by Ted Bell
Luca, his eyes shining, strode round the balcony to where Benny and his men stood in a small circle around his father. The son walked up to the father, stared deeply into his haunted eyes, and turned to the man in the black raincoat.
“Monsieur Benny,” Luca said in a voice so low it was barely audible, “if you would be so kind as to ask Monsieur Bones to give me his gun.”
His father stared at him, his face a mask of confusion.
Luca leaned forward and kissed his father on the left cheek.
“What? What is—” His father’s eyes went wide and he strained violently against the two men who held him in their grip. He struggled for breath. His lips formed words that would not come.
“Luca?” Emile cried out as the skeleton handed Luca the pistol. “Luca! What are you—what is happening—I am a loyal soldier of the Corse! I—”
“You are loyal to the Corse, Papa,” he said, his voice barely over a whisper, “but you killed a brother of the Brigade Rouge.”
He raised the automatic until it was aimed between his father’s eyes.
“Luca, no. Listen to me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Luca increased the pressure on the trigger.
“Put the gun down, son. Listen to your father. Whatever your crazy Brigade Rouge people are saying, it isn’t true. I made some mistakes, yes. But, not—this. Don’t do this, Luca. I love you.”
The boy couldn’t do it. He lowered the muzzle slowly, never taking his eyes off his father’s own pleading eyes.
“My son! What—”
“The Brigade Rouge has no forgiveness for traitors,” Luca said, his voice flat.
“The party! Wait! You don’t—let me—”
The gun came up.
“Luca! For God’s sake! You can’t—”
Luca pulled the trigger.
The muzzle flash was brilliant and the crack of the explosion reverberated throughout the great domed chapel. His father was blown back against the balustrade, a bubble of blood forming on his lips as he sank to his knees. Luca looked down, letting the gun slip from his hand and clatter to the marble floor. His father lay gasping on the cold stone. In the dim light, the spreading stain on his chest was thick and black. He was vomiting blood. Luca stepped back and the two goons bent to their work. They looped the thick rope over Emile’s head, forming a heavy noose around his neck.
“You got balls, kid,” Joe Bones said, looking down at the dying man. “I gotta give you that.”
Emile Bonaparte’s right leg was still jerking spasmodically and he was taking shallow ragged breaths. Luca knelt beside him, taking his father’s still-warm hand and holding it to his cheek. Luca made every effort to force his eyes to fill with tears. It was the one test he would fail on this historic night. He could not cry on demand.
“Arrivederci, Comrade Papa.”
A fresh gout of blood erupted from his father’s mouth, and Luca’s hands were covered in the thick warm fluid. It had to be this way, he said to himself. In just this place, in just this way. He pinned a red floret to his father’s lapel and got to his feet.
“Do it,” Luca finally barked at the skeleton. “Finish the damn thing. Hang him.”
Then the two large men—Luca recognized them now as the two men who looked like brothers from the station platform—bent and picked up his father’s body. One had the feet, the other held his wrists. They began to swing the body to and fro, in ever greater arcs, the blood looping out of his father’s mortal wound.
Luca watched in stony silence as his father’s body sailed high out over the curvature of the balcony. He moved to the railing and looked down as the rope snapped taut, taking the full weight of the old man’s body.
Emile Bonaparte jerked to a stop at the end of the rope, his body swaying gently just a few meters above Napoleon’s sarcophagus. A cloud shifted high above, and blue moonlight once again lit the scene. Two dead Bonapartes, one grave. A red floret pinned on the traitor’s lapel. It was all intended to send a message to those in government who had something to fear from the Brigade Rouge. It was also a call to arms to Luca’s fellow conspirators, to unite in their struggle to overthrow the old leadership of the Corse.
“Wait till the cops get a load of this little picture,” Joe Bones said, staring at the scene. “I mean, this shit is friggin’ dramatic!”
Luca felt Benny Sangster’s big rough hand on his shoulder.
“You got the money, kid? I know you popped him. But we got expenses to cover.”
Luca handed him the envelope containing the ten thousand dollars, U.S. The price the Brigade Rouge had put on his father’s head.
“I never would have believed it, kid,” he said, pocketing the cash. “I told them Red Brigade Corsicans you was too wet behind the ears. You know. That you didn’t have the moxie. I mean, c’mon. What kind of kid could—”
“I am capable of absolutely anything,” Luca said, in a voice as cold as stone. “I am a son of Napoleon.”
And, in that pit where his soul would have been if he’d had one, he truly believed it.
“Well, you certainly made your bones the hard way, kid,” Benny said. “Never seen anything like it.”
A death rattle came from the twisted throat of the man hanging by his neck in the moonlight.
“Whoa,” Joe Bones said, digging his knuckles into his sunken eye sockets, “this shit is intense.”
“This is just the beginning,” Luca Bonaparte said as he walked away into the shadows.
Chapter Eight
Hampstead Heath
SOME FEW MINUTES AFTER MRS. PURVIS HAD ADMITTED THE two policemen, Ambrose was seated comfortably in his worn leather armchair; it was situated behind the walnut desk in his book-lined study. Beneath a sunny south window stood his painting table where all of his watercolor materials were laid out just so. The low stone fireplace, swept clean this time of year, would be crackling merrily with nice pine logs come the first fall chill.
The room was his favorite. It housed, among its treasures, not only his collections of Buchan, Ambler, Dorothy L. Sayers, Zane Grey, and Rex Stout, but the complete first edition of Conan Doyle, and his Holmes memorabilia collection as well. A rare Moroccan bound edition of Hound of the Baskervilles lay on his desktop, and he drummed his fingers upon it impatiently.
Blast. He was not in the mood for company. He was in the mood for eggs.
The two young coppers (they were MI5, surprisingly, not the local constabulary as he’d deduced) had moved the side chairs up to the desk and were getting into their topic rapidly. Ambrose had retired only recently from New Scotland Yard as the Number One, so his bona fides had been quickly dispensed with at the door.
He was pleased to find that, despite a few years of assisting his dear friend Alexander Hawke in some messy undercover work abroad, he still enjoyed something of a reputation at Thames House, the MI5 headquarters building, and in the British law enforcement community. Or so it would appear by the sunny look of adulation on the face of the young chap opposite.
This eager junior man, Agent H. H. Davies was his name, was ogling Ambrose as if he might be some aging exhibit in the Yard’s Legends of Crime museum.
“The Georgi Markov affair, Chief Inspector,” Davies said, shaking his head in wonder. “When the KGB took out the Bulgarian dissident waiting for his bus. Ricin pellets in the umbrella tip. No one had ever even heard of the stuff and yet you, you—”
“Well,” Ambrose smiled, “I can hardly claim credit for—”
There was a loud cough from the other chair.
“So you know this Henry Bulling, Chief Inspector,” the senior agent, George Winfrey, interrupted, glowering at Davies. “Your nephew, I believe.”
“Ah. Facts, Winfrey, facts. He’s not my nephew. He’s my cousin, in point of fact.”
“And you were running him? For the Yard? Looking into the Chinese connection? I know that’s Topic A with you fellows these days.”
“Chinese connection? You mean, with th
e French? Really. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I am a detective, not a spymaster.”
“But you were running him, were you not?”
“In a very minor way…gossip, mainly. It is France, after all; in my view, merely a demented version of Italy. We do keep an eye on them, however. Especially, of late, this Bonaparte chap who’s causing so much trouble. A man to be watched very carefully. Now, tell me, gentlemen, what’s the gen, here? Is young Henry in trouble?”
“The gen?” Davies asked, leaning forward as if he expected some priceless gem of spy-speak to come spilling forth onto the master’s desk.
“Hmm. An Americanism I picked up from the author Hemingway via Lord Hawke, who devours his books. Gen. As in, intelligence. I mean to say, what’s up with Bulling?”
“He’s bolted, sir. Vanished. The French at the embassy are up in arms. Certain documents have gone missing from his department.”
“He’s on his own, then,” Ambrose said, tapping some Peterson’s Irish into the bowl of his favorite pipe. Firing it, he puffed out, “The Yard has no involvement in this, I assure you.”
“He hasn’t contacted you?”
“Certainly not.”
“He wasn’t directed to remove documents pertaining to China?”
“Asked and answered.”
“Did your cousin have reason to wish you ill, Chief Inspector?”
“Ill?” Ambrose said, suddenly looking up from a careful study of his signet ring. “Why do you ask that?”
“We tumbled his flat. Milk Street. Southeast London. We found a recently purchased weapon. A cheap target rifle with a 10X scope. Wrapped in oilcloth and stowed under a loose floorboard.”
“Under a loose floorboard. How original of him. And?”
“And these photographs, sir.”
Davies slid over a manila folder and Ambrose extracted six glossy eight-by-ten photographs. They were grainy telephoto black and whites. All six were taken on separate occasions by someone who had secreted himself deep within Hampstead Heath forest. And all of these long-lens photos depicted Congreve walking his new dog, Ranger, in the lovely hour just before sunset.
“Anything else?” Congreve asked, sliding the folder back to Davies without comment.
“A good deal else, Inspector,” Agent Winfrey said, pulling a wad of brochures from his leather satchel. He held one aloft. “Your cousin left his flat in quite a hurry. He was quite possibly abducted. There were signs of a struggle. We found this tract and others like it in his coat closet. All political. Pro-Chinese, Pro-French. Anti-American. Written, we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to learn, by the French Foreign Trade minister in Paris, the same chap you mentioned a moment ago. Bonaparte. Translation Section is just getting round to translating this bit this morning.”
“Hand it over,” Ambrose said. “French is one of my languages, unfortunately.” Congreve had in his youth been a language scholar at Christ College, Cambridge, but tossed it all for a street beat with the Metropolitan Police. A decision he’d seldom regretted on his way to legendary status at the Yard. Never one to view a mystery from afar, rather he held the thing pinched between two fingers beneath his nose, sniffed the bouquet, then swallowed it whole.
He perused the overwrought anti-American polemic for some moments, then slipped it inside his opened red leather day diary. Something called OMOCO had published the self-serving diatribe on behalf of some radical French group calling themselves the Brigade Rouge. OMOCO. Somewhere, that name rang a bell. Oman—something or other. Oh, well, it would come to him.
“Anything else?” he asked, smiling. Mrs. Purvis had slipped silently into the room and was carefully gathering the empty cups and saucers. He was grateful for her quiet, efficient demeanor and, catching her eye, murmured a silent thank-you. The woman was good cheer and grace personified.
“With all due respect, Chief Inspector,” Winfrey said, “that pamphlet you’ve just taken is evidence in a missing persons case.”
“I’m well aware of that, Agent Winfrey. For professional reasons, I’d like my friend Alex Hawke to have a look at it. I’m happy to sign for it if you insist. One final question for you chaps before you go, if I may.”
“Shoot,” Davies said, earning a look from Winfrey. Shoot?
“What the blazes is the ‘Brigade Rouge’?” Congreve asked. “That’s a new one on me.”
“A spinoff of the old Union Corse crime family from Corsica. Quite fanatical. Ultraleftist paramilitary chaps, all former Union Corse foot soldiers and Foreign Legionnaire types, a few ex– Deuxième Bureau. Been around for years but raising holy hell of late. Rumored to be responsible for this latest spate of political assassinations in France. We can’t prove it yet, but we’re working on it. Henry Bulling never mentioned that lot, eh?”
“Never.”
“Well. You’ll let us know straightaway should Henry Bulling contact you, won’t you, sir?” Winfrey said, getting to his feet.
“Unless he contacts me with a bullet to the heart, I shall indeed endeavor to do so.”
“If I may, sir. Until we find your cousin, I’m sure I need not say this. But do keep your eyes open, sir. I’d be happy to assign one or two of my men to sit outside for a few days. Unobtrusively, of course.”
“Won’t be necessary, but thank you for your concern. I’ve got young Ranger here. First line of defense in my personal homeland security system.” The dog emitted a rough bark as if on cue.
“A great honor meeting you, sir,” Davies said, rising from his chair and sticking out his hand. “The man, the legend.”
Ambrose waved this ridiculous piffle away and picked up his beloved Conan Doyle first edition. He was just about to thumb open the thing when there came a sound next to his ear of an angry hornet and a neat round hole suddenly appeared smack dab in the middle of his precious Holmes.
At that precise moment, he saw Mrs. Purvis collapse to the carpet. The tea tray and its contents flew from her hands. A bright red stain appeared just below her starched white collar and spread rapidly. She moaned once and went silent.
“Mrs. Purvis!” Congreve shouted, knocking his armchair over backward as he leaped to his feet.
Chapter Nine
Cannes
HAWKE RACED DOWN THE DESERTED COMPANIONWAY, A grim corridor lit only by a few naked bulbs suspended from loose wires dangling from the overhead. Doors hung open on either side, small flyspecked cabins with double- or triple-tiered bunks, empty. At the far end, a large door in the bulkhead opened into the galley. He stepped inside. The stink of cabbage and rancid grease was overpowering. He was about to turn and retrace his steps when his eye caught a thin edge of yellow light between two tall cabinets loaded with rusty canned goods, stocks that appeared to be long past their best-by date.
He ripped at the shelving and dodged heavy falling cans of undoubtedly exquisite Chinese delicacies. The cabinet swung open easily, revealing a tiny broom closet of a room, no bigger than six by four. There was a metal rack upon which lay a man, pale and gaunt, who looked as if he’d neither eaten nor slept during his days in enemy hands. A tin plate with what appeared to be dried vomit rested on his chest, just below his chin. A foul slops bucket stood under his bed. At the sight of Hawke, he made to sit up, and the thin scrap of blanket fell away, revealing his legs. They were severely bruised and made fast to the frame with strips of heavy canvas.
The man smiled weakly up at Hawke as he entered.
“What part of China you from, mister?” he said, slurring his words.
“I look Chinese to you?” Alex said, and he had the knife in his hand, cutting the canvas from the frame, starting with the left leg.
“Can’t see too well. Where are you from then?”
“Place called Greybeard Island. Little rock out in the English Channel.”
“English, yeah. Thought so. A limey. I’m Harry Brock. From L.A.”
“La-la land. Never been there. Have they been torturing you, Harry Brock?” Hawke asked, inspecting
his horribly swollen feet and ankles.
“Nothing Dr. Scholl can’t fix,” he said, laughing weakly. “I don’t know. Been on the run. Can’t remember much of the last few days.”
“Drugs, Mr. Brock. Chlorides. Pentothal. Anything broken? Can you walk?”
“I think so. Any chance at all of us getting out of here?” the man said. The fear that this might not be so was writ large in his dilated blue eyes.
“That’s the general idea,” Hawke replied, cutting the last of the bonds. “On your feet, Mr. Brock. Let’s get off this tub before it sinks.”
“Sounds good,” the American said, and, with Hawke’s help, he swung his legs painfully off the frame and got his feet under him. He swayed and Hawke put one arm around him.
“I won’t be much good to you in a fight. I think the bastards have broken my wrists. One of ’em, anyway.”
“We’re going to make straightaway for the stern. As fast as you’re able. Over the rail. I’ve got a man waiting below in a Zodiac. He’s expecting us. Now. Can you make it?”
As he said this last, Hawke heard a now familiar high-pitched voice behind him. He whirled, and his right hand came up in a blinding motion, the Assassin’s Fist already on its deadly way. Tsing Ping appeared to move his head less than an inch to the left and Hawke’s blade twanged into the wooden shelving, the knife handle vibrating just by Tsing Ping’s ear.
“You are knife fighter?” the man said in his disturbingly childlike voice. “Good. I, too.”
An ugly serpentine dagger appeared from the folds of Ping’s black pajamas, and he flicked it playfully before his face. Hawke, who still had his left arm supporting the American, was going for the Walther on his right hip when he heard certain death whizzing his way. The point of the Chinaman’s blade was perhaps an inch from piercing Alex’s heart when it struck something solid. There was a metal thud and Hawke glanced down to see the dented tin plate that had saved his life still in Harry Brock’s hand and the assassin’s dagger falling harmlessly to the deck.