Pirate ah-3

by Ted Bell

  “He’s guilty of homicide and we can prove it, sir. We’ve got an eyewitness to that crime. I just got a call from Captain John Mariucci, NYPD. He and a Scotland Yard man named Ambrose Congreve located a witness in New York.”

  “I know Congreve. Through Alex Hawke. Any news from him, John? Hawke, I mean.”

  “As you know, Hawke is involved in an arm’s-length operation to get the sultan out of Oman alive, Mr. President.”

  “Right. Put him in front of a camera. Have him tell the truth about Oman asking France to invade. France has pulled the wool over the world’s eyes for long enough. Suppress an insurrection, my ass. They’re going in for oil to sell to China.”

  “Our team is inside the fortress on Masara Island now, Mr. President. They went in to pull the sultan out at 1140 hours EST. About twenty minutes ago. We are monitoring real-time.”

  “Hawke and I go back a long way. Not the kind of man who’ll let us down. But the sooner we get Sultan Abbas out of that hellhole, the better. Do what you have to do, John.”

  “We’re on it, sir.”

  “All right, Charlie. What do you make of this French navy in the Arabian Sea bullshit? All this faux muscle-flexing?”

  “It may be just that, Mr. President,” General Moore said. “The CNO has been on the horn with Frank Blair, who commands the Sixth Fleet now…they’re trying to get a read on it, sir.”

  “Is the fleet moving?”

  “Yes, sir. The Pentagon confirmed that Admiral Starke’s lead units entered the canal at 1700 hours. They’re positioning for a holding action. Assume we control the canal at this point—no one in, or out, unless we give the word.”

  “Good! Now that’s thinking ahead.”

  “That is good,” Gooch said, “but we haven’t heard from the Egyptians, or the Chinese, or the rest of the ‘striped-pants’ crowd yet.”

  General Moore leaned forward in his chair. “Frankly, Mr. President, the French are overextended and they know it. Probably a little tension in the dialogue back in Paris. They know we could take them down in about four hours.”

  “I know we could. We could, but we won’t. Because France, as we all know, is just a goddamn shill for the Chinese, a prophylactic in this whole thing. Hell, if China wasn’t involved—let’s talk seriously about this China gambit. Where are we with them? John?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Gooch said. “Here’s where we are now. There are—”

  “Don’t tell me. Two schools of thought,” the president said with a wry smile. He’d been down this well-traveled road before.

  “Exactly,” Gooch said. “That much hasn’t changed. On the one hand, the State Department’s position. State says don’t rock the boat. We can go along to get along. Because we have to.”

  “On the other hand,” General Moore said, “there’s my position. Send a signal to the French and the Chinese that we won’t tolerate interference with our oil supply in the Gulf. The kick-ass-and-take-names position.”

  The president smiled and waited for Gooch’s reaction.

  “Mr. President,” Gooch said, “we probably ought to round-table this in the morning. Get a fresh look at it from State, the Pentagon, and the Agency—especially if you are considering a policy change. I have to tell you I firmly believe we can get along with China once we move past this situation in Oman. We have to, sir. In all honesty, we’re in a very tight spot with Beijing.”

  “You mean we find a way to get along with them or we’ll tank our own economy.”

  “Exactly my feeling, Mr. President.”

  “John, the bullet points. Just briefly.”

  “There are two pressure points with China, sir. Our economy and Taiwan. The one that concerns me most right now is the former.”

  “Because?”

  “Because if we lean on China about the OOTB in Taiwan or their little misadventure in Oman, we run the risk of an economic—”

  “OOTB? What the hell is that? Why does everybody who comes in this office have to sound like a walking Tom Clancy novel?”

  “Mr. President,” General Moore said, “It’s an acronym for ‘out-of-the-blue.’ It’s a top-secret plan on the Chinese books to use wargames in the Formosa Strait as a cover for a general invasion of Taiwan. It looks like typical peacetime maneuvers…until the troops involved suddenly move. China’s got over six hundred ballistic missiles and several hundred warplanes stationed within range of Taiwan. Launch in the predawn hours and, well, it could be nasty. You’d catch most of the Taiwanese troops in their barracks and their ships, tanks, and warplanes lined up like ducks. We don’t necessarily believe that—”

  “Wait a minute!” McAtee said, stubbing out his cigar. “Hold the phone. Didn’t Brick Kelly say in our morning briefing three days ago that they are in the goddamn Taiwan Straits? The Chinese fleet?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Gooch said. “They are.”

  “Holding joint exercises with France, if I’m not mistaken. A shakedown cruise for that new Russian carrier they bought.”

  “That’s correct, sir. Although France has now shifted the bulk of her assets to the Arabian Sea.”

  “And you two are concerned with the economy?”

  “He is. I’m not, sir,” General Moore said.

  “No grandstanding in here, Charlie,” the president said.

  “Okay, John and I are concerned about the economy in varying degrees.”

  “Much better.”

  “Damn right I’m concerned about it,” Gooch said. “Mr. President, if what Assistant Secretary Baker says is correct—”

  “Who?”

  “Anthony Baker. NSC staff member, sir. East Asian Affairs. He’s across the hall in the Roosevelt Room if we need him.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Gooch cleared his throat and adjusted his pale-blue Hermès tie. “We push France, in effect, China, on this Oman thing and China pushes back, big time, economically. As you are only too aware, sir, they are the largest holders of U.S. Treasury bonds in the world. Which keeps our interest rates low. China gets pissed off, sir, and stops buying U.S. bonds—well, I don’t need to tell you what happens.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “What happens is, to get new buyers, Treasury has to increase interest rates they pay on bonds. Ripple effect—everyone’s interest payments go up. Next, China stops selling cheap goods. The average American’s cost of living shoots up, China’s unemployment spikes, their export sector shuts down. U.S. inflation goes through the roof and so does everybody’s mortgage and credit card charges.”

  “A lose-lose situation for both of us. Charlie?”

  “I’m far more concerned about Taiwan, sir. What John says about the economic implications of any showdown with China is indisputable. Currency is the most decisive factor in foreign affairs. And they can sink our currency. But, here’s the thing. And, this point is nonnegotiable. China must have oil. It is absolutely essential. Everything else is bullshit. Push them and they will, Mr. President, I repeat, they will play the Taiwan card.”

  “They’re doing just fine without Taiwan. Double-digit growth. Why are they so goddamn obsessive about it?”

  “Because they’re not too keen on having a model of democracy just off their coast and they don’t particularly like us using Taiwan as our personal naval air station.”

  “General Moore, put this whole goddamn thing in English for me.”

  “If we order France out of Oman, China will push back using Taiwan. And I’m not talking about rampant U.S. inflation or goddamn spiking credit card charges. I’m talking about a nuclear confrontation that could change the quality of American life, sir. They will put Taiwan on the table because they have no choice. They will make that move.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it for me, Mr. President,” Moore said.

  “John?”

  “I’ve been saying this for four years, Mr. President. We’re vulnerable where China is concerned. But it’s a perfectly balanced symbiotic relation
ship, sir. They need us every bit as much as we need them. Economically. They won’t touch Taiwan. It would destroy everything they’ve worked to build. Wipe it out. They won’t do that.”

  “Thanks for stopping by, gentlemen. Charlie, could you stick around for a couple of minutes? I’ve got something else.”

  As the president got to his feet, the two men were already up. As they turned to leave, the president put his hand on General Moore’s shoulder. Gooch kept moving. As he left, the president took the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff by the arm and guided him over to the bourbon decanter. He poured each of them a healthy one.

  “If you think they’ll move on Taiwan, Charlie, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “So, we damn well better be ready for them. Operation Wild Card.”

  Moore looked at the president. Those were the three words he’d been dreading.

  “We will be ready, Mr. President,” Moore said.

  “Harry Brock’s working directly for you on this, right? Not CIA?”

  “I sent him to China. I sent him to Oman, sir.”

  “You getting any direct word from Brock or Alex Hawke? This whole Gulf thing gets a lot less nerve-wracking if we can point the finger directly at France. At this fucking Bonaparte.”

  “Not a word since they went in. We should know within the hour, sir.”

  “You’ll let me know as soon as you’ve got something?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Mr. President?” Betsey Hall had reappeared in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry, sir. Mr. Gooch would like to—”

  Gooch brushed past her and came into the room, his face drawn.

  “I’ve just received word, sir. French troops and armored vehicles are landing on the Omani coast. They’ve opened up a naval bombardment of the capital of Muscat and certain important coastal cities. Paratroops are on the ground at the airport.”

  “Jesus,” McAtee said. “Any word from Hawke?”

  “Just now, sir. He’s safely out.”

  “Did he bring Sultan Abbas out with him?”

  “No, sir. The sultan is dead. He was killed during the rescue attempt.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  “There is some good news. Hawke’s got it, sir. He’s got the sultan on tape pointing the finger straight at France. Denouncing Bonaparte. Denying that he invited France in.”

  “Thank you, John. Call the networks and get that tape on the air immediately. CNN, FOX, Al Jazeera.”

  “Done.”

  “And get Mr. Bonaparte on the phone. It’s time I had a little têteà-tête with this asshole.”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Hong Kong

  OF ALL THE WATERFRONT DIVES IN MACAO, STOKE THOUGHT, she had to pick this one.

  He’d called Jet as soon as he’d arrived that morning. Twelve hours after saying good-bye to Hawke at Muscat airport, he was checking into his hotel in Hong Kong. Hawke wanted him to follow the threads he’d picked up in Berlin. To find out what the hell this General Moon was up to and fast. He stretched out on his bed overlooking the beautiful harbor. Thinking about what he’d say, he called the number on the card she’d handed to him in Berlin. On the phone, she’d sounded good. Upbeat. Staying out of sight at some girlfriend’s house in Macao.

  Before he could even get to the purpose of his visit, she asked about Alex, which Stoke found pretty interesting. Wanted to know how he was, what he was up to. Yeah, he’d been right all along. The girl was a torch-bearer for Alex Hawke, all right. Get in line. Well, if it was true, good luck. Hawke had only loved two women in his whole damn life besides his mother. Consuelo de los Reyes, who wasn’t talking to him right now. And Victoria Sweet, who was dead.

  Stoke told her that a good friend of Alex’s, a wonderful guy named Ambrose Congreve, had been shot at some fancy party out on Long Island and had been rushed to a hospital. All they knew, so far. Alex was en route to New York now to be by his friend’s side. Stoke was headed there, too, soon as he’d done what needed doing here in Hong Kong.

  Said she was sorry about the friend; that she wanted to help Alex in any way she could. Help them. Alex needed her help more than he knew, she said. Stoke was still thinking about that one when she added, “Whatever you’ve figured out about von Draxis and Leviathan, I’m guessing it isn’t the whole story. As I told you, I don’t know the whole story myself. But I know one thing, Stokely. You don’t have China. You don’t have my father.”

  “You can’t tell me.”

  “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. My relationship with him is complicated enough.”

  Stoke told her some stuff he and Alex had discussed with Brick Kelly at CIA and she said, yeah, that was the right direction. It was definitely a French, German, Chinese connection. It was all about oil. But there were a whole lot more pieces to this puzzle. Bad pieces.

  They should meet, she said. Tonight.

  Stoke had learned a few things as an NYPD detective. One of them was that prearranged meetings with people you didn’t completely trust were always interesting. A lot of things could be prearranged. Stoke knew this was the final act with Jet. It would go one of two ways. Either she was going to hand him the keys that would lead to the kingdom. Or, another possibility, she was leading him smack into a very dangerous situation.

  He had a vision of himself drugged and shanghaied. Bound for nowhere on a tramp steamer or sent to some farm for reeducation. Maybe even something more deadly.

  Nothing to do but find out. Her idea was they’d hook up tonight at a place called, believe it or not, the Krazy Kat Klub. It was long on atmosphere, you had to say that. A cross between a hooch house and an opium den. The smoke-filled joint was full of wharf rats and zombies who looked like they had serious opium or smack issues. Jet said be there no later than eight. It was now almost nine. He was still sitting at the bar nursing a warm Coke with his eye on the door, waiting to see her waltz in.

  She had told him they’d need some kind of boat. Nothing fancy, but something fast. Something that could get them over to Hong Kong Harbor, even if the weather was bad. The weather was bad. There was a typhoon brewing out in the China Sea. The leading edge had rolled into Macao about two hours earlier. It was blowing like stink outside. No rain yet, but that was coming.

  He’d done the best he could with the boat. But it hadn’t been all that easy. You don’t just walk into Hertz Rent-a-Boat in Macao and get the keys to a Chris-Craft.

  He’d finally paid cash to a guy he’d met down on the docks that afternoon. His name, believe it or not, was He Long. Bought a little stinkpot from him, mainly because he was the only guy Stoke could find who spoke a little English. Foo Fighter was only twenty-four feet or so but she had an enclosed flat-roofed wheelhouse to keep Jet dry and a big Chevy 327 gas engine that looked pretty clean, points and plugs looked after, well-maintained. Owner said she’d do thirty knots and Stoke believed him. Had a fresh paint job, too. Bright red.

  “I like your name,” Stoke told the owner before he left the dock. “Guy could get a lot of mileage out of a name like that. Hormone replacement business, Viagra shops, something like that.”

  He Long was still bent over on the dock and laughing his ass off when Stoke rumbled away. Stoke was pretty sure He Long didn’t have a clue what was so funny but everybody was pretty polite here in Macao. Maybe He Long was just giggling because Stoke had just paid him twice what his boat was worth.

  Stoke was just about to check his watch for the umpteenth time when Jet Moon walked in. She looked spectacular, her black hair held up with a pearl comb, all dressed up in a tight white dress. Guy next to him never even noticed. Gay bar? No. Just the last guy on the last stool in the very last bar at the end of the road. Stoke looked at the guy’s eyes for a second, then looked away. The Chinese Thought Police would have a field day in here. Some crazy s
hit going on behind those eyes.

  Jet headed straight for him. Guess he wasn’t too hard to spot in a crowd of pint-sized Oriental drug addicts.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. He could tell she meant it, so he smiled and slid off the stool.

  “Hey. Have a seat. Want a drink?”

  “A glass of white wine?”

  “Really? Here?”

  “That was a joke, Stokely. I’ll take a brandy. Neat.”

  Stoke ordered from the little guy with the Fu Manchu goatee and got another Coke. Unlike American bars on a Saturday night, this one was pretty quiet. Everybody zoned out on China White maybe. At least you could have a private conversation without screaming.

  Jet said, “So, you got the boat?”

  “Yeah. It’s that bright red one tied up outside.”

  “That will do. Good work.”

  “Can I ask where we’re going?”

  “A restaurant over in Hong Kong Harbor. The Golden Dragon.”

  “Really good food, must be, go all the way over there. With this weather and all.”

  “We’re having dinner with my father. It’s his restaurant.”

  “Yeah? Wants to meet your personal trainer, huh?”

  “You’re my fiancé now. I just told him an hour ago.”

  “Hey, I’m moving up in the world. Even if you’re just using me to get to Alex Hawke, I’ll take it.”

  “That’s not funny, Stoke.”

  “Yeah, it is. You were supposed to kill him but your heart wouldn’t let you. Right? Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She waved his smile away. “Look, Stoke. I’m doing you a huge favor here. My father’s a very important man in China. There are worlds within worlds in Hong Kong. I’m saving you a lot of time sorting them all out.”

  “Tell me what I’m looking for here, Jet.”

  “My father, I learned last night, is privately selling nuclear materials. Off the books.”

  “Materials. You mean weapons?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Off the books. You mean Beijing doesn’t know about it?”

  “I have no idea. I told you, I’m just a cop.”