by Ted Bell
“Risk nuclear annihilation?”
“China could lose a number roughly the size of the entire U.S. population in an all-out exchange and still have a billion or so souls to soldier on under the red banner. They are ascendant, the most powerful Communist dictatorship on earth, and the greatest threat we face in this century. Now they’ve got an ally in the heart of old Europe that wants to go along for the ride.”
“Christ. Teetering on the edge again, aren’t we, old Brick? If the Manchurian Candidate ever wakes up, we’ll have to ask him for advice on how we go about stopping all this.”
“While he’s wired to a polygraph, obviously.”
“Can we talk about this over food, Brick? I’m starved, and I think Pelham has our supper ready.”
“Just one more thing. We think our guy is homicidal, maybe psychopathic. A lot of this kid’s bodies are buried on Corsica. Even more family members, so rumor has it. And no doubt in remote corners of France, too, where his political rise has been a wee bit too meteoric.”
“Can you actually pin anything on him?”
“Not yet. Boney’s record has been scrubbed squeaky clean. Nobody’s ever even tried to pin his father’s murder on him, by the way. To this day, it’s booked on the gendarmes’ records as an unsolved homicide. They’ve still got it penciled in as a probable U.S. Mob hit.”
“Patricide. At fifteen years old. That’s fairly staggering.”
“Yeah. If he actually pulled the trigger. Some of the New York families had deep roots within the Union Corse in those days. I’ve got an FBI file on my desk an inch thick. Maybe Luca somehow coordinated the hit on his old man with the Mob and then laid it off on them to keep his record shiny and new. He’s had his eye on the throne for a long, long time.”
“You could take him down that way, Brick. Legally.”
“Yeah. We’ve been talking about that. At this point, it’s all rumor and conjecture. It’s too vague for Langley to pursue at this point. But Brock’s source said there may have been a couple of eyewitnesses who are still around somewhere. I’d like you to bring Chief Inspector Congreve into this thing, Alex. Here’s the file. It’s a very cold case, but if anybody could prove Bonaparte murdered his own father, it’s Ambrose Congreve. Do that, and Bonaparte might go down under his own weight.”
Hawke took the heavy folder and placed it on the table beside his chair. He looked up at Kelly.
“Get the proof of this homicide into the hands of his political opposition in France. Let them take him down. And the U.S. keeps its hands clean.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Ambrose will be thrilled. I’ll call him tonight. He’s spent so much time planting dahlias lately he’s bouncing off the garden walls.”
Hawke got to his feet and placed one hand on the mantel. It had been a long day and his stomach was growling. Another rum was out of the question.
He said, “Brick, it stands to reason that Bonaparte’s rise is behind all this heightened unpleasantness with France. They were bad enough before, God knows, with their support of that murderous Saddam. Not to mention actually supporting Hezbollah’s right to raise money in Europe. But this is beyond the pale. Now it’s personal. I mean, imagine shooting at helpless Englishmen on the open seas and all that sort of thing? Is it Honfleur and President Bocquet? Or is it the rise of Boney?”
“The military’s loyalties are shifting rapidly to Boney. They see him as the long-awaited savior of France. Bocquet still sits in the big chair. And Honfleur is his big French poodle. But Boney’s Chinese death squad is the one they’re going to sic on you. You sank a French navy vessel, old buddy. And they don’t admit to firing on you first. I had that scoundrel president Guy Bocquet himself on the phone this morning. They want blood.”
“They keep this up, they’ll get it.”
“It’s been suggested that you act contrite.”
“Really? By whom? Not by my government, I assure you.”
“No, mine. Your old pal the secretary of state for one,” Kelly said, “Madame Consuelo de los Reyes.”
“Conch? Rubbish. I don’t believe a word of it.”
“She’s mad as hell at you. What happened between the two of you, anyway? For a while there, I thought you were going to get married.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Conch said in a Cabinet meeting yesterday that she’s got enough trouble on her hands with the Iranian-Syrian alliance, long-range missiles, and Kim Il Jong right now without you adding France to her shitlist.”
“Me? Brick, damn it, I was doing a snatch for you. And somebody shot at me. I shot back. I don’t give a damn about your bloody list.”
“Easy, buddy. It ain’t my shitlist and it certainly ain’t my point of view. I told her exactly the same thing. You were on an approved mission for the United States of America and you acted in justifiable self-defense. What happened in Cannes is just the calm before the shitstorm.”
“Meaning?”
“Two things. Right now, Conch has got her hands full trying to convince France and Germany to stop selling weapons and dual-use technologies to Iran and Syria. So France is already high on Conch’s list. She just doesn’t quite know how high yet. France’s tacit approval of terrorism is an abomination and President McAtee, despite his proclamations of improving relations, is not going to stand for it. Put that together with the rise of Bonaparte and—”
Pelham had somehow floated into the flickering shadows of the room unseen and unheard.
“Dinner is served, m’lord.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hong Kong
“MADAME LI, I PRESUME,” MAJOR TONY TANG SAID, GETTING to his feet. Tall, imperious, and elegant, Major Tang was the pretty public face General Moon put on all of his ugly little secrets in Hong Kong. A PR flack, they’d call him back in Arizona. But he was far more interesting than that. He sat at the right hand of the king and he was the second-most-powerful man in Hong Kong. He was also frequently sent abroad to handle delicate situations. Major Tang had finesse.
“Yes, I am Madame Li, you wicked boy,” Madame Li said, taking his proffered hand and shaking it delicately. “But tell me, Major, how did you know my new name?”
“Wu called me from Reception. Even now the Documents Section upstairs is preparing your travel papers, tickets, and a new passport. They are using the digital picture Wu took of you moments ago at the desk. And your signature from the guest registry.”
“Flattering picture, I hope.”
“See for yourself,” Tang said, revolving his small Sony laptop so Hu Xu could see his portrait on the screen. Tang hit a button and the scene shifted back to a live feed from the communications center. He closed the laptop and pushed it aside.
“Charming photograph,” Madame Li said, eyeing the man warmly. Despite (or perhaps because of) his powerful position and a noteworthy penchant for cruelty, Tony Tang was a very attractive human being. The type of man who could raise the temperature of any room he walked into. Oh, dear. He had to restrain himself from giggling at how easily he slipped into character.
“How silly of me. I should have known. Your staff is so very well trained.”
Both enjoyed this little game of flirtation. Frequently, it was the major who vetted Hu’s character choices and disguises before departure for a new assignment. When last they’d met, Hu Xu had been a portly and bespectacled petroleum geologist headed out to Oman on a fact-finding mission. The time before that, a middle-aged HKSB hedge fund manager on his way to Wall Street to assess the strength of the U.S. markets.
Tonight the major was, surprisingly, not in uniform. Rather, he wore a beautifully cut navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a navy silk bowtie. He was taller than the typical PLA officer, and exceedingly handsome. He had a strong chin and good high cheekbones that could hardly be improved upon. They made a handsome couple, Madame Li thought, smiling to himself. Possibly mother and son on some future assignment for General Moon? Thailand, perhaps,
or Kauai.
“Please. Be seated here, madame, where you can enjoy the best view,” the major said in flawless English, his smooth and gracious manners polished to perfection. The two often spoke in English, each trying to one-up the other with the latest Americanism. China’s fate was to rule; it made sense to be fluent in the enemy tongue.
Tang pulled out a chair and he sat down, waiting to be pushed up to the table. Madame Li smiled up at him. This character Madame Li, for all the trouble and fuss she took to create, had its compensations. Perhaps, Hu Xu thought, folding his little white-gloved hands delicately on the white tablecloth, she should appear more often.
“So,” Hu Xu said, smiling coquettishly at Major Tang, “Paris.”
“Yes, Paris. I am envious.”
All night, his expectations of Paris had caused a tingle down the spine. After all, there would be a suite at the George V and plenty of blood money to fritter away in the shops along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré when he wasn’t working. And there were darker treasures, too, antique medical instruments in dusty bins tucked away on side streets in St. Germain des Prés. He hoped he’d have enough free time to go exploring.
Collecting wildly expensive surgical antiquities from the far ends of the earth was certainly an extravagance, but, aside from occasional bouts of cannibalism, it was Hu Xu’s only vice.
The view of the harbor from this table was exquisite, he noticed as a waiter approached with menus. The Typhoon Shelter Bar was built entirely of unsupported glass walls, and there were panoramic views of nighttime Hong Kong in every direction.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” Madame Li told the waiter. “The French vodka, not the Russian. Grey Goose. And the lobster, please. How about you, Major?”
Major Tony Tang said, “I’ll have exactly the same.”
The waiter bowed deeply and departed and the two regarded each other with some amusement across the table. Tang, who had seen Hu in many of his manifestations, had never met Madame Li until this moment. He was obviously delighted with every aspect of this new apparition. Hu relaxed visibly, knowing his report to the general would be positive. Only a few diners had been allowed up to the Shelter Bar tonight, and they had all been seated a discreet distance from the major’s corner table.
“Well,” Major Tang said as their drinks arrived, “I must tell you that the general sends his apologies. He won’t be dining with us this evening after all.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said. “Don’t tell me he’s ill.”
“Busy. He has—how shall we say this—domestic problems.”
“Double trouble? I thought he had those two girls under control.”
The major smiled ruefully, nodding affirmation. “Yes. The terrible twins are at it again.”
“Their Satanic Majesties. If they’re not at each other’s throats, they are at someone else’s. Which one is causing him anguish this time? Jet? Or Bianca?”
“Both, I’m afraid. What a miserable trial he endures at the hands of those two.”
“Bianca battles her own addictions, but she is a brilliant and loyal Te-Wu officer. Jet is the real trial, Major,” Madame Li said, clucking like an old hen. “And yet it is the party who endures her. She is irredeemable, in my view. That wild debacle in Amsterdam should be proof enough of that. Jet is a Western culture junkie, no longer loyal to the party. She should be removed from her duties as a Te-Wu officer.”
With that off his chest, he sat back and sipped his icy vodka. There were few among the general’s inner circle who could say such a thing about Moon’s daughters without fear of losing his head. Hu Xu was plainly one of them.
The major’s response was only a muted “Well, well. We shall see what we shall see.”
“Someone was going to attempt to straighten Jet out. A cultural intervention, I believe it’s called. I take it the attempt failed?”
Major Tang’s shoulders seemed to sag with weight from the general’s offices above. The general’s troubles were his troubles by definition. And China’s fortunes in the next month or so were problematic enough without two daughters who despised each other vying for the general’s attention—and affection.
“You mean von Draxis. Yes, our German friend claimed to have gotten Jet under control. But, now…horrible news. Just hours ago.”
“What happened?”
“A shipment from the South of France was unfortunately disrupted. Someone on our side completely bungled the security while the cargo was in port. We don’t have all the facts yet, but we do know Jet let us down terribly.”
“How?”
“She was supposed to eliminate a British agent in Cannes. For whatever reason, she did not.”
“At some point, Major, the general is going to have to face reality where his beautiful daughters are concerned. Bianca is beset by her own demons. But her skill and her loyalty to her father and to the party are beyond question. Jet, it seems, has failed us again.”
“The general will not acknowledge this, but it’s true. The West has won Jet’s heart. Jet, I think, has permanently slipped her moorings.”
“Then Jet is very, very dangerous to us, Major.”
“Yes.”
“Let me know when action is required.”
Major Tang nodded. “As we speak, the general is up in his office explaining what went wrong in Cannes to the CCP powers in Beijing. He never likes explaining the failures of subordinates. Especially when those involved are—”
“His own flesh and blood, yes. This disrupted shipment—that would be the American goods that Tsing Ping was handling? A transfer from Morocco?”
“Unfortunately, correct. A most vital shipment, as you well know. But these things happen. With your assistance, it shall ultimately be rectified.”
“The goods were offloaded prematurely in transit, I take it?”
“Yes. The man responsible for the loss has already been identified. This bloody Englishman whom Jet let slip through her fingers. He will be dealt with once your mission in Paris has reached a satisfactory conclusion. You’ll find digital photographs of him and his dossier in this packet.” He slid a blue envelope across the table. The word PIRATE was stenciled in red on the outside.
“Pirate?” Madame Li asked, looking at the photographs inside.
“His name is Lord Alexander Hawke. General Moon himself gave Hawke the piratical sobriquet. He’s been a bother to us on several prior occasions.”
“Yes. I recall the name. That Cuban misadventure several years ago, was it not? The botched coup d’état?”
“Exactly. This Hawke is a direct descendant of the notorious English pirate Blackhawke. The scourge of the Spanish Main in the eighteenth century, according to our research gnomes and Mr. Google. Three centuries have not succeeded in washing the pirate blood out of Blackhawke’s bloodlines. Especially that coursing through the veins of this man Hawke.”
“Good-looking in a coarse way,” Madame Li said, turning the photograph in his hands. “I suppose I shall have to kill him.”
“In good time, yes, someone certainly will.”
“And tell me about Bianca. She’s still having problems in London?”
“Yes. Despite Bianca’s well-known addictions to bizarre sex parties and opiates, she has in the past been an excellent field agent. Unlike her sister, she is, as you know, both efficient and lethal. Sadly, now, the opium seems to be winning the battle. Our French connection in London has been badly compromised.”
“What happened?”
“We were, as you well know, running a highly successful operation there. But we recently discovered that a mole she planted inside the embassy last winter was doubling up on her. Bianca’s agent-in-place, Bulling, was also toiling away for Scotland Yard. He had a weekly brush pass in Regent’s Park with a man named Congreve. Retired from the Yard, now freelancing for MI6 and the man Hawke we discussed earlier. You’ll find Congreve’s picture’s in there, too.”
“What are you going to do?”
/> “For the moment, we are giving Bianca time to fix this mess. But the general’s patience with her wears thin.”
“Why doesn’t Bianca simply eliminate both Bulling and Congreve and be done with it?”
A pained expression was visible behind the major’s permanent smile. “She is involved with Bulling. Not romantically. Sexually. She confided the bizzare truth to me over dinner when she was last here in Hong Kong. The man is a hermaphrodite. Both sexual organs are extremely prominent but the male predominates—I, uh, well…there you have it.”
“More, more!”
“I forget. You relish these oddities. At any rate, it’s a perverse physical addiction to the man fueled by drugs. He beats her, yet she comes back for more. She has begged her father for time. She even ordered Bulling to eliminate Congreve in the hope he’ll redeem himself. He has failed once. If he succeeds…”
The waiter had brought more drinks. Madame Li sipped his new martini and found it cold and delicious. “I take it her time is running out, Major.”
“Yes. The general’s frustration with both daughters has reached the boiling point. But, enough. Let us turn our attention to more pleasant subjects. Let’s talk about Paris. Here is the brief prepared for you by the general’s staff. Once you arrive, you will receive more detailed instructions from Minister Bonaparte himself.”
“Le Roi! At last I get to meet this living legend.”
Major Tang laughed.
“He will only succeed to the throne if you succeed first, MadameLi. First, you must successfully accomplish your mission in Paris.”
“Tell me. Please don’t make me wait to read it.”
“The assassination of Prime Minister Honfleur and President Bocquet of France has been approved at the highest level.”
“I am flattered.”
“Who else would we trust to give the world a new Bonaparte?”
“I love my work.”
“General Moon will be delighted to hear that,” the major said, putting down his chopsticks. His handsome face and easy manner instantly lost all traces of levity. He stared at his principal assassin with flashing black eyes.
