He was an elegant, distinguished-looking man with white hair, who at sixty-seven should have been retired, the only problem being that the French Prime Minister wouldn’t hear of it. He was sitting at his desk in DGSE’s headquarters in Boulevard Mortier, studying a report of ETA supporters living in France, when he took Ferguson’s call on the Codex line.
“My dear Charles.” There was genuine pleasure on his face. “It’s been too long. How are you?”
“Hanging in there, just like you,” Ferguson told him. “The Prime Minister won’t let me go.”
“A habit they have. Is this business or pleasure?”
“Let’s just say you owe me a favor and leave it at that.”
“Anything I can do, you know that, Charles.”
“You know the de Brissac family?”
“But of course. I knew the general well and his wife. Both, alas, dead now. There is a charming daughter, Marie, the present comtesse.”
“So I understand,” Ferguson said carefully. “The family lawyer, Michael Rocard. Anything you can tell me about him?”
Hernu was immediately alert. “Is there a problem here, Charles?”
“Not as such. His name has cropped up, let’s say, on the edge of an affair I’m involved in. I would be grateful for any information you have on the man.”
“Very well. Absolutely beyond reproach. Legion of Honour, a distinguished lawyer who has served some of the greatest French families. Accepted at every level in society.”
“Married?”
“He was, but his wife died some years ago. No children. She suffered poor health for years. She had a bad war.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Rocard is Jewish and so was the woman he would later marry. As children, they were handed over to the Nazis during the time the Vichy government was in power, together with their families and thousands of others. In their case, they ended up in Auschwitz concentration camp. I suppose they must have been fifteen or sixteen when the war finished. I believe Rocard was the only member of his family to survive. I’m not sure about his wife’s family.”
“Thank you,” Ferguson said. “Very interesting. Where’s he living these days?”
“I believe he still has an apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo. Look, Charles, I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s going on.”
“Max, you couldn’t be more wrong,” Ferguson lied smoothly. “His name came up because he’d had legal dealings with an arms firm we’ve been worried about. Trade with Iran, that sort of thing. Nothing for you to worry your head about. I’d tell you if there was, you know that.”
“Charles, you’re lying through your teeth.”
“Leave it, Max,” Ferguson said. “If there is something you should know, I’ll tell you.”
“That bad?”
“I’m afraid so. I’d appreciate it if you faxed me his picture.”
“All right, but keep me informed.”
“The moment I can, I will, you have my word.”
“The word of an English gentleman,” Hernu laughed. “Now you really do have me worried,” and he switched off.
In the Oval Office, Jake Cazalet was trying to review a speech for a luncheon the following day to welcome a delegation of visiting Japanese politicians. It was difficult to concentrate in any way at all. It just went round and round in his head, the whole rotten business. He put down his pen and sat there brooding about it when the phone rang, the special Codex line, and he reached for it.
“Mr. President, Charles Ferguson.”
“Any progress?” Cazalet was suddenly alert.
“I think you could say that. We managed to trace the lawyer who called himself George Brown.”
And now Cazalet was excited. “The one who saw Riley at Wandsworth?”
“The same.”
“And he told you where she is?”
“He didn’t know.”
“How in the hell can you be sure?” and there was anger there now.
“Let me put you on to Blake Johnson, Mr. President.”
There was a pause, he could hear them talking, and then Johnson’s voice sounded. “Mr. President? Dillon and I questioned the man involved thoroughly and he didn’t know where she is.”
“You’re using the past tense.”
“Yes, well, he’s dead. Let me explain, please.”
When Blake was finished, the President said, “So Judas was just a voice on the phone.”
“That’s obviously the way he runs things. It’s a little like the old Communist cell system. Each individual only knows one or two other people.”
“Like Berger knew this lawyer in Paris, Rocard?”
“That’s right.”
“So, it’s Paris next stop?” Cazalet said.
“Absolutely. Too late tonight, but Dillon and I will be on our way in the morning.”
“Fine, put me back to the Brigadier.”
A moment later, Ferguson said, “Mr. President.”
“What do you think?” Cazalet asked.
“I’ve spoken to a contact in the French Secret Service, very much on the old pals basis. As a boy, Michael Rocard was in Auschwitz, and so was his wife. He was the only survivor of his family.”
“Good God,” the President said. “So that’s why he’s a Maccabee?”
“It would appear so.”
“Right, I can only pray that Blake and Dillon can get the right information out of him.”
Cazalet sat there thinking about it. There was a knock on the door and Teddy entered, a couple of folders under his good arm.
“A few things for you to sign, Mr. President.”
He put one of the folders on the desk and opened it. Cazalet said, “I’ve just had Ferguson and Blake on the phone.”
“Any progress?”
“You could say that,” and the President filled him in.
Teddy was immediately excited. “This guy, Rocard, he must hold the key. Dammit, he must have found out about your daughter and told Judas.”
“That would make sense. Anyway, where do I sign?”
Teddy led him through a number of papers, and when Cazalet was finished, he folded the file and picked it up. As he did so, the other file slipped from beneath his arm, and a few papers scattered. One of them was the charcoal sketch Marie de Brissac had done of the black raven with the lightning in its claws.
It was the President who picked it up. “What in the hell are you doing with this, Teddy?”
“It’s a sketch your daughter did for Dillon, Mr. President. Apparently, Judas has a silver lighter with that crest on it. Dillon thought that as we know Judas served in the Yom Kippur War, it must be a regimental crest. I got hold of a book of Israeli divisional signs, shoulder flashes, crests, everything. Dillon thought that if we knew the outfit, it might be a lead, but I got nowhere.”
“That’s because you’ve been looking in the wrong book,” the President said. “Black raven with lightning in its claws. That’s the 801st Airborne. One of those outfits thrown up from nowhere by the Vietnam War. I took part in a big cleanup operation in the Delta in January of sixty-nine. They were on the left flank.”
“My God!” Teddy said.
“I know,” the President nodded. “Remember what Dillon said? Judas sounded American but denied it. He was lying for obvious reasons. If he served with the 801st, he must be American.”
“You’re damn right he must be an American and you can sure as hell bet, the kind of guy he is, that he was an officer.”
“That makes sense.” The President sat back. “As I recall, they operated out of Fort Lansing. That’s in Pennsylvania. A few of those new airborne units were based there.”
“I’m going to go and check,” Teddy said and made for the door.
The President said, “Just a minute, Teddy. If they’ve got an archives section, which they probably have, you could have a problem if you ask for details of officers who served with the regiment.”
“Somehow I don’t think Judas has his own special Maccabee sitting down there just waiting to see if anyone’s going to make that sort of check, but I’ll be more subtle. Leave it to me.”