contact Archie Hood. He wasn’t at his apartment, that was certain, but a call to the law firm where he was still a consultant provided a number in the Cayman Islands where he was on holiday.
Finally, Cazalet made contact. “Archie, you old buzzard. It’s Jake Cazalet. Where are you?”
“Mr. President, I’m on the terrace of a delightful villa above a palm-fronted beach with a glass of champagne in one hand. I’m also surrounded by beautiful women, three of them, who happen to be my granddaughters.”
“Archie, I need your help, ears of the President only. A matter of vital importance. Can’t tell you why at the moment, but I hope to eventually.”
The old man’s voice had changed. “In what way may I be of service, Mr. President?”
“Levy, Samuel Levy, that mean anything to you?”
“Knew him well. He was a multi-millionaire from the family’s shipping line, but he chose the law and sold out when he inherited. Brilliant attorney. Did it for the hell of it. Never needed the money. Been dead about five years now.”
“And his son, Daniel Levy?”