“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.”

They crossed to the stairs and went up. As he had indicated, this was another dining deck, but the sides were open and rain was blowing in. The crew had stacked the chairs in the center and the rain increased in force and mist drifted across the river.

There were other boats, of course, barges tied together in lines of three, and another restaurant boat passing in the opposite direction.

“It’s quite something,” Blake said.

Dillon nodded. “A great, great city.”

“So where is he?”

“Let’s try the stern promenade.”

It was reached by a door with a glass panel in it. Outside were three or four tables under an awning. Rocard was sitting at one of them, the glass of wine in front of him.

“Best get on with it,” Blake said.

Dillon nodded and opened the door and led the way through. “A wet evening, Monsieur Rocard,” he said.

Rocard looked up. “You have the advantage of me, Monsieur…?”

“Dillon – Sean Dillon, he who was supposed to be dead in Washington, but it’s the third day, and you know what that means.”

“My God!” Rocard said.

“This, by the way, is a gentleman named Blake Johnson, here on behalf of the President of the United States, who is rather understandably desperate for news of his daughter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rocard tried to stand and Dillon shoved him down and took out his Walther. “Silenced, so if I want to, I can kill you without a sound and put you over the rail.”

“What do you want?” Rocard looked sick.

“Oh, conversation, cabbages, and kings, Judas Maccabeus, poor old Paul Berger, but most of all Marie de Brissac. Now where is she?”

“Before God, I don’t know,” Michael Rocard said.

The boat moved forward into the mist. Blake said, “I find that difficult to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Look, the game’s up,” Dillon told him. “We know about Judas and his Maccabees. You wouldn’t deny you’re one of them?”

“That’s true, but I’ve never met Judas personally.”

“Then how were you recruited?”

Rocard thought for a long moment, then shrugged, resigned. “All right, I’ll tell you. I’m sick of the whole thing, anyway. It’s gone too far. I was at a reunion of survivors of the Auschwitz concentration camp. I was at Auschwitz as a boy with my family. Those Vichy swine handed us over to the Nazis. It’s where I met my wife.”

“So?” Blake said.

“We all stood up and made testament about what had happened to us. I had a mother, a father, and a sister. We were sent to Auschwitz Two, the extermination center at Birkenau. A million Jews died there. Can you gentlemen conceive of that? One million? I was the only member of my family to survive because a homosexual SS guard took a fancy to me and had me transferred to Auschwitz Three to work in the I. G. Farben plant.”

“I know about that place,” Blake Johnson said.

“The girl who became my wife, and her mother, were transferred by the same man as a favor.” His face was full of pain. “We survived, returned to France, and picked up the threads of our lives. I became a lawyer, her mother died, we married.” He shrugged. “She was never well, always ailing, she died years ago.”

“So where did Judas come into it?”

“I was approached by a man at the Auschwitz reunion and offered the chance to help to secure the future of Israel. I couldn’t resist. It seemed” – he spread his hands in a very French gesture – “so worthwhile.”

“And you served the de Brissac family?” Dillon said.

“I was their lawyer for years.”

“And betrayed the fact that Marie’s father was really the American President to Judas?” Blake accused.

“I didn’t mean it to turn out as it has. Before he died, the general signed a deed acknowledging that he was Marie’s titular father under the Code Napoléon to ensure she inherited the title. When I asked for an explanation, he refused.”

“So how did you find out?” Dillon asked.