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?”
“Now there was a strange one. Big war hero in Vietnam, then he got all turned on to Israel. Joined the Israeli Army and fought in the Yom Kippur War. Of course they had a big family tragedy a few years ago.”
“What was that?”
“Dan Levy’s mother and married sister went out to see him on holiday. They were both killed in the bombing of a Jerusalem bus station. The old man never got over it. It really killed him off.”
Jake Cazalet fought to stay calm. “And what’s happened to Daniel Levy?”
“Inherited almost a hundred million dollars, a house in Eaton Square in London, a castle in Corfu. Last I heard he was a colonel in Israeli Airborne, but he resigned. There was a scandal. He executed Arab prisoners or something.”
“You say a castle in Corfu?”
“Sure, I visited it once years ago when his father owned it. My wife and I were on a cruise and Corfu was one of the stopping-off points. Strange place on the northwest coast called Castle Koenig. Apparently in the old days it was owned by a German baron. The Krauts have always liked Corfu. If I remember right, Prince Philip was born there.” There was a pause. “Does any of this help?”
“Help? Archie, you’ve done me the greatest service of your career. One day you’ll know why, but for the moment, total secrecy.”
“Mr. President, you have my word.”
When Teddy came into the Oval Office, the President was standing at the window. He turned and the energy in him was visible. “Don’t say a word, Teddy, just listen.”
When he was finished, Teddy said, “It all fits. Judas told Dillon he’d had relatives killed. I mean, it all damn well fits.”
“So, all the indications are that she and Chief Inspector Bernstein are at this Castle Koenig place. When they kidnapped her, telling her she was going for a plane ride before they drugged her, it was just a bluff.”
“So what do we do, send in Navy Seals, borrow the SAS from the Brits?”
“No way, Teddy. The first sign of trouble he’d kill them.” Cazalet reached for the Codex. “Let’s get Ferguson.”
In fact, Ferguson had just finished speaking to Dillon in the Gulfstream on the way back to London. He listened to what Cazalet had to say.
“Teddy is right, it fits, Mr. President. I’m afraid Rocard, the de Brissac lawyer, has followed Berger to an early grave, but before he died, he indicated a Corfu connection.”
“So what do we do?”
“I have associates in Corfu, because for some years we’ve operated illegal traffic to Albania just across the water which is, as you know, still Communist-dominated. The people I use are entirely the right kind for this sort of operation. Dillon and Blake Johnson will be arriving at Farley Field in the Gulfstream. I’ll join them there, bring them up to date, and we’ll leave for Corfu at the soonest possible moment. Trust me, Mr. President. I’ll stay in close touch.”
Jake Cazalet switched off the Codex, and Teddy said, “Well?”
So the President told him.
Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then called a number in Corfu. A woman answered the phone and spoke in Greek.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Brigadier Ferguson,” he said in English. “Is that you, Anna?”
“It is, Brigadier. Good to hear from you.”
“I need that good-for-nothing rogue of a husband of yours, Constantine.”
“Not tonight, Brigadier, he’s working.”
“I know what that means. When will he be back?”
“Maybe four hours.”
“Tell him I’ll call, and make sure he’s there, Anna. A big payday.”
He put the phone down, went to the sideboard and poured a Scotch, and stood at the window savoring it. “Right, you bastard, we’re coming to get you,” he said.
At that moment, Constantine Aleko was at the wheel of his fishing boat, the Cretan Lover, halfway between the coast of Corfu and Albania, his head apparently disembodied in the light of the binnacle. It was raining slightly and there was a slight wind from the sea.
Aleko was fifty years of age. Once a lieutenant commander in the Greek Navy, he had ended a reasonably distinguished career by punching a captain in a drunken fight over a woman in a Piraeus bar.
So, he had come home to Corfu to the little port of Vitari, had used his compensation money as a down payment on the Cretan Lover, a supposed fishing boat that had the kind of engines that could take her to twenty-five knots.
Backed by his beloved wife, Anna, he had worked the smuggling trade for all it was worth, using the extensive knowledge of the Albanian coast that he had gained in the Greek Navy to his own advantage. The cigarette trade was particularly lucrative. The Albanians would pay almost anything for British and American brands.
Of course they were tricky bastards and needed watching, which was why he had his two nephews, Dimitri and Yanni, on his side, and his wife’s cousin, old Stavros. It was Stavros who brought him coffee now, as rain streamed against the wheelhouse window.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this. That Albanian bastard, Bolo, I don’t trust him an inch. I mean, he tried to do us down last time on that cargo of Scotch whiskey.”
“It’s taken care of, you old worrier, believe me. I know how to handle scum like Bolo.” Constantine drank the coffee. “Excellent. Here, take the wheel for me. I want a word with the boys.”
Stavros took over and Aleko crossed the deck, passing the draped nets, the baskets of fish, and went down the companionway. In the main saloon, Dimitri and Yanni were pulling on diving suits. There were two Uzi submachine guns on the table.
“Hey, Uncle,” Yanni said. “You think these Albanian apes will try and take us?”
“Of course he does, stupid,” Dimitri said. “Otherwise why would we be bothering?”
“Bolo owes me five thousand American dollars for this cargo of Marlboro cigarettes,” Aleko said. “I’ve good reason to think he’ll try to take them for nothing. So – you know what to do. You don’t need tanks. Just go over at the right time and swim to the other side of his boat and don’t forget these.”
He lifted one of the Uzis, and Dimitri said, “How far do we go?”
“They try to shoot you, you shoot them.”
He left them to it and went back on deck. When he went into the wheelhouse, he lit two cigarettes and gave one to Stavros.
“A good night for it.”
“It better be,” Stavros told him, “because if I’m not much mistaken, there they are now.”
The other boat was rather similar, nets draped from the mast to the deckhouse. There were a couple of men working in the stern deck, apparently sorting fish in the sickly yellow light of a lamp that hung from one corner of the wheelhouse. There was a man at the wheel, someone Aleko hadn’t seen before, and Bolo was standing beside him, smoking a cigarette. He was forty-five, a large man, shoulders huge in the reefer coat he wore, and the face beneath the peaked cap had the kind of reckless charm possessed only by the truly insincere. He came out on deck.