by Ted Bell
“And deep pockets until Jackie O came along. How much, Hubert?” He found it amusing that they were already on a first-name basis.
“This piece, I would estimate one hundred thousand U.S. dollars. More or less. But this is the gem of the collection, if you’ll excuse my humor. A pair of ruby and diamond earclips, mounted by Cartier, once owned by the duchess of Windsor and—”
“I’ll take it.” He looked at his watch.
“Which one?”
“All of them. At the pre-auction price.”
“Parfaitement, madame!”
“Will you take a check?” he asked, bending over to get to the bag at his feet.
“Certainly. A quick call to your bank, madame. To verify the funds. And then we should be delighted.”
Instead of the bag, he chose the umbrella. Still hidden behind the desk, he quickly removed a nearly invisible plastic protector from the sharpened tip. He could see Hubert from the waist down. His knees were apart and his shiny little shoes were bouncing up and down with excitement over the impending sale of the complete Maria Callas collection.
He drove the umbrella tip deep inside Hubert’s groin. The dioxin-tipped steel point found the artery. It was only a matter of seconds. The dosage was ten times that used on Ukrainian opposition leader Yevchenko in fall 2004. Yevchenko had been a failed Te-Wu experiment in collaboration with the Ukrainian secret police. He had lived. Poor little Hubert would not.
Hubert fell backward in his chair, expelling a whuff of air, and then he was around the desk and on the man, his hand clamped over his mouth. Hubert had gone instantly into shock, as expected, and his pulse was racing. Madame Li waited for the poison to take effect, watching the sweep second hand of his new watch. He’d found that if the surprise was wholly unexpected and sufficiently brutal, they seldom made much noise. The little man went slack and Madame Li got up quickly and returned to his bag.
He removed the rifle and quickly assembled it, taking great pride and pleasure in the doing. The matte black weapon was Austrian, a Steyr, 7.62mm, with a lightweight polymer stock, and most suitable for effective engagement of targets up to fifteen hundred feet or less. The Scout Tactical model also had a low-magnification scope—only 2.5X but ideal for quick target acquisition at short and medium distances. It was a lovely toy and perfect for the occasion. Chosen with care by those who do care.
Checking to ensure that Hubert had expired (he had), Madame Li moved to the window. He’d noticed the old-fashioned window sashes earlier and the book lying on the sill, obviously used to prop up the window whenever Hubert felt warm. It was a feeling he was rapidly losing now, but Madame Li would be gone long before the corpse had gone cold. The carefully planned escape route assumed a damaged elevator. The service stairway led to a door on a back alley. The confusion of a prearranged bomb would ensure he was out and window shopping before anyone made it to the fourth floor.
He lifted the window three feet off the sill. It stayed there. The private street alongside the palace was empty.
At the near end of the deserted street, just below on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a cordon of uniformed tactical police. The far end of the street, which led in the direction of the Champs Elysées, disappeared into the trees of the palace gardens. He found it fascinating that the French president and his guests took walks along such a route. Luca Bonaparte, buying some bauble for his current mistress, had stood not long ago at this very window, and had seen Queen Elizabeth strolling her spaniels unaccompanied by security. And it had given him a very good idea.
Madame Li pulled a cell phone from his red bag and turned it on. The signal bars came right up to strength.
At half past ten, two men, one large and jovial, one hunched over and apprehensive, appeared at a side door to the palace. They paused and acknowledged the police and a small crowd of citizens who’d gathered to gawk at all the hubbub. Even without the scope, Madame Li could see the Sultan of Oman’s terrified expression. And the confident glow of the prime minister of France, Honfleur. The tall, sleek Frenchman, who towered over the sheik, then put his left hand on the Arab’s shoulder and steered him up the empty street. Half of the police on the line watched their progress intently.
The other half now turned in place to face the street, their faces swiveling side to side. Periodically, their eyes would rise to check the windows of the storefronts opposite. Madame Li stayed far enough away from the window so as to be in shadow. From his vantage point, he could see an ice cream truck, its bell chiming, rolling slowly up the street. The truck rolled to a stop in the street just below the director’s window. The driver got out and vanished into the crowd.
It was time.
He punched the number that Bonaparte had given into the phone. Star-one-seven-eight-nine. Just before he hit “send,” the significance of the number 1789 dawned on him. Of course! The year of France’s great Revolution. He smiled and thumbed the green send button.
Boom, he said softly, just before the explosion rocked the street and the nearby buildings.
The walls of Mr. Sotheby’s building shook and the windows on the ground floor exploded inward. Everyone in Reception was probably dead. Madame Li, raising his rifle, stepped to the window. On the street below, chaos. Flames erupted from the black and twisted hulk of the ice cream truck and thick black smoke smelling of burned fuel, plastic, and other less pleasant things rose upward. The small crowd and the cordon of police were down, dead or wounded in the street, but Madame Li had his right eye pressed to the rubber eyepiece of the scope and he had eyes only for Honfleur.
The prime minister was frozen in place. Through the scope you could see the fear and panic in his eyes. The sultan, surely sensing what was actually happening here, dove to the pavement.
Madame Li squeezed the Steyr’s trigger and fired. The round literally blew the Frenchman’s head off. And opened the floodgates of what some French historians would later term the Second Terror.
Chapter Twenty-five
Hampstead Heath
“GENTLEMAN FOR YOU, MR. CONGREVE,” MAY PURVIS SAID, coming out into the garden. It was the early morning following Hawke’s near-death experience and Ambrose was sitting outside in the bright sunshine. He had a good picture going. It was a study of the crabapple tree that stood outside his kitchen window. It was not in flower now, but Ambrose was dabbing on scads of pink and white blossoms anyway, clouds of them. His artistic philosophy was simple: Paint things the way they should look.
It’s not the truth, but what you believe to be the truth that is important in art. That was his opinion, anyway. Never let the truth get in the way of a good painting. Or a good story, for that matter.
Like his great hero Winston Churchill, Ambrose Congreve used the very delicate art of watercolor not only for self-expression but also as a meditative medium. A release from all his worldly cares. He had slipped into the trance. The Zone. He had not heard the front-door bell.
“Whom shall we say is calling, Mrs. Purvis?” he asked, trying to mask his irritation at the intrusion. His housekeeper had been filling her basket with apples for a cobbler she was making for his pudding. This simple act had inspired his painting.
He was making good progress and any interruption was unwelcome. At any rate, he certainly wasn’t expecting anyone at his door this early on a Sunday morning. It simply wasn’t done. It wasn’t civilized. It wasn’t—
“It would be his lordship, sir. Lord Hawke.”
“Ah! Splendid!” A visit from Alex was another matter. Ambrose had been dying to show off his new digs. “Would you just bring him out here to the garden? See if he wants anything. Tea. Coffee, perhaps.”
“I should certainly expect he wants something, sir. He’s—”
“Eggs. Or, on second thought, lemons.”
“Lemons?”
“He eats lemons.”
“Sir! Lord Hawke is on the telephone!”
“Good lord! Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Mr
s. Purvis shook her head and returned to the kitchen. Ambrose, muttering, went round the far side of the house, through the rose garden, and entered by the exterior door to his study. He grabbed his pipe, plopped down into his worn leather chair, and picked up the receiver.
“Hullo, Alex,” he said into the phone.
“Ambrose. What are you doing for lunch?”
“Painting it.”
“Well, drop that. You need to meet me at Harry’s at one.”
“You sound—stressed.”
“Someone tried to kill me last night. Failed miserably. I’ll fill you in over a plate of Harry’s spaghetti. Meanwhile, Brick Kelly is back in town. He wants to meet with us. Urgently.”
“Us?”
“He specifically asked that you be there. You’ve read the Paris Deuxième case file I gave you?”
“I have.”
“So. Your crystalline logic and supernatural powers of deduction. What do they tell you?”
“Riddled with discrepancies. Pages missing. Erasures. An unsolved murder needs solving. I suppose I could drive the Morgan into town.”
“Brilliant. See you at one.”
“Wait! Who tried to kill you? You can’t let me just hang out to—”
“A tout à l’heure, mon ami,” Hawke said and rang off.
Harry’s Bar is one of London’s better-kept secrets. It’s a private club and there’s no name on the door, which may account for its lack of notoriety. Congreve was shown by a gentleman in black tie to a quiet table in the rear of the front room. Harry’s walls were washed pale yellow and hung with framed vintage cartoons from The New Yorker magazine. Sounded odd, but the effect was cheery and cozy nonetheless. Approaching, he saw Alex and Kelly huddled deep in conversation. He was sure that Kelly had reserved the surrounding tables as well and that, if anyone showed up to be seated nearby, they were armed employees of the United States government.
“Ambrose!” Kelly said, getting to his feet and shaking Congreve’s hand. “Hawkeye and I were just speaking of you.”
The tall, slender man had a quiet, gracious, slightly rumpled manner. There was a lot of steel behind that honeyed Jeffersonian demeanor, Ambrose knew, but Brick Kelly was damned if he’d let it show through.
“Hello, Brick,” Ambrose said, taking the man’s hand. “I’ve just heard on the radio about the French prime minister. Honfleur. Another assassination at the top of the French government. It’s all over the news. Good lord.”
“Yes, it’s all getting very dicey. International consternation of this kind could easily lead to war. Anyway, I’m so glad you could come. We’ll speak of it at lunch. You can be of great help in this matter, Ambrose.”
“Greetings, Constable Congreve,” Hawke said, smiling and shaking his hand. “And, how did you and your beloved Lemony Snicket perform on the highways and byways this morning?”
“Lemony Snicket?”
“Your new automobile.”
“I have dubbed it the Yellow Peril, as you well know, Alex, and it performed splendidly. A magnificent machine. What on earth has happened to your head?”
The maître d’ pulled out the one empty chair and Congreve sat. Hawke was breezily indifferent to the fact that he had a white gauze bandage swaddled round his head. Only Hawke could manage to make the whole affair look faintly piratical. All he needed was an eye patch.
“I was just telling Brick,” Hawke said. “Amazing thing. An acquaintance of mine tried to snuff me last night. Took one to the temple. Superficial, but it knocked me silly. I’ll have a nice scar, according to the doctor who sewed me up. Bloody female came into my house under false pretenses and pulled a gun. Damn near killed me.”
“She missed,” Kelly said by way of explanation to Congreve. “I’m trying to find out why.”
“I hit her first. With a chair. Spoilt her aim, but she nicked me. She conceded the match and left before I could ring the local constabulary.” It wasn’t quite true; he’d thrown her out after taking the gun. And he could not remember whether or not he’d called the police. He’d meant to, he was sufficiently alarmed, but in his woozy state he wasn’t sure he’d gotten round to it. Still, Hawke didn’t want to be seen as softhearted in this particular company.
“You hit a woman with a chair?” Ambrose said.
“Yes, I did. And I’m proud of it,” Hawke said.
“Some old flame of yours? Is she a stalker?” Brick asked.
Hawke said, “She is if she comes back. Right now she’s simply mad as a hatter. By the way, Constable, she’s Chinese. We are both being stalked by Oriental ladies with a view to a kill.”
“Does this thinly veiled coincidence raise a question in your mind, Alex?” Ambrose said, sipping from his water goblet and opening his menu. He was famished.
“Yes,” Hawke said. “Mere coincidence, do you think?”
“I think not. Perhaps they are sisters. Twin sisters.”
“Sisters. There’s a thought. I seem to recall something about—never mind, I’ve lost it.”
“Sisters. Yes. Even twins,” Ambrose said. “Evil twins, one might say. One trying to kill you, the other, me. Be careful, Alex. I have a very bad feeling about all this. We’re all suffering from some kind of China Syndrome, in my opinion.”
“Just the subject young Brick and I were getting round to,” Hawke said. “You’ll be interested to hear what Brick has to say on the subject of our inscrutable Chinese friends.”
“Try me,” Congreve said, “as soon as we’ve ordered a beverage.”
Kelly signaled to one of the hovering waiters and drinks orders were given. No one seemed to be having a cocktail, so Ambrose quietly ordered a Bloody Bull while no one was looking. No celery stick or olives or anything that smacked of booze, he whispered in the waiter’s ear. The whole world might have ceased to drink at luncheon, but that didn’t mean one had to act the sheep and follow the flock. Ambrose Congreve had long decided he would remain steadfast in his habits, albeit quiet about it.
The director made a tent of his fingers, looked at each of them over it with his keen blue eyes, and said, “Let me tell you what’s going on in this little world of ours. We have, I’m very sad to say, a rapidly deteriorating situation. America’s position in this thing is extremely perilous. In short, China, using this new French regime for cover, is about to make a grab for America’s most precious commodity. It could easily push us right to the brink.”
“War?” Congreve said, and Kelly nodded gravely.
“It certainly may come to that, if we’re not very smart about it. It’s a bit complicated, Chief Inspector.”
Hawke said, “Let’s start with France, Brick. In addition to the latest assassination, I heard on the television this morning that France is considering sending troops, lots of them, into Oman. At the express invitation of the sultan. Who, by the way, disappeared from the face of the earth just after the announcement.”
“What?” Ambrose said. “That sounds like an invasion to me.”
“It’s not an invasion when you’re invited in by the host country,” Kelly replied. “But, I don’t buy it. Neither does the president. I think somebody, namely this madman Bonaparte, put a gun to the sultan’s head. I can’t prove it, of course. That’s where you two come in.”
“I think the bloody French have finally lost their minds completely,” Ambrose said. “It’s outrageous!”
Kelly stared at Congreve for a few long moments before he spoke. There was a softness in his eyes that was remarkable.
“We Americans have a long and complicated relationship with France,” Kelly said with his trademark diplomacy, lowering his voice even further. “The secretary of state has likened it to two hundred years of marriage counseling.”
“It hasn’t worked,” Hawke said, sipping his water. “Somebody better call Raoul Felder.”
“Who?” said Ambrose.
“Famous American divorce lawyer,” Hawke said, smiling at Brick.
“First things first, Alex,” Brick said
. “Bonaparte has disappeared the sultan. And his family. We need to find him and get the truth out of him. End this charade before France invades. Save them from themselves, if we can.”
“You want me to find out where the sultan is.”
“Exactly. We think Boney has stashed him somewhere. Someplace remote, I imagine. Your job is to find him and get the truth out of him. America has its hands full in the Gulf right now. Iraq, Iran, Syria. We can’t be seen as having any involvement with this. So, you can’t—”
“I’ve been down this road, Brick. I know how it works.”
Kelly nodded and said, “I assume—do you two know about the submarine disaster off Sri Lanka?”
“What happened, Brick?” Hawke asked, suddenly grave.
“It happened last evening. The USS Jimmy Carter. One of our Sea-wolf class of attack subs. The most heavily armed sub ever built and our premier spy sub. Designed for Naval Special Warfare and as a test platform for some radical new submarine espionage technology. She had the ability to tap undersea cables and eavesdrop on the communications passing through them.”
“And?” Hawke said.
“Down with all hands.”
“Good lord. Accidental?” Congreve said.
“God knows at this point. There were a few garbled transmissions from the sub and then we lost all radio and sonar contact. But right before she disappeared, she was being tracked by an Agosta-B, that new-generation French sub France is trying to peddle to Pakistan.”
“So what happened down there, Brick?” Alex asked.
“Typical cat-and-mouse stuff. Happens all the time. No weapons were fired. And to their credit, the French are actually aiding in the search. It’s possible it was a tragic accident. But, with the mood in Washington right now—it’s tense.”
The drinks arrived and the director stopped talking while the waiter served them. After taking a sip of his cocktail, Congreve resumed the conversation.
“Those poor lads,” he said, raising his glass. “And they’ve all got mothers. I must say that what simply astounds me is the unmitigated chutzpah of these sodding French. Here they are, throwing their weight around like a superpower, taking potshots at Alex here—somebody should smack them good, I say.”
