Was there anything the bastard didn’t know?
Rocard mumbled, “What can I do?”
“Nothing. If I need you, I’ll phone. Three days, Rocard, only three days to go.”
He switched off and Rocard stood there, clutching the mobile, thinking of Paul Berger, and there were tears in his eyes.
When Teddy went into the museum complex at Fort Lansing, he was impressed. It was modern and airconditioned, with tiled floors and great murals of combat scenes on the walls. He avoided reception and walked along the main corridor until he came to an office with a sign saying Curator on it. He knocked and opened the door and found a highly attractive black woman seated behind a desk at the window.
She glanced up. “Can I help you?”
“I was looking for the curator, Mary Kelly.”
“That’s me.” She smiled. “Are you Mr. Grant from Columbia?”
“Well, yes… and no. I am Mr. Grant, but I’m not from the history department at Columbia.” Teddy opened his wallet and took out his card and dropped it in front of her.
Mary Kelly examined the card and the shock was physical, that much was obvious. “Mr. Grant, what is this?”
“I’ve got a Presidential authorization here if you’d like to see it.”
He took it from an envelope, unfolded it, and passed it across. Mary Kelly read it aloud. “My secretary, Mr. Edward Grant, is on a mission on behalf of the White House that is of the utmost importance. Any help offered would be deeply appreciated by the President of the United States.”
She looked up. “Oh, my God!”
He removed the authorization from her fingers, refolded it, and put it back in the envelope. “I shouldn’t have told you, but I’m taking a chance because I don’t have time to fool around. Even now I can’t tell you the full story. Maybe one day.”
She smiled slowly. “How can I help?”
“You have the records of a number of airborne regiments that passed through here during the Vietnam War.”
“That’s right.”
“One of them was the 801st. I’d like to check the list of officers serving with that regiment from, say, nineteen sixty-seven until seventy.”
“What name are you looking for?”
“I don’t have a name.”
“Then what do you have?”
“Only that he’s Jewish.”
“Well, that covers quite a bit of territory. There were a lot of Jewish people in the army during the war. The draft affected everybody, Mr. Grant.”
“I know. It’s an incredible long shot. Will you help me?”
She took a deep breath. “Of course I will. This way,” and she led the way out.
The archives were in the basement and they had it to themselves. There was only the gentle hum of airconditioning as Mary Kelly examined the microfilm record, listing names on a pad with her right hand. She sat back.
“There you are. For the four years, nineteen sixty-seven up to and including seventy, there are twenty-three officers listed as being of the Jewish faith.”
Teddy examined the list name by name, but it was meaningless. He shook his head. “No damn good. I should have known.”
She was distressed for him and it showed. “And you’ve no other information?”
“Well, he served in the Israeli Army in the Yom Kippur War in nineteen seventy-three.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? We’ll have that on his back-up record. The Pentagon requires that a record be kept when American military personnel serve with another country’s army.”
Teddy said, “And you can check on that?”
“Quite simply. I have a small internal computer here. It’s not mainline. It’s to facilitate our own records. Over here.” She went and sat in front of a screen and tapped the keys. “Yes, here we are. Only one officer serving with the 801st went on to serve with the Israeli Army. Captain Daniel Levy, born nineteen forty-five in New York, left the army in nineteen-seventy.”
“Bingo!” Teddy said, a kind of awe in his voice. “That’s got to be him.”
“A hero,” she said. “Two Silver Stars. Father Samuel, mother Rachel, are listed as next of kin, but that was a long time ago. The father was a New York attorney. The address was Park Avenue, so they must be pretty wealthy with an address like that.”
“Is that it?” Teddy said. “No more?”
“Nothing that we can help you with.” She frowned slightly. “It really is important, isn’t it?”
“It could actually save someone’s life.” He grabbed her hand and shook it. “When I can, I’ll come back, I promise, and maybe then you’ll be able to hear the full story, but for now, I must return to Washington. If you’d show me the way out, I’d appreciate it.”
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.”