“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.”
They got out of the Peugeot and went up the steps to the main entrance. As they stood examining the name cards, each beside its bell push, the door opened and a stout, middle-aged woman in raincoat and headscarf, a basket over one arm, emerged.
She paused. “Can I help, gentlemen?”
“We are seeking Monsieur Rocard,” Dillon told her.
“But he is not here. He went to Morlaix for a few days. He’s due back tomorrow.” She went down the steps, put up her umbrella, and turned. “He did say he might be back this afternoon late, but he wasn’t sure.”
“Did he leave an address? We have legal business with him.”
“No, I believe he was staying with one of his boyfriends.” She smiled. “He has many, monsieur.”
She walked away, and Dillon grinned. “Let’s take a look.” He pressed a button at random, and when a woman’s voice answered said, “It’s me, cherie,” in French.
The buzzer sounded. The door opened at a push, and they were in.
They found Rocard’s apartment on the third floor. The corridor was deserted and Dillon took out his wallet, produced a picklock, and went to work.
“A long time since I had to use one of those,” Blake said.
“You never lose the knack,” Dillon said. “I’ve always felt it would be useful if I ever have to take to crime.”
The lock yielded, he eased the door open and went in, Blake following.
It was a pleasant, old-fashioned apartment, with lots of antiques and Empire-style gold-painted furniture. The rugs were all collector’s items, there was what looked like a genuine Degas on one wall, a Matisse on the other. There were two bedrooms, an ornate marble bathroom, and a study.
Dillon pressed the recall button on the answering machine. The voice said: “Michael Rocard here. I’ve gone to Morlaix.”
“Go through his messages,” Blake said.
Dillon pressed the button and the messages, all in French, came through and then Judas cut in.
“Hebrew,” Dillon said. “We’ve just won the jackpot. I’ll play it again.” He listened intently, then nodded. “Berger’s been killed in an accident in London. Contact me as soon as you can.”
“Judas?” Blake said.
“Or I’m a monkey’s uncle.” Dillon looked around the study. “Not worth turning the place upside down. He wouldn’t leave incriminating evidence around, a smart man like that.”
Blake picked up a photo in a silver frame from the desk. It was very old-fashioned and in black and white. The woman was in a chiffon dress, the man in dark suit and stiff collar. There was a boy of perhaps ten or twelve, a girl of five or six. It was strange, remote, something from another age.
“Family group?” Blake said.
“He’s probably the kid in the short pants,” Dillon told him.
Blake replaced the photo carefully. “Now what?”
“Better leave quietly. We can try again in case he does come back late afternoon. Otherwise we’ll just have to fill in the time.” He smiled. “In Paris, that usually means having a really great lunch.”
They left the apartment, paused while Dillon relocked the door, then went downstairs. Outside it was still raining and they paused, looking across at the Bois de Boulogne.
“A good address,” Dillon commented.
“For a successful man,” Blake nodded.
“The man who had everything and in the end found he had nothing.”
“Until Judas came along?”
“Something like that.”
“So what do we do now?”
Dillon smiled. “We’ll go and see if my barge is still in one piece.”
It was moored in a small basin on the Quai St Bernard. There were pleasure boats tied up to the stone wall, motor cruisers with canvas awnings up against the rain and mist drifting across the Seine. Notre Dame was not too far away. There were a number of flower pots on the stern deck with no flowers in them. Dillon lifted one and found a key.
“How long since you were here last?” Blake asked.
“A year or eighteen months, something like that.” Dillon went down the small companionway and unlocked the door.
He stood just inside. “Jesus, smell the damp. It could do with a good airing.”
It wasn’t what Blake had expected, a stateroom lined with mahogany, comfortable sofas, a television, and a desk. There was another cabin with a divan bed and a shower room and a kitchen galley.
“I’ll find us a drink.” Dillon went into the galley and searched the cupboards. When he came back with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, he found the American looking at a faded newspaper clipping.