Free The President's Daughter by Jack Higgins

serve a full English breakfast,” Dillon said. “English tourists like that.”
    “What tourists?” Luigi said and shrugged. “Anyway, here you are. I’ll just turn round and drive back to Palermo.”
    They got out and Hannah shook his hand. “Grateful thanks, Sergeant. One cop to another.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek and he drove away.
    Dillon led the way up the steps. The night was warm, and as darkness fell, there were lights on some of the boats out there in the harbor. He opened the door and went in. Half a dozen fishermen were at the bar, and it was a poor sort of place, very hot, and the ceiling fan didn’t seem to be working.
    He waved to the barman and turned to the others. “It’s a dump. Let’s sit outside.”
    They did just that, taking a table by the veranda rail, and the barman appeared. “What have you got to eat?” Hannah asked him in Italian.
    “We only do one main dish each day, signorina. Tonight it’s cannelloni ripieni. The way our chef does it, there’s a special stuffing of savory meat and onions. You could have a salad with it.”
    “Good, and bring us a bottle of wine,” Dillon told him. “Something cold.”
    He explained the meal prospects to Riley, and the barman appeared with three glasses and an ice-cold bottle. He splashed some into a glass and Dillon sniffed it.
    “This is the stuff. Passito. Strong, very strong. Three glasses and you’re on your back.” He grinned at Hannah. “I’d make it lemonade if I were you, girl dear.”
    “Go stuff yourself, Dillon.”
    At that moment, the barman came out, followed by a stout lady who carried a tray with three plates on it and a basket of bread. He deposited all this on the table and he and the woman departed.
    The meal was, in fact, excellent, and Riley cleaned his plate. “God help me, but that bread was the best since I last tasted my cousin Bridget’s baking.”
    “It was good, I’ve got to admit that,” Dillon said, “although I’m not too certain that it was strictly kosher.”
    “Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Hannah told him coldly. “The Bible doesn’t tell me to starve myself in difficult circumstances. Now I’ll take another glass of wine.”
    As Dillon poured, a quiet voice said in good public-school English, “Chief Inspector Bernstein?” They all turned and looked at the man who stood at the bottom of the steps. “Jack Carter.”
    He was of medium height and wore a salt-stained sailor’s cap, reefer coat with tarnished brass buckles, and jeans. His face was tanned and he was younger than Dillon had thought he would be. Perhaps twenty-five and certainly no more.
    Hannah made the introductions. “This is Sean Dillon and Thomas O’Malley. They’re . . .”
    “I know very well who they are, Chief Inspector. I’ve been well briefed.”
    He joined them on the veranda and Dillon offered him a glass of wine, but Carter shook his head. “I’ve already made inquiries about our friend Hakim’s villa when we first arrived, discreetly, of course. There’s not much like it in this area, so it was easy to find. We took a run past it.”
    “Was that wise?” Hannah asked.
    “No problem. A lot of fishing boats around here, and the motor launch we’re using doesn’t look much different, not with a few nets draped around it. Further discreet inquiries at the village store indicate that Hakim is in residence. His two goons were in for supplies this morning.”
    “Very efficient,” Dillon said. “So when do we go in?”
    “Tonight around midnight. No sense in hanging about, and the Lear’s waiting at Malta. We’ll go down to the boat and I’ll show you how I intend to make our move. Needless to say, I’m going to need Mr. Riley’s input . . .”
    “Mr. O’Malley,” Dillon said.
    “Yes, of course. Then I’ll need Mr. O’Malley’s input. He, after all, has actually been inside the place.” He turned to Hannah. “You’ll hold the fort here until we return, Chief Inspector.