Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  Napoleon worshipped at mighty Caesar’s throne, so she imagined a blend of the neoclassical and the warlike: a space where Caesar himself would feel at home. She hired the architects and designers Percier and Fontaine. Together, they created the exquisite Roman-themed Belmaison. The house was smashing and was immediately imitated and widely copied throughout Europe.

  Red (the color of Imperial Rome) was used throughout the house. The walls of the library were covered with Roman red fabric. A black-and-gold balustrade with lions’ heads joined doors topped with eagles. On the ceiling, fabric was draped to form a tent shape. Napoleon loved it, and so did Luca. But the seventeenth-century château would pass through many hands over the centuries before he would acquire it.

  After Napoleon’s exile and death on the remote island of St. Helena, Belmaison was a historic site, open to the public. Millions passed through its rooms, the French citizens among them touched by a wistful longing for grander days. Dreaming of La Gloire.

  The property eventually fell on hard times. It stood empty for many years, sunk in gloom, forgotten. Luca, riding on horseback to meet his mistress one afternoon, had spied it through the trees. When he learned of its storied history, he made a cash offer for the estate, sight unseen. It was accepted. When news broke that the famous Belmaison had been acquired at great expense by the current French minister of Foreign Trade, Napoleon’s self-styled heir apparent, Luca, an alarm sounded. It was still echoing down the long halls of the Elysée Palace.

  Many in government still regarded this Corsican upstart as a grave threat to the status quo. But Paris the city went into giddy paroxysms of social and political anticipation. Rumors swept the capital. A new Bonaparte was on the rise. Could gilded days of glory be far behind?

  The bal masqué was the first party of any consequence at Luca’s new residence. More than 250 guests received engraved invitations honoring the latest recipient of the Légion d’Honneur. The invitations called for First Empire period costumes. A state dinner would be served, with an early-nineteenth-century menu. A full orchestra would provide music for the waltz, the quadrille, the sautese, and la boulangere.

  Until he got too warm, Luca wore a costume replicating Napoleon’s coronation finery, including a faux ermine cape. Madame Li, no stranger to the art of disguise, came dressed in a ball gown as the tiny Empress Josephine. The sultan of Oman appeared dressed as a captain of the Barbary pirates. None of the three costumes were too far wide of the mark.

  Shortly after nine, Luca slipped away for an hour. He had gone quickly to his study to take a call on his secure line. The call was from Beijing and he’d been expecting it. He spoke in whispered tones with the general secretary of the Central Communist Party for more than twenty minutes. His closest aide-de-camp, Captain Chamouton, emerged from a secret anteroom just as Bonaparte was hanging up. “It will be done precisely as you have ordered, sir,” he heard the next leader of France say, just before he replaced the receiver.

  Thus, the rumors of the power behind the throne began.

  At the stroke of ten, a small squad of helmeted dragoons made a grand entrance onto the parquet of the dance floor. The waltz sputtered to a stop. The captain read an edict aloud to much twittering and amusement. He stated that the “Emperor Wishes to Consult with the Captain of Barbary Pirates at his Earliest Convenience.”

  The sultan of Oman, the guest of honor, dressed as a Barbary buccaneer, laughed, bowed to his partner. He sheathed his tin scimitar, doffed his jeweled turban, and the dragoons formed up around him. He was marched off the floor to the great delight of the ladies peeking from behind their peacock-feathered fans at the handsome Arabian pirate.

  Waiting impatiently for the sultan’s arrival, sitting at his beloved emperor’s desk in his red library, Luca fingered a small golden snuff-box once used in a failed attempt to poison Napoleon in this very room. It was a reminder to be ever vigilant. These were dangerous times, and he was about to take dangerous measures. But he would survive, and he would lead his people to Glory. It started tonight. It started now.

  “You wished to see me, Your Majesty?” the dashing sultan said, somewhat foolishly. The time for this nonsense was on the dance floor, not in Napoleon’s library. The sultan was plainly in his cups.

  “Mind your manners and take off your hat, Captain,” Luca said to him with a thin smile. “You’re in my house. And sit down. You’re unsteady.”

  “I think I’ll have a little touch of that brandy, if you don’t mind,” the Arab said to Chamouton. Luca nodded his assent and the captain poured. His hand was shaking. He was no longer a young man. He longed for his bed.

  “A votre santé,” the sultan said, raising his snifter to Bonaparte. “To your very good health, my new friend.”

  Luca replied, raising his cigar, “We all hang by the same thread, do we not?”

  The sultan didn’t like the sound of that. He was still just sober enough to hear the subtle tone of threat in his host’s voice.

  “There is a problem?” the Arab said.

  “An opportunity,” Luca said, getting to his feet so that he would tower over the Arab.

  “Always a frightening word in the mouths of diplomats, my dear friend,” the sultan said.

  Luca smiled. “I was afraid you had been ‘over-Châteaued.’ But I see the grape has not dulled your senses. This opportunity is only frightening if you are weak. If you fail to see the merit of what I am about to propose.”

  “Go on, go on,” the Arab said, after draining his glass and looking to Chamouton for a refill. “I’m not stupid. I assumed you had invited me to Paris for some reason other than to hang another bauble around my neck.”

  “Tomorrow morning at precisely ten o’clock, the Légion d’Honneur ceremony will take place. Immediately following that event, you and I shall hold a joint press conference, Your Excellency. All the media will be present. You, Your Highness, are going to announce that you are inviting France to come to your nation’s aid in a time of great turmoil in your country—”

  “Turmoil? There is no—”

  “Let me finish. A turmoil caused by certain extremist factions in-filtrating north across the border from Yemen. Causing unrest and dissent amongst your people. Foreigners who would undermine you and bring your government down. Since your government consists of you, and you alone, you O mighty Sultan, are taking these unilateral measures to protect your sovereignty.”

  “What measures?” the man said, aghast. Beneath his silk turban, his face was turning purple.

  “The very wise and sensible measure of coming here to France and asking for my help. Protection. You have asked me to send French troops into the capital city of Muscat. And to the oilfields, naturally. We must ensure the continued flow of oil at all costs.”

  “It’s insane! I won’t have any part of this!” He got up from his chair and stumbled back a few steps before Chamouton caught him in his arms.

  “I am afraid you have no choice in the matter, Excellency. You have met my dear comrade, Madame Li?”

  “Who?” the Arab said, gasping for breath. Chamouton now had his revolver pressed firmly to the back of his skull.

  A small Oriental woman trailing yards of golden satin emerged from the shadows behind Napoleon’s desk.

  “Bonsoir, messieurs,” the woman trilled.

  “Better known to you as the Empress Josephine, Excellency.”

  “Madame Li?” the sultan said. “Who—who is—”

  Madame Li, still dressed in Josephine’s gala finery and jewels, quickly crossed the room and stood before the terrified Arab. It did not help the sultan’s state of mind when the woman whipped off the bejeweled wig and smiled up at him bareheaded. Madame Li was clearly a man, and the dragons tattooed on his bald pate caused fresh terror to shine in the sultan’s eyes.

  “I am Madame Li,” Hu Xu said. He opened the tiny sequined evening bag he’d carried to the ball and withdrew a small scalpel. The Arab recoiled, but was held fast by Chamouton.

 
“You have two choices, Excellency,” Luca said. He was now sitting on the edge of his desk, enjoying his cigar and the unfolding drama. “One, take the opportunity I present you. Invite our troops and navy into Oman. Two—”

  “What opportunity?” the Arab ruler screamed.

  “The opportunity of continued health and happiness for you and your entire family.” Luca smiled. “Nothing will change for you. Nothing. You will still have your palaces, your fleet of Rolls-Royces, your jets, and your yachts.”

  “But when I look out the palace windows in my capital of Muscat, I will see French uniforms.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the oil?”

  “We have a very thirsty customer to the east, O mighty Sultan. I will be richer than you in the not too distant future.”

  “The Chinese.”

  “Think what you will.”

  “And if I simply expose this outrage?” The man was gathering control, all traces of inebriation vanished. “Go before the cameras and denounce you for what you are? A liar! A thief! A murdering—”

  “I have considered that possibility. You are an old man. Your own life, I’m sure, means little to you,” Luca said, his voice dripping with cool irony. “But the lives of family? Friends?”

  “What are you saying? Allah be blessed, if you harm them, I will—”

  “You will what? What can you do, my dear Sultan? For the moment, listen. Then you can decide.”

  “Tell this man to let me go. And tell this bizarre creature to put the knife away. I will listen.”

  “Very well,” Bonaparte said, nodding at both Chamouton and Hu Xu, who stepped aside. “You have a national museum, my dear friend. Once a fortress of some historic importance. On the island of Masara. Is this correct?”

  “Fort Mahoud,” the sultan said, a tremor marking his voice. “It was once Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s headquarters.”

  “Ah, that’s the place. Your entire family is there, now, Excellency. Wives. Children, grandchildren. Some members of your palace staff from Muscat. Since your departure from Oman, they have been under my protection. Do not worry. My men in Oman will protect your beloved family from the terrorists who would harm them.”

  “But there are no terrorists in my country,” the sultan said, all the air going out of him. “My people are at peace with the world.”

  Bonaparte smiled as if at a child. “No man is at peace with the world, Your Highness. Surely you have heard of the growing threat of the Christian right-wing militia outside the capital? The Yemeni forces coming up from the south? Yes, the Sultanate of Oman is in grave danger.”

  “My God,” the sultan said, lowering his head. He’d been a fool. Vanity had dulled his instincts about this man. He had been blinded by the glittering prospect of the Légion d’Honneur, a prize he openly belittled but had long coveted.

  “And as of this moment you are under my protection as well,” Luca Bonaparte said, smiling. “For the time being. Immediately following your speech and a press conference, you will be flown secretly to Oman to rejoin your family.”

  “As prisoners in an island fortress.”

  “Only temporary, I assure you. Once systems are in place to redirect Oman’s oil production, restrictions upon you and your family will ease considerably.”

  “I should like to sit down. Perhaps to have another brandy.”

  “Please. Let me pour it for you, Excellency,” Luca said, taking a seat opposite his newly converted ally. “Let us now speak of opportunity. You are aware of a quotation, perhaps, one of my personal favorites? It begins: ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men—’”

  The sultan stared into the amber depths of his glass, his eyes glistening, thinking of his beloved family, now all held hostage by this madman. Then, he looked up and stared at Bonaparte.

  The Arab began, “‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune…Omitted—’”

  “Omitted,” Bonaparte continued, “‘All the voyage of their life is bound in shallows, and in miseries…’”

  The sultan finished for him, his old eyes gleaming, “‘And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.’”

  “Well done! Tomorrow morning, we must take the current, my friend! The world is changing before your eyes! A flood tide that leads on to fortune! Now, I suggest you retire upstairs and get some sleep while I will return to my guests. I will say that you were tired. In the morning, wearing your new trinket, you will inform the world of your wise decision from the Salon Napoleon at the Elysée Palace,” Luca said. “Do we understand each other?”

  “I’m afraid we do.”

  “Good! There is one remaining thing. Very important.”

  “Tell me, for God’s sake, what more I can do for you.”

  “You go before the cameras at ten-twenty. Afterward, I want you to invite Prime Minister Honfleur to go for a walk. A private discussion, tête-à-tête, most important, you will tell him. Do not allow him to refuse. You will take him for a stroll along the private road just on the north side of the Elysée. Do you know it? Closed to all traffic.”

  “Yes. I have walked with him there before.”

  “Tell him anything you wish. Bait the hook. Tell him you have certain reservations about me. That will be all you need to say. He will leap at that. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “After exactly twenty paces, you must find some excuse to distance yourself from him. A particular flowerbed catches your attention. Make some excuse. Get away from him. Quickly. Someone will be watching.”

  “That someone will be me,” Hu Xu said from his chair in the shadows.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Hawkesmoor

  THE CLOCK SITTING ON THE MANTEL STRUCK ELEVEN TIMES, and Hawke looked up from his book. Rain beat against the tall windows opposite his chair and the distant rumble of thunder could be heard rolling across the countryside. It was a quiet Sunday night at home and all was reasonably well. Picking up the telephone twice, he had started to dial Ambrose’s number, then put the receiver down. It wouldn’t do to fret over him. He was a big boy and he was sleeping with a pistol under his pillow these days.

  Hawke had gone to bed with a book at ten, intending on doing some homework. It was a big, thick thing called, reasonably enough, China. A modern political history by someone named Chan, no relation to Charlie by the tone of the first few chapters. He dozed off, fitfully, for a quarter of an hour or so, couldn’t sleep for some reason or other, and so wandered downstairs to the library, fishing for something else to read. He decided on Riddle of the Sands, one of his boyhood favorites, a novel written by Erskine Childers in 1903. It was about two young Englishmen on a sailing holiday in Germany who—

  “Sorry to bother you, m’lord,” Pelham said in his ethereal way, appearing magically in the doorway. “Someone wishes to see you, sir.”

  “See me? Really? I didn’t hear the door.” Hell, it was Sunday night. Steaming rain. Who in hell would be out mucking about on a night like this?

  “She didn’t come to the door, sir. She rapped on the pantry window.”

  Hawke put down his book. She? That was better. But it still seemed improbable.

  “Pelham, have you been nipping at the sherry?”

  The man didn’t dignify that riposte with a retort. Or vice versa, Hawke wasn’t sure which was which. “She says it’s rather urgent, your lordship. She seems to be—in distress—and I admitted her to the kitchen. Her car broke down and she’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Gave her a cup of tea, sir.”

  “All right, old thing, tell her I’ll be right with her. As you can see, I’m in my pajamas. I’ll just run upstairs and put something on. How odd. Knocked on the window?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pelham?”

  “Sir?”

  “This mystery woman. What does she look like?”

  “Wet, m’lord. Soaked to the bone. But quite beautiful in an exotic way, if I may say s
o, sir. She bears an extraordinary resemblance to a film star I saw last Sunday afternoon at the Bexleyheath Cineworld. An Oriental lady, sir.”

  “Jet.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “That’s her name. I’ll be right down. You might bring her in here, by the fire. Offer her some brandy, if you don’t mind.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Hawke bounded up the stairs. The woman had figured prominently in his dreams ever since his return to England from the Côte d’Azur. In some, she was a good girl. In others bad. He supposed the truth was somewhere in between. Ah, well. Gave her his number at the office and hadn’t heard from her since. Thought that was the end of it. Clearly, it wasn’t. She’d somehow tracked him down. Something was urgent enough to warrant this nocturnal excursion into the heart of darkness. Car had broken down? Surely she could do better than that.

  Still, he did have a few rather fond memories.

  Five minutes later he was descending the staircase in a pair of faded jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves yanked up to his elbows. “Jet,” he called out when he was halfway down, “I’ll be right with you. I just have to speak to someone in the kitchen.”

  No reply from inside the library, and the door had been left open only the slightest crack. He caught a whiff of Gauloise cigarette smoke, however, and knew she was in there waiting for him. Fascinating. He strode across the center hallway and headed for the butler’s pantry where Pelham would be closing up shop for the night.

  “Pelham, what is her story? Did she say anything?”

  “She thanked me profusely for the offer of brandy but said she would prefer a whisky, sir.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. As I mentioned, she appears highly strung. Perhaps you could drive her to her destination.”