“Bad people is what it’s about,” Aleko told him. “I think they’re holding two women captive.”
Goulos smiled beautifully. “Now isn’t that a coincidence? Little Stefanos, my goat boy, was on the slope close to the castle a few days ago. He was in the olive grove looking for a stray, and he could see into the courtyard. Someone drove in in a vehicle, then two of the Israelis helped a woman out and took her in the main door between them.”
“My God,” Aleko said. “That’s it.”
“No, there’s more. He was up there again yesterday when the same thing happened, only this time the woman involved had to be carried inside.”
Aleko banged on the table. “Like I said, bad people, my cousin.”
“So what will you do about them?”
Aleko smiled. “Oh, something appropriate.” He stood up and shook hands. “Enjoy your cigarettes,” and he opened the door and went back to the Suzuki.
When he returned to the taverna, his nephews and Stavros were sitting at the bar, the only customers, Anna standing behind.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“First I phone Brigadier Ferguson, then I’ll explain.” He went through to the office and was back in five minutes. “Right,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
Ferguson had taken the call while seated in the back of his Daimler on the way to Farley Field. He had never felt such elation. He sat there thinking about it, then phoned the President on his mobile. Cazalet was in the sitting room at the White House having coffee and sandwiches with Teddy, when he took the call.
“Total confirmation, Mr. President. My local contact has established they are there.”
“Thank God!” the President said. “What happens now?”
“We’ll do whatever we have to tomorrow. I’ll be there with Dillon and Blake Johnson and my local people. I’ll keep in constant touch.”
“Thank you,” Cazalet said, then turned to Teddy. “They’re there,” he said simply. “They are there at Castle Koenig. Ferguson has had it confirmed.”
The one fly in the ointment was the weather. At Farley Field the rain fell monotonously as Ferguson was sitting in the small office the station commander had loaned him, talking to Blake and Dillon. Captain Vernon and Lieutenant Gaunt came in. Gaunt unfolded a chart across the desk.
“There we are, Brigadier, direct flight over France, Switzerland, northern Italy, and down the Adriatic Sea to Corfu.”
“How far?”
“Almost fourteen hundred miles.”
“How long will it take?”
“I’d normally say three hours to allow for any eventualities, but weather in mainland Britain is so bad at the moment that they won’t give me a departure time until eight A.M.”
“Damn!” Ferguson said.
“Sorry, Brigadier, nothing I can do.”
“Yes, not your fault. Proceed on that time scale, then.”
Vernon went out and Dillon opened the French window and looked out at the rain. “A hell of a night.”
“I know, don’t rub it in,” Ferguson said.
It was Blake who stated the obvious. “Even if we don’t get to Corfu by noon and still have to cross the island by Range Rover, it won’t make much difference. Whatever the plan, when it comes to attacking Castle Koenig, it must be under cover of darkness.”
Ferguson nodded. “You’re right, of course.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “A few hours sleep, gentlemen. Let’s grab them while we can,” and he led the way out.
FOURTEEN
It was still raining the following morning when they took off, rising through the bad weather steadily until they leveled off at fifty thousand. Sergeant Kersey brought coffee, and tea for Dillon, and retired.
“Can we go over again what Sergeant-Major Harley delivered?”
Ferguson told him, and Dillon nodded. “That seems adequate. I’m glad you remembered the door charges.”
Ferguson said mildly, “I would remind you, Dillon, that I have been doing this sort of thing for even longer than you.”
“Is that a fact?” Dillon said innocently. “I didn’t think you were that old.”
“A nineteen-year-old subaltern on the Hook in the Korean War, as you very well know.”
“I always heard that was a bad place,” Blake said.
“You could say that. Trench warfare, just like the First World War. You’d sit there in a regiment of seven hundred and fifty men and the Chinese would attack in divisional strength, usually around twelve thousand.” He shrugged. “Old men’s stories. Who cares?”