The President’s Daughter

‘Strange,’ she said softly, ‘but everyone seems to die on me. First the General, then Maurice in that stupid Gulf War and now Mama. I wonder what I’ve done?’

She was not aware of any sound of approach, only the voice saying, ‘Excellent, I particularly admire that blue colour-wash and the way you soak it in to the shoreline.’

She glanced up and found him standing there. Probably about her own age, with blond hair and a strong tanned face. He wore jeans and an old reefer jacket. His English had a slight accent that she couldn’t place.

She said, ‘I don’t want to sound unwelcoming, but this is a private beach.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that, just as I’m aware that you are the Comtesse de Brissac.’

She knew then, of course, that this was no casual interloper, that there was purpose here. ‘Who are you?’

‘What’s in a name?’ He smiled. ‘Let’s say David Braun.’ He took the bottle of Chablis from the cold-box and examined the label. ‘Interesting.’ He poured a glass and sampled it. ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’ Strange, but she felt no sense of fear. This was no casual encounter, no threat of rape.

He whistled and called out, not in English this time, and a young man came down the path to join him and she recognized the language at once.

‘Hebrew,’ she said. ‘You spoke in Hebrew. I’ve been to Israel. I recognize the language.’

‘Good.’ He finished his wine. ‘Now then,’ he said in English, ‘pack up the lady’s things and follow us up to the cottage.’

‘What’s this all about?’ she asked calmly.

‘All in good time, Comtesse.’ He gestured with one hand. ‘After you, if you please.’

A Ford station wagon was parked outside the cottage. The other young man put her painting things in the rear and she saw that it was also filled with her suitcases.

‘This is Moshe, by the way,’ David Braun told her. ‘He started packing up the moment you left. The cupboard, as they say, is bare. I know you’ve only been using taxis while you’ve been here, so the old woman, when she turns up on her donkey, will think you’ve just up and left.’

‘To where?’

He opened the rear door. ‘Your carriage awaits, and an interesting plane ride. What could be better?’

She hesitated, then did as she was told and he got in beside her. As Moshe drove away, she said, ‘And the final destination?’

‘Ah, now you’re expecting too much. Just enjoy the ride. The view over there, for example.’

She turned automatically, was aware of a prick in her bare right arm, turned and saw a plastic medical hypo in his hand.

‘Damn you!’ she said. ‘What was that?’

‘Does it matter?’ He tossed the hypo out of the open window. ‘You’ll sleep now – a nice long sleep. You’ll actually feel better when you wake.’

She tried to reply, but her eyes felt heavy, and suddenly he just wasn’t there any more and she plunged into darkness.

In Sicily, the Peugeot was really into the high country, Monte Cammarata rising six thousand feet to one side.

‘That looks like rough country,’ Riley said.

Luigi nodded. ‘Salvatore Giuliano made his home up there for years. The army and the police couldn’t catch him. A great man, a true Sicilian.’

‘A great bandit, he means,’ Hannah said to Riley, ‘who paid the rent for some poor old woman now and then and liked to see himself as Robin Hood.’

‘God, but you take a hard line, woman,’ Dillon said. ‘Giuliano wasn’t such a bad ould stick.’

‘Just the kind of man you would approve of.’

‘I know, it’s wicked I am.’ At that moment, they entered a village and he added, ‘A pitstop, Luigi. I could do with the necessary and so could all of us, I suspect.’

‘Of course, signore.’

They paused outside a trattoria with a few rough wooden tables and chairs under an awning. The proprietor, an old, grey-haired man wearing a soiled apron, greeted them. Luigi whispered to him, then turned.

‘The toilet is at the back, Chief Inspector.’

‘On your way,’ Dillon told her cheerfully. ‘We’ll take turns.’

She followed Luigi, who went to the bar area to order the drinks. It was dark in there and the smell of the toilet was unmistakable. Dillon and Riley lit cigarettes as some kind of compensation. The only concession to modern living was an espresso machine.

Luigi turned. ‘Coffee OK?’

‘Why not?’ Dillon said.

Hannah emerged from the shadows and made a face. ‘I wouldn’t linger, gentlemen. I’ll wait outside.’

Dillon and Riley found the back room, which was in an appalling state. Dillon went first and shuddered when he came out. ‘Make it quick, Dermot, a man could die in there.’

Luigi was still getting the coffees and Dillon moved to the beaded entrance, pausing to light another cigarette. There was a cry of indignation from Hannah. He stepped outside and dropped the cigarette.

She was seated at one of the tables and two young men had joined her, poverty-stricken agricultural workers from the look of it, in patched jackets, scuffed leather leggings and cloth caps. One sat on the table, a shotgun slung over one shoulder, laughing, the other was stroking the back of Hannah’s neck.

‘I said stop it!’ She was truly angry now and spoke in Italian.

The man laughed and ran his hand down her back. Dillon punched him in the kidneys, grabbed him by the collar and ran him headlong to one side so that he stumbled over a chair and fell. In virtually the same movement, he turned and gave the one sitting on the edge of the table the heel of his hand, feeling the nose go, knocking him to the ground.

Dermot called, ‘I’m with you, Sean,’ and came out through the bead curtain on the run. The one who had gone down first sprang a knife in his right hand as he came up and Dermot grabbed for the wrist, twisted and made him drop it. The other pulled the sling of the lupara over his head and stood, his face a mask of blood. As he tried to cock it, Dillon knocked it to one side and gave him a savage punch to the stomach, and the man dropped the gun.

There was a single shot as Luigi arrived and fired into the air. He suddenly seemed a different man, pistol in one hand, warrant card in the other.

‘Police,’ he said. ‘Now leave the lupara and clear off.’

They shambled away. The old man appeared, strangely unconcerned, four espressos on a tray. He placed it in the centre of the table.

‘Sorry for the fuss, grandad,’ Dillon said in excellent Italian.

‘My nephew and his friend.’ The old man shrugged. ‘Bad boys.’ He picked up the lupara. ‘I’ll see he gets this back and there will be no charge. I’m sorry the signorina was molested in this way. It shames me.’

He went inside and Dillon took one of the coffees. ‘He’s ashamed. It was his nephew and a friend.…’