The President's Daughter by Jack Higgins

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.
    “You’re all right now,” he said softly. “I’m here.”
    “Oh, David.” She looked up, tears on her face. “I was so afraid, and Judas.” She shuddered. “He terrified me.”
    “He carries a great weight,” Braun said. “Many burdens.”
    “That man, the one he called Dillon, who is he?”
    “You mustn’t concern yourself. I know what would be good for you, a nice bath. I’ll turn the water on and then I’ll go and check on your dinner.”
    “Not tonight, David, I couldn’t eat a thing. But wine, David! God help me, I’m no drinker as a rule, but I need it tonight.”
    “I’ll see you later.”
    He opened the door, went out and locked it and stood for a moment in the corridor, aware that his hands were shaking.
    “What’s happening to me?” he said softly and hurried away.
     
    Up to her neck in suds, Marie de Brissac smoked a cigarette and tried to relax. It was a bad dream, the whole thing, and the explosion of rage from Judas had been terrifying. But the man Dillon. She frowned, remembering the strange ironic smile on his face as they lowered him down. It was as if he didn’t give a damn and that didn’t make sense. And then there was David. She was woman enough to know what was happening. So be it. In her present situation, she would have to use every possible advantage.
     
    In London, it was raining, driving hard against the windows of Charles Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Square. Hannah Bernstein peered out through the window and Kim, Ferguson’s Ghurka batman, came in from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and cups on a tray.
    Ferguson, sitting by the fire, called, “Come on, Chief Inspector, no point in fretting. Have some coffee.”
    She joined him, sitting in the chair opposite, and Kim poured. “No news, sir.”
    “I know that,” he said. “But there will be. I mean, there has to be a meaning to all this.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “You like Dillon, don’t you?”
    “If you mean do I fancy him, no. I don’t approve and never have. His past damns him.”
    “And still you like him?”
    “I know. It’s an absolute bastard, isn’t it, sir? But never mind.”
    “So how did you get on at Wandsworth?”
    “I saw Dunkerley, the head of security, and he told me pretty much what he told you when you phoned him. The prison is like a souk on visiting day. No way anyone in reception remembers Brown amongst several hundred people. As Mr. Dunkerley said, it was rather unfortunate that the prison officer, Jackson, the only one who handled Brown personally, was killed in that accident.”
    “Accident, my backside,” Ferguson said.
    “That’s what the police report says, sir. All available witnesses say he just fell forward.”
    “Too damn convenient. What about the Law Society?”
    “They have three George Browns on their books, or did. One died a month ago, the second is black, and the third is famous for going to court in a wheelchair.”
    “I see.”
    “I’ve got a copy of the reception-area surveillance tape, but only one person could identify Brown from it.”
    “Riley?”
    “Exactly, sir.”
    “Oh dear,” Ferguson said. “And one more piece of news for you. Captain Carter has been in touch on the way back to Cyprus. He and his team were having a conference in the saloon of their boat when it appears they were gassed. They all passed out for several hours.”
    “Are they all right, sir?”
    “He’s not happy about two of them. They’ll book into the military hospital when they get in. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
     
    Dillon, colder than ever now, leaned back against the brick