by Ted Bell
“Yes,” Brick said. “France, however, may be just an unwitting pawn in this game. Ready to be sacrificed by China at the earliest opportunity. But, meanwhile, just as you say, Alex, France has gotten tired of sitting on the sidelines. They’ve got the spotlight now and that’s just where they want to be.”
“And China stays in the shadows, right where she wants to be,” Hawke agreed.
“Yes. There’s a desperate power struggle going on in Paris right now. The attempt on Bonaparte’s life two days ago, the assassination of the French prime minister yesterday. I think it all leads back to Beijing. Right back to the top of the Chinese Communist Party. To the Forbidden City and to the premier’s powerful Hong Kong stooge, General Sun-yat Moon.”
Congreve was startled. “The CCP took out Honfleur? Good lord, man, why?”
“To pave the way for their enfant terrible, Bonaparte.”
“What are the details, Brick?” Hawke asked.
“We can’t prove anything yet,” Kelly said. “But we think a Chinese agent, working for Moon, murdered the director of Sotheby’s in his office overlooking the Elysée Palace. Then she shot Honfleur with a sniper rifle from the dead director’s office windows. The sultan of Oman, luckily, was not wounded in the attack.”
“You said ‘she’ murdered the director. The assassin was a woman?”
“Yes. A woman carrying Chinese diplomatic credentials, as a matter of fact. She slipped away in the confusion.”
“Well, hell,” Hawke said, looking directly at Congreve. “Chinese female assassins seem to have arrived on our shores in droves. Brick, do you have a witness who can identify her?”
“Yes. A man working Sotheby’s Paris reception desk survived the bomb blast in the street seconds before the assassination. He provided a detailed description of the killer. The woman was in her seventies, well-dressed in French couture, shopping for very expensive jewelry. She was escorted up to the director’s office for a private viewing, where she killed him with some kind of poison-tipped weapon. Drove it into his groin, I might add.”
“Lovely,” Congreve said, wincing. “Was she carrying an umbrella, by any chance?”
“Good point,” Kelly said, smiling at Ambrose.
“Weapon of mass deduction,” Hawke said, patting Ambrose on the shoulder.
“Too kind,” Ambrose said, and took a sip of his drink.
Hawke massaged the slight stubble on his chin. “Where was Luca Bonaparte during all this bloody excitement?”
“You mean the brand spanking new prime minister of France? In his brand spanking new office at the Elysée. Handling the press furor over France’s imminent incursion into Oman.”
“The French press is furious?” Congreve asked, a wry smile on his face.
“Are you joking? The French press is ecstatic. Paris Soir ran a headline saying ‘France Is on the March!’ It’s the rest of the world who take a dim view of this invasion. France says they were ‘invited’ in by the sultan. To suppress a radical insurgency. My guys think Bonaparte leaned on the sultan. A physical threat to him or his family, or perhaps some kind of blackmail. Nothing else makes any sense.”
“I’ll find him, Brick,” Hawke said.
“Yes. But, this is very strictly off the record. You’re going NOC on this one, old boy. As I said, the United States simply cannot afford to be seen as meddling in French or Arab affairs right now.”
“NOC?” Ambrose asked.
“Not on Consular,” Hawke said to Congreve. “No records. It means if I get caught you don’t have to worry about funeral arrangements.”
“Ah.”
“Since the president was reelected,” Brick said, “the administration has been in a full fence-mending mode with our European allies. We very much hope to solve this quietly.”
“But I can meddle,” Hawke said. “Quietly.”
“You certainly can. You’re a Brit, after all. You have three or four hundred years of bad blood with the French. I want you to meddle to your heart’s content.”
“I love to meddle, too,” Ambrose said. “I was born to meddle.”
Kelly smiled. “I was just coming to you, Chief Inspector. Bonaparte is, to all appearances, invulnerable. Right now, he’s viewed as the modern savior of France. Hell, he’s the new Napoleon. Napoleon’s brains, charm, and charisma. But he’s dirty, Ambrose.”
“Money? Haven’t they all been on the take for years? Saddam and Elf Acquitaine and all that rotten business. Doesn’t seem to have made one whistle’s worth of difference to any of their careers.”
“I think Luca Bonaparte coerced Oman into this invasion. China needs oil and oil means money. Huge amounts. He knows everybody. Hell, he was the Foreign Trade minister. And there are far too many rumors around that he murdered his own father when he was fifteen years old. We’re going after him on both counts. If we’re lucky, and you two succeed, we’ve got a chance to bring him down without a shot.”
“Do you have any new proof of this murder?” Ambrose asked.
“Not yet. That’s where you come in. You’ve read the file. It’s a thirty-year-old homicide, still unsolved on the Paris Deuxième’s books. It seems likely that Luca was a boyhood bagman for the Union Corse back in Corsica. We think he made his bones by killing his father. And we think the American Mob, which was battling with the Corse in those days, was somehow involved.”
“I think I see where you’re going. If you can prove that, you might bring him down quickly and with a minimum of international fuss,” Ambrose said. “People don’t forgive patricide easily.”
“That’s the idea. We’ve just uncovered some old French Sûreté case notes. Apparently, two American mobsters were involved in the murder. My case officer in New York believes she has identified two possible suspects. Both quite elderly, but still alive. Possibly residing in New York City.”
“When do I start?” Congreve asked, literally rubbing his hands together. “Nothing like a foreign intrigue to take one’s mind off troubles at home.”
“I’ve got you on a military transport leaving RAF Uxbridge at noon tomorrow. Arriving in New York in time for supper. Does that work?”
“Splendidly.”
“Good. Now you, Alex, how soon can you be ready to travel?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Good. I’m chairing an emergency Gulf States sitrep briefing aboard the USS Lincoln at thirteen hundred hours tomorrow. I’d like you to be there. There’s an operation still in the planning stages at Langley. An idea Brock had. A good one.”
“We’re flying out to the Lincoln together?”
“No, I’m going out early. You’re going to like this. I’ve lined up a new Joint Strike Force airplane that needs strenuous exercise. I’m talking about the F-35, Alex.”
“What?”
“You heard right, Hawkeye,” Brick said, smiling. He knew Hawke was crazy to get back in the air. A friend of Brick Kelly’s at Britain’s Ministry of Defense had told him weeks ago that Lockheed-Martin was looking for a few top British fighter jocks with Harrier VTOL combat experience. They were needed to evaluate the new jet intended to replace the Royal Navy’s Sea Harrier FA2.
Alex’s face lit up. “The F-35? Never even heard of it.”
“Not surprised. It so happens I’ve landed you an extremely early prototype of the new U.S.-U.K. Joint Strike Fighter. Built in the States by Lockheed-Martin. The most advanced supersonic single-seater in the air. The latest STOVL technology. Apparently, the thing can come to a complete stop in midair. Yours for the duration of this operation, if you don’t crack it up. You can practice your night traps. Maybe even your shooting, if you get lucky.”
“Shooting?”
“After you download your impressions of the F-35 to the Pratt & Whitney engineers, you’re headed to the Gulf. We’re implementing Operation Deny Flight, a no-fly zone over northern Oman. You’ll hear all about it on the Lincoln. And get briefed on what I have in mind for you and Brock.”
“B
rock? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s going to help you track down the sultan. Let’s order some food, shall we?”
Yours for the duration!
Hawke went through the motions of ordering and eating Harry’s renowned pasta, but all he could think about was the fact that the navy (probably with a little push from his friend Brick) was putting him back in the saddle. And not some Barney Rubble fighter like he flew in the Gulf War, either. No, a single-seat supersonic stealth fighter just off the drawing board.
Good lord, a man could fly straight to heaven with an airplane like that.
Chapter Twenty-six
Aboard Blackhawke
“DOC SAYS YOU CAN GO HOME,” STOKE CALLED DOWN TO JET. She was standing a deck below him, leaning against the portside rail and smoking a cigarette. He watched her from above, saw her gazing out at her home away from home, the giant German yacht Valkyrie. The boat still lay at anchor about a half mile away. You had to wonder what the girl was thinking, lost in that cloud of blue smoke, not even hearing what he said, seemed like, zoned.
Stoke had emerged from his stateroom, coming out on the deck to perform his morning ritual: yoga and tai chi exercises and his old SEAL warmup routine. He was wearing his usual outfit, black Viet PJs and the U.S. Army Sniper School T-shirt that Sarge had given him a couple of years ago down in Cuba. The one that said, “You can run, but you’ll only die tired.” Loved that shirt.
He spaced his bare feet to the width of his shoulders, sucked down a lungful of air, placed his palms together before his face, and saluted the lazy old sun eight or nine times. The sharp iodine bite of the sea air felt good so deep down in his air bags. Bonjour, world! Speak to me! The rocky green coastline of Cap d’Antibes was sparkling on this fine morning, whirling birds, big white villas, and sandy beaches below the thick seaside forests. More huge yachts floating at anchor than you could shake a stick at.
After his workout, he used a towel to mop his face and torso and trotted down the curving steel and mahogany stairway leading below. He joined Jet at the rail, giving her plenty of space. He guessed he was still a little fragrant after a couple hundred ab crunches.
“Hey, you,” he said.
“Hey, you,” she said back, staring out to sea.
“Doc says you’re okay.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Oh. She’s in that mood. Okay, great.”
Jet was wearing a black-and-gold silk robe that used to belong to Vicky, Stoke thought. Trousseau stuff. Alex had bought it for her in India or Burma somewhere. The idea of Jet wearing it now made him a little queasy, but it probably wasn’t a good time to bring it up. Hawke had called. Jet and Stoke needed to have a little talk about the future.
“If you want to go home,” Stoke said, “you can. Is all I’m saying. Go home. Stay aboard Blackhawke. Either way, the man says it’s cool.”
Certainly what Stoke would like to do was stay aboard a big yacht on the Riviera. Hell, who wouldn’t? The beds were soft, the food was sensational, the morning sun was bright on the water, dancing gold coins on the surface, and white seagulls and terns were diving overhead. Made him kind of hate to leave.
But Hawke had called from the carrier Lincoln early this morning, round six. Brought him up to speed on the big CIA briefing out there. He wanted to know all about Jet. How she was doing. What Stoke thought about her. And her German boyfriend, von Draxis. One thing led to another and Stoke suddenly found himself with a brand new mission in life. Boss wanted him to go to Germany. Seemed that CIA guy, Harry Brock, the one they’d snatched off the Star, was doing a lot of talking now.
One of the things he talked about was some kind of French-German-Chinese operation. Something code-named Leviathan that originated in Germany. Von Draxis had a heavy hand in it, the boss said. Hawke wanted Stoke to go check out this von Draxis character a little more. Dig, poke, rattle the hometown cages in old Deutsch-land.
After what the man had done to Jet, that cage, Stoke couldn’t think of anything more fun than rattling von Draxis’s own cages some more. If it ain’t fun, stop. One of Stoke’s favorite mottoes.
Last time Stokely had had any real fun at all was down in the Florida Keys. That was a couple of years ago, back when he and Ross Sutherland were chasing that Cuban bad boy Scissorhands and his badass Cigarette boat to hell and gone along the Mosquito Coast of South Florida. Heat ’n Skeet, the SEALs had called that part of the Keys. That’s where Vicky’s murderer was running when they’d caught up with him. They caught him all right and stuck his ass in the ground for good on a place called No-Name Island.
“So, what do you think,” Stoke said. “See, I’m going to Germany. I could drop you off somewhere. Not that boat over there. That boat is definitely bad for your health, girl.”
Jet lit another smoke off the red coal of the old one. Her third since he’d been watching. Girl needed a new program. He had an idea for one that might do her some good.
She said, thinking about it, “Is Schatzi still aboard over there?”
“Der Führer? Hell no, girl, Schatzi’s long gone. He left in his big Nazi-black helicopter last night. Winging his way back to his Berlin flughafen.”
Jet was no longer surprised at the things Stoke knew about Schatzi or the comings and goings aboard the big German yacht. He’d told her a little bit about Blackhawke’s snooping capabilities. Didn’t mention the ship’s Aegis Defense System or Towed Array Sonar or any of that stuff. Just told her about how their commo center could eavesdrop on any radio or cell transmission within a radius of twenty miles or so. Triangulate the location, too, though he didn’t mention that part.
“So, I could go get my things.”
“Yeah, you probably could. What kind of things?” Stoke asked.
“Jewelry. A few clothes. Things I need.”
“An acetylene torch so you can hop in and out of bed.”
“That’s actually funny,” she said, coughing up some smoke.
“Thanks. You got a house, Jet?”
“A flat in Paris.”
“How about the baron?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where does he live mostly? Good old Schatzi, the lion tamer.”
“I don’t live with him, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’re not that crazy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m leaning that way. Where does he live, Jet? I need to know.”
“He has houses all over Germany. There is a large one in Berlin. On Friedrichstrasse. Number 7. He also has a secret mountain château in Bad Reichenhall. Huge. A schloss. That’s ‘castle’ in Bavarian.”
“That’s helpful. Thanks.”
“Are you going to kill him? Blow him up?”
“How can I? You’re in love with the guy, remember?”
She laughed, making a raw sound. “Love? I was young. A somewhat exotic Chinese girl in Berlin trying to get into films. My background was—interesting to him. I’d just started working for the Chinese secret police. He was a successful film producer then. He cast me.”
“Happens all the time.”
“An escape from my crazy family.”
“Have you got a sister, Jet?”
“That’s an odd question, isn’t it, Mr. Jones?”
“Humor me.”
“There’s a twin sister. Bianca. We aren’t close. Why do you ask?”
“Humor me again.”
“She still works for my father. Te-Wu agent. I’ve no idea where she is. They don’t tell me anymore. Tell me about Alex Hawke.”
“What about him?”
“What is he like? As a man?”
“Grit clean through.”
Girl had no reply to that, just sucked the cigarette coal down to her fingertips and flicked it, jammed another one in the corner of her mouth, and lit up again.
“I like him. Tough outside. Soft inside,” Jet said.
Stoke looked at her and asked, “Okay, now you tell me about
von Draxis. Why’d he beat you up, Jet? Something to do with Alex Hawke?”
“I’m going back to Valkyrie.”
“I figured that. They even got a syndrome named for that. Battered Movie Star Syndrome.”
“You don’t understand. I just want to get my things.”
“Good call. Sarge will get someone to run you over there whenever you ready.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. You’re all torn apart, girl. Hell, you don’t know what you want. Mixed loyalties. That’s dangerous. I don’t let dangerous women get too near Alex. He’s been hurt enough.”
“He can handle himself.”
“Yeah. Normally. Boy pretty much sealed himself up when his wife was murdered. But he likes you, too, for some unknown reason.”
“Ridiculous. He doesn’t even know me.”
“No, it ain’t. I like you, too, Jet. Don’t trust you worth a damn, but I like you.”
“When can I leave all this love?”
“Right now. Listen, Jet. Tell me something before you go. Why did your little pal Schatzi invite my boss to that party?”
“Spice up his guest list? Hawke is famous. He keeps his name out of the papers, but certain people know about him anyway. Schatzi likes to surround himself with famous people.”
“Wrong answer. Hawke makes people like Schatzi nervous. Hell, he makes me nervous sometimes and I’m his best friend. One of ’em, anyway. What Schatzi likes is to beat up women. He beat you up, girl! You let him down somehow, didn’t you? Was it the green-eyed monster? You and Alex Hawke got a little too close for comfort, that it?”
Jet sucked hard on her cigarette, burning it down to the filter. She looked up at Stokely, smiled, and then flicked the dead butt into the water. A symbolic gesture, they called it.
“Maybe,” she said.
“No more maybe. Tell me what all this is about, Jet.”
“I was supposed to find out why Hawke was in Cannes.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did your job. So why’d Schatzi get so mad at you?”
“I was disobedient. My orders were to alert my colleague aboard the Star of Shanghai if I determined a hostage rescue was in play. I—hesitated. Hawke presented a clear threat and I did nothing.”