The President’s Daughter

“Common knowledge for years,” Dillon said. “So what else is new?”

“Missiles purchased from Eastern Europe since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and as we saw in the Gulf War, Israel is vulnerable to such weapons.”

Dillon reached for another cigarette, and Judas picked up the lighter near his right hand, leaned across, and gave him a light. It was tarnished silver, a black bird of some kind in bas-relief, with jagged lightning in its claws, obviously some military motif.

Dillon said, “So – you’ve made your case. What’s the solution?”

“It’s time to bring a stop to it, once and for all. Iraq, Syria, and Iran brought to heel for all time.”

“And how in the hell do you achieve that?”

“We don’t. The Americans will achieve it for us, under the inspired guidance of their President.”

“Jake Cazalet?” Dillon shook his head. “Sure, and the good old U.S. of A. has always been willing to retaliate when pushed – the Gulf War proved that – but to take out three countries?” He shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

“What I’m talking about are surgical airstrikes,” Judas said. “Total destruction of nuclear research sites for a start, and all chemical weaponry sites. Also nuclear power stations, and so on. Total destruction of the infrastructure. Ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads can also take out targets such as the Iranian Navy at Bandar Abbas. Army headquarters in all three countries are known targets. No need for a ground war.”

“A holocaust?” Dillon said. “That’s what you mean? You’d be willing to go that far?”

“For the State of Israel?” Judas nodded. “I can do no other.”

“But the Yanks would never go for it.”

“Now there you may be wrong. In fact, such a plan has existed at the Pentagon since the Gulf War. They call it Nemesis,” Judas told him. “There has never been any shortage of people in high command in the American military who would love to put it into action.”

“So why haven’t they?”

“Because as Commander-in-Chief, the President must sign the operational order, and he’s always rejected it. It’s been presented every year since the Gulf War to the President’s secret committee – the Future Projects Committee, they call it. Bizarre, isn’t it? It meets again next week. And this time, something tells me the result will be a little different.”

“You think Jake Cazalet will sign?” Dillon shook his head. “You must be crazy.”

“Special Forces in Vietnam,” Judas said. “Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, two Purple Hearts.”

“So what?” Dillon said. “He’s worked harder for peace than any President in years. The kind of Democrat that even Republicans love. He’ll never sign a thing like Nemesis.”

“Oh, I think he could when he hears what I have to say, and that’s where you come in, old buddy. Brigadier Ferguson has access to the President, courtesy of the British Prime Minister. You’ve actually met the President. Foiled a bomb plot by Protestant para-militaries to assassinate him when he was in London, and you’ve been of great assistance in helping out over one or two tricky bits as regards the Irish peace process or lack of it.”

“So what?”

“You can go and see him for me, you and Ferguson, if you like. All very hush-hush, of course. It has to be that way.”

“Like hell I will,” Dillon told him.

“Oh, I think you could be persuaded.” Judas got up and nodded to Aaron, who took a Beretta from the pocket of his reefer coat. “Let me show you.”

“And what’s that come down to? Do you wire up what my old aunty Eileen would have called my extremities to a very large battery?”

“No need. Time for you to reflect, that’s all. Now if you’d be kind enough to follow me?”

He opened the door and went out, and Dillon shrugged and followed, Aaron bringing up the rear.

They went along the corridor and down a series of wide stone steps, three levels in all. Dillon could hear someone calling out, high and shrill, a woman’s voice filled with terror.

As they reached a lower level, Arnold and Raphael appeared from another corridor holding Marie de Brissac between them. She was struggling madly, obviously badly frightened, and David Braun came up behind and tried to soothe her.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Listen to him, Countess,” Judas said. “He’s telling the truth. This is Mr. Dillon, by the way. I’ve brought him down here to show I mean business, and I always keep my word. Watch and learn, then you can go back to your nice warm room.”

Aaron unbarred a great oaken door, opened it, and led the way in, switching on a light. It was an ancient cellar, stone block walls wet with moisture. There was a well in the center, a low, round brick wall and a bucket on a rope suspended from some kind of lifting mechanism.

Judas picked up a stone and dropped it down. There was a hollow splashing. “Forty feet and only four or five feet of water and mud,” he said. “Hasn’t been used in years. Kind of smelly and pretty cold, but you can’t have everything. Let the countess take a look.”

She was shivering uncontrollably as Raphael and Arnold tried to pull her forward, and Dillon said to Judas, “What are you, a sadist or something?”

The eyes glittered in the black hood and there was a pause that was broken by David Braun. “I’ll take her.” Arnold and Raphael stepped back and he put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right, I’m here. Trust me.”

He moved her to the well and Judas picked up another stone and dropped it. “There you go.” There was a splash and then a kind of eerie whining. He laughed. “That must be the rats. They love it on account of the lower sewer that runs through. Isn’t this fun?” He turned to Dillon. “Or it will be when you stand in the bucket and we put you down.”

In that one single moment, Dillon knew that he was facing madness, for Judas was enjoying himself too much, but he kept his cool.

“I’ll tell you one thing. You obviously don’t know the first thing about sewers.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you swallow human pathogens, you stand a great chance of dying, and if a rat bites you down there, you stand an even better chance of catching Weil’s disease. Only a fifty-fifty chance of dying from that when your liver packs in, so it strikes me you aren’t too concerned about keeping me around.”

Judas exploded in rage. “Fuck you, you clever bastard. Now stand in the bucket or I’ll blow your head off.”

He snatched the Beretta from Aaron and leveled it, and Marie de Brissac cried out, “No!”

Dillon smiled at her. “I don’t know who you are, girl dear, but don’t worry. He needs me too much.”

He got his feet into the bucket, and Raphael and Arnold lowered him down. He glanced up, saw Judas peering down at him, and then a few moments later he hit the water. His feet sank into a foot of mud and the water was to his chest. A moment later and the bucket was raised. He looked up at the circle of light and suddenly it went dark, and he was alone.

The smell was terrible and the water very cold. He remembered a similar situation in Beirut once. He’d thought himself in the hands of Arab terrorists, had been put down a rather similar well with a Protestant terrorist from Ulster, who was trying to get into the uranium business. It had turned out to be an Israeli intelligence scam with the aim of breaking the other man down. It had still taken four baths for Dillon to get rid of the stink.

He found a ledge in the brickwork and sat on it, arms folded against the cold, wondering who the woman was. Mystery piled on mystery here. Only one thing was certain. Judas was not only a fanatic, he was truly mad, and Dillon had never been so convinced of anything in his life.

Something brushed across his thighs and swam away and he knew what it was.

Marie de Brissac, in her room, was crying and David Braun held her close and suddenly found he was stroking her hair as he might that of a child.