Pirate (18 page)

“There was one other person who knew you’d be at the cottage last night. The person who invited you to come there.”

“Lady Mars.”

“You said it, not me. It’s no secret that Brixden House has been a hotbed of spies at various times in its history.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Diana has nothing at all to do with this. She’s quite lovely, in fact.”

“So was Tokyo Rose, apparently.”

“Please. Don’t be absurd.”

“Listen, Constable, you and Cousin Henry may have stumbled into something far more ominous than either of you anticipated. Something worth killing you both over. I’m talking about that disc you found in Henry’s freezer. The French oil refineries and tankers.”

“Yes. It’s all about oil somehow, Alex. The whole bloody thing.”

“I think the next world war will be about oil. And someone clearly wants you and me as early casualties of that conflict. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

“The few computer discs in Henry’s flat contained photographs of French refineries and pipelines. Supertankers in the Strait of Hormuz. Henry was passing Bianca Moon hard intelligence about current oil production at Leuna and French transport tanker statistics. It’s a subject she has keen knowledge of, having been an employee of the French behemoth Elf Aquitaine.”

“There was a scandal,” Hawke said. “I knew I remembered that name. Bianca. She was the mistress, wasn’t she, of the former French Foreign Trade minister who was disgraced in the matter?”

“Exactly. She was Honfleur’s geisha. She absconded with millions and disappeared. Now, she appears to be back in spades.”

“Likewise, Monsieur Honfleur. He seems to have rehabilitated himself. He’s the new prime minister. That’s a remarkable recovery, even in France.”

“I was listening to the radio on the way here,” Ambrose said. “The BBC is saying that Honfleur’s son Philippe was killed yesterday in a terrorist attack on the latest French Foreign Trade minister, a chap with the old familiar name of Bonaparte.”

“The French are killing each other, Constable,” Hawke said, and turned to face the window. “Another Revolution. Another Bonaparte.”

“It’s worse. It’s the dragon and the frog,” Congreve said, thinking out loud.

“China and France,” said Hawke, shaking his head sadly. “‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.’”

“A lovely sonnet indeed. But, something tells me you are going to be an impediment in this unholy marriage, Alex. You’re going to spoil their bloody honeymoon, at any rate.”

“PUT THE GIRL DOWN,” STOKE HEARD A VOICE BEHIND HIM
say. Major German accent. Sounded like Colonel Klink on that old TV show
Hogan’s Heroes.
Stoke had Jet in his arms, having just lifted her from the bed. He’d wrapped her in the sheet, since she was buck naked except for a little pair of black lace panties. Girl had some nasty cuts and bruises in various places, but the blood had clotted up okay. In the mirrored wall behind the bed cage, he could see there was just one guy. The door was closed behind him. Big guy, weird blond fuzz on his head, and he had on a white dinner jacket and a rich man’s thin smile on his face.

Thin smiles, thin watches.

“Hey, Baron,” Stoke said to the reflection. “How’s it going?”

“Drop her.”

The German also had an ugly little black automatic in his hand. Austrian Walther. He had it pointed smack dab in the middle of Stoke’s broad back. Hard to miss at this range. Like trying to hit a barn. Stoke was armed, but he couldn’t think how the hell he could get to his weapon without putting Jet in the line of fire.

“She’s hurt,” Stoke said, keeping his back to the guy and watching him in the mirror. “She needs a doctor. You got a sickbay on this floating gin palace, boss?”

“Schweinehund!”
Even in the dim light, Stoke could see him turning purple in the face. High blood pressure aggravated by people not listening to his ass say “jump.” “I repeat, put her down. This is a private matter.”

“How’d your speech go? Nobody gives more rousing speeches than you crazy Nazis when you’re fired up. Man oh man, I’m telling you.”

“I said, put her down!”

“I asked you a question. Is there a doctor aboard or not? I’m taking this girl to a doctor. Some of these cuts are deep.”

“She is a guest aboard this yacht. She is here of her own free will. Now, put her fucking down.”

“The tycoon himself. Sorry I missed that welcome speech. Bet you had ’em screaming for blood.”

“Who are you? What are you doing on my boat?”

“Me? I’m a decorator. From Orlando. Just poking around, looking for fabric ideas. Chintz and shit. Toile. Found this lady who was hurt. You do this to her?”

“Drop her on the bed and turn around. Now.”

“I want to know if you did this to her.”

“It’s none of your affair. A private matter, as I said. She disappointed me. She was punished. Simple.”

“Punished? That what you call this? Punished?”

“She resisted and she got a little banged up. Nothing serious. Ask her.”

“You were planning to leave her down here in a damn cage to bleed to death?”

“You have five seconds. If you don’t do as I say, I will put one bullet in the back of each of your knees. Shatter the patella, sever the tendons. You won’t walk again. One…”

“Do what he says,” Jet said. “He will shoot.”

“Hey—”

“Two…”

“Shit, man, you making this harder than it has to be.”

“Three…”

“Damn, you Germans are stubborn,” Stoke said, and then he dove across the bed with Jet tucked safely within the solid cradle of his arms. There was a rapid
pop-pop,
two slugs thunked into the thick mattress, and then Stoke and Jet were on the floor on the far side of the bed. He pushed her down with his left hand and drew his gun with his right. The Sig Sauer P220 was Velcroed into a nylon holster just above his left ankle. Aluminum alloy frame made it light, Black Talon ammo made it right.

Stoke figured he had two-three seconds before the guy came over the bed or around it. “Stay down on the floor, girl,” he said to Jet, “no matter what.” And then he just exploded up and sideways, planting one foot in the bed and using it as a springboard to the right. He fired the Sig while still midair, putting one in the German’s shoulder, spinning him clockwise. Stoke caught the wall pretty high up and shoved off that by planting one foot, did a little half spin and flew into the German hard, using his right shoulder, hitting the guy just below the knees. There was a loud pop as the braced knee went and then the baron screamed a whole lot of unprintable stuff in German as he hit the deck.

Von Draxis was rolling around on his back, grunting with the pain of that bad knee and the shoulder. He still had the gun and he was pointing it in dangerous directions, so Stoke wrapped his hand around the man’s pistol. He twisted the weapon, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. Oldest trick in the book, but the German hadn’t seen it coming. The big fella howled in pain and Stoke sat back on his heels and tried to offer some comfort by patting him on the top of his big downy head.

“See? That’s your problem, Baron, thinking you some kind of badass. You just a stereotype, son. Get over it. I’m serious. Relax.”

Stoke removed the man’s gun from his grip as gently as he could, trying to wriggle it free from the broken index finger. Still, you could tell it hurt a little bit when it came off. He pocketed the gun, got to his feet, and walked around to where Jet lay beside the bed.

“You can open your eyes now,” Stoke said, bending to cradle her in his arms. “Fireworks are over.”

“They’ll never let you off this boat,” Jet said.

“Really? We’ll see.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“I got a launch picking me up in about, oh, four minutes. We’ve got a great doc on board
Blackhawke.
Danish woman Alex hired because of her resume. Former Miss Denmark. She’ll stitch you up. Then we’ll see where you want to take it from there. Sound good? What do you think?”

“I think you are out of your mind.”

“Yeah, most probably. Picking up strange women and taking them home when we hardly know each other.”

“Let’s go.”

“Good idea. Hey, Baron.
Auf wiedersehen,
okay? I’ll check up on you tomorrow. Thanks a lot for the party. I really enjoyed myself.”

Stroke stepped over the German guy writhing on the floor on his way to the door. He could see the guy thinking about grabbing his foot or some crazy shit like that and then see him figuring out just how bad an idea that was, seeing Stoke’s foot an inch from his head.

He got an idea. He took the German by one hand and dragged him across the leather floor to the bed.

“Alley-oop,
Mein Herr,”
he said as he lifted the baron up and plopped him down right in the middle of the bed. Then he pulled the remote out of his pocket and lowered the cage back into place. As an afterthought, he dropped the remote on the floor and stepped on it, crushing it. That drove the baron crazy, beating on the cage and all with his good hand, but Stoke just let it go.

“Shut up, Schatzi,” Jet said to the guy and, amazingly enough, he did.

“I like the name Jet,” Stoke said to her as he carried her out into the passageway and closed the door on the stateroom behind him. “What’s your last name?”

“Moon,” she said. “But I don’t use it.”

“Jet Moon. That’s cool. New wave. What do you do?”

“I’m an actress.”

“Yeah? Like a model-actress or an actress-actress?”

“You tell me. Am I acting now?”

“That’s a very good question, Jet. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“You work for Alex Hawke, is that right?”

“You could say that.”

“What do you do for him?”

“Blow things up. Kill people.”

“My God, I can’t believe this.”

“What?”

“I’m just swapping one homicidal maniac for another.”

LUCA’S HISTORIC
BAL MASQUÉ
WAS HELD IN A HOUSE REEKING
with history: In the winter of 1798, Napoleon, who had not yet conquered the world, declared himself in need of a country seat. A graceful country house on the outskirts of Paris had caught his eye. It was called Château Belmaison. The house was in a very sad state of disrepair, but Napoleon saw possibilities. Still, he hesitated. His star was ascendant, but he felt he could simply not afford the property on his paltry military salary.

Josephine disagreed. In the unusually cold April of that year 1799, while France’s new First Consul and his army were busy killing Arabs and conquering Egypt, Madame Bonaparte bought the estate by incurring a debt of three hundred thousand francs. Knowing her penurious husband would be angry with her, she began at once to decorate it in an inexpensive manner, a style that would surely please him.

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?”