“See you later, then.”

Blake went inside, to be greeted by a waiter who showed him to a table on the other side of the room from Berger. The American ordered a glass of red wine from the bar and spaghetti with meatballs. Someone had left a newspaper on the chair next to him and he started to read it, one eye constantly on Berger.

Dillon went into the general store two doors down where they had a selection of sandwiches. He chose ham and tomato on French bread, obtained tea in a plastic cup from a machine, and went back outside. It was raining slightly and he stood in the doorway of a shop that had closed for the night and ate the sandwich and drank the tea. Then he had a cigarette and strolled past the window of Gio’s.

Berger still had his nose in the book, but seemed to have reached the coffee stage, while Blake was halfway through his spaghetti. The rain increased in volume and Dillon walked back to the car, opened the door, and checked inside. There was a folding umbrella on the shelf by the rear window. He opened it and went back along the pavement, passing Gio’s in time to see Berger settling his bill. As the waiter turned away, Blake waved him over.

Berger stood up, went and got his coat from a wall peg while Blake was still settling, then he picked up his book and made for the door. Dillon stood back. Berger paused, turned up his collar, and stepped into the rain and Dillon followed, keeping him a few yards ahead. As they turned the corner into Hawk’s Court, Blake caught up and they walked on, side-by-side, until Berger reached his gate.

As he opened it, Dillon called, “Mr. Brown?”

Berger paused and turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“George Brown?” Dillon said cheerfully.

“Sorry, you’ve made a mistake. My name is Berger – Paul Berger.”

“Sure, we know that, but you called yourself Brown when you visited Dermot Riley in Wandsworth Prison,” Blake Johnson said.

“Don’t deny it,” Dillon advised him. “We’ve got you on the security video, so we know who you are, just as we know you’re a Maccabee, one of dear old Judas’s merry band of brothers.”

“You’re mad,” Berger said.

“I don’t think so.” Dillon had a hand in the right pocket of his raincoat and he pushed back the flap to disclose the Walther. “As you can see, this is silenced, so if I shoot you now, no one will hear a thing.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“After what you lot have done, I’d dare anything, so start walking, straight up to the cemetery. We’re going to have words.” He pushed the Walther hard into Berger’s belly. “Go on, move!”

There was a porch just inside the railings of the cemetery, a bench inside it. One of the lamps was close by, so there was a certain amount of light. Dillon pushed Berger down.

“Right, Judas Maccabeus is a right-wing Jewish terrorist. His followers are called Maccabees and you are one of them. He’s kidnapped the daughter of the President of the United States. He’s now also kidnapped Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein.”

“This is nonsense.”

Blake said, “Come now, let’s be reasonable. We know you’re the George Brown who visited Dermot Riley in Wandsworth. We’ve got you on the video surveillance tape from the prison and we’ve also got Riley.”

“Rubbish, you can’t have,” Berger said, giving himself away.

“Absolutely. Picked him up in Ireland this morning and brought him back to London. He’s at the Ministry of Defense now. He’ll swear to the fact that you promoted a plan to get him out of prison to set up one Sean Dillon in Sicily, and Dillon will also confirm that.”

“But that’s impossible,” Berger said, falling into the trap.

“Why, because he’s dead, murdered in Washington?” Dillon’s smile was terrible as he removed his glasses for a moment. “No, he isn’t, because I’m right here.”

Paul Berger cried out in terror.

“Everything so slick,” Dillon said, “right down to the very convenient death of that prison officer, Jackson. Was that you, Berger? I mean, he might have identified you. Who knows?” Dillon lit a cigarette. “But even the great Judas gets it wrong. He’s going down, Berger, and you’ll go down with him, so talk.”

“I can’t. He’ll have me killed.”

Dillon went into the act beloved of policemen the world over, good guy and bad guy. He turned to Blake, shaking with rage. “Did you hear that? Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to kill this bastard myself. I mean, we’re in the right place to do it.” He gestured at the monuments and headstones looming out of the night. “Plenty of room to bury him in there.” He turned on Berger and rammed the Walther under his chin. “I’ll do it now – right now.”

Blake pulled him away. “You didn’t say there would be killing.” He sat beside Berger. “For God’s sake, tell him.”

Berger was shaking. “What do you want to know?”

“How does Judas communicate?”

“I have a special mobile, that’s how he gave me the job of getting Riley out of Wandsworth. He talks personally.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“No, I was recruited by another Maccabee.”

Blake took over now. “So where does Judas operate from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come off it, son, I can’t believe that,” Dillon said.

Berger was close to breaking and it was obvious he was telling the truth. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t.”

There was a pause. Blake put a hand on his shoulder. “What about Chief Inspector Bernstein?”

“She was picked up outside her grandfather’s house in an ambulance by two Maccabees from Judas’s personal staff.”

“Names?” Dillon demanded.

“Aaron and Moshe.”

Dillon turned to Blake. “They’re the lads who knocked me off in Salinas.”

“Were you there?” Blake asked.

Berger nodded. “We took her down to a place on the other side of Flaxby in Sussex. There was one of those old overgrown bomber bases from the Second World War. They had a Citation jet waiting and flew off with her. My job was to dump the ambulance in Dorking.”

“And you don’t know where they’re flying to?” Blake asked.

“No idea, I swear it.”

It was obvious to both of them that he was telling the truth, and it was a sudden thought of Dillon’s that gave them what they needed.

“You said you were recruited by a Maccabee. Why was that?”

“I was at a conference on the future of the State of Israel. It was held at the University of Paris. I took part in a seminar, spoke out. I’ve always held strong views.”

“And?”

“I was approached by a lawyer. He said he’d admired my speech and asked me out to dinner.”

“A Maccabee?” Blake said.

“That’s right. We sat on one of those restaurant boats on the river and talked. I was there four days and saw him every day.”

“And he recruited you?”

“Haven’t you any idea how it sounded? God, I wanted to join, to be a part of it all.”

“Then Judas spoke to you, the Almighty himself,” Dillon said.

“He’s a great man. He loves his country.” Berger seemed to have recovered some of his courage.

Dillon said, “What was the name of the lawyer in Paris who recruited you, and don’t tell me you can’t remember.”

“Rocard – Michael Rocard.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Dillon turned to Blake Johnson. “The de Brissac family lawyer. He’s got to have been the leak to her identity in some way. Dammit, he even owned the cottage she was using in Corfu when she was kidnapped.”

“Paris next stop, it would seem,” Blake said. “What about him?”

Dillon turned to Berger. “Come on.” He pulled him up. “We’ll deliver him to the safehouse. They can hang on to him there until everything’s resolved, then we’ll see Ferguson.”

They started down Hawk’s Court, Berger in between, and passed his house. He said, “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? There’s no safehouse.”

Blake said, “Yes, there is, don’t be a fool.”