Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  “Mais oui,” the guy said, “c’est formidable, le Valkryie. You are Americain, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yeah, Ameri-can. I like that. Put the accent on the last syllable. Who can? Ameri-can! We ought to try that. You guys are French, unless I’m very much mistaken?”

  “Mais certainement, monsieur,” the French guy said, as if this were so damn obvious he couldn’t believe anybody was even dumb enough to ask the question. “My name is Marcel.”

  “Stokely Jones, nice to meet you. In that case, Marcel, let me ask you a question. Why the hell does everybody over here in Europe call this stuff I’m drinking here ‘Coke Light’ instead of Diet Coke the way we call it in the U.S. of A.? You got any thoughts on that? Maybe it’s a marketing thing. Just curious. I had a hell of a time figuring it out. Almost died of thirst.”

  “Pardon, monsieur? I don’t understand.”

  “No? Well, I mean, it’s confusing. Let’s take Bud Light, for example, what we Americans call the low-calorie Bud. You guys call that Diet Bud? I mean, just for instance.”

  The woman huffed out something that sounded like Oof! and turned away to look at the sunset. It did wonders for her transparent white blouse but Stoke didn’t stare because the French guy was looking at him funny. Wanted to say something but not sure what. Like he couldn’t get his mouth hooked up to his brain. Husband, Stoke decided. Definitely husband. Oh, well.

  Having just about exhausted his small talk repertoire, Marcel lobbed a lame one from the foul line, saying, “You are staying at the Hotel du Cap, Monsieur Jones?”

  “Me? Way out of my price range. No, I myself like to keep it low key. I’m up at the Plage Publique.”

  “The Public Beach?” The two of them looked at each other.

  “You’ve heard of it, huh? Great views of the ocean. Cheap, too.”

  “I would imagine so, monsieur,” the guy said. “Oof.” Oof was a big word in France, Stoke figured.

  “Well, I guess I’ll let you guys circulate,” Stoke said to him and began to move away. He stopped and looked at the guy over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Marcel, you know what French word I really like?” Stoke said. “Sangfroid. Sang-fwa. Love to say that word. Ice in your veins. I can relate to that. Nice talking to you. Keep it real, you two.”

  Stoke made his way over to the starboard side and stood for a moment admiring the cockpit. The electronics and navionics and shit. Big flat-screen TV monitor in front of each wheel, which was something to see. Color GPS, weather sat, and radar displays. Underwater camera showing the bottom just below the boat in real time. Stoke looked at that for a second, thinking about why they might have that. Security? Maybe they did underwater exploration. Treasure hunters, maybe. Something.

  He noticed the couple he’d been chatting with talking to a toady little man in a white jacket with brass buttons and epaulets and stuff. Looked like a baby admiral. He had two goons with him, big blond Teutonic types, muscle boys, wearing tight black T-shirts and shorts. The duke and duchess were holding their hands up in front to shield their mouths while they talked to the guy, but they kept looking over at Stoke so he could pretty well imagine who they were talking about.

  The little egg-shaped admiral bobbed his head up and down. He had an expression of grave concern on his pink face as he headed through the crowd in Stoke’s direction. The two storm troopers were right behind him.

  “May I help you, monsieur?” he asked in a not-too-friendly way, moving close to Stoke so nobody could overhear him. That meant he had to crane his head way the hell back to look all the way up at Stoke’s face.

  “Help me? With what?”

  That seemed to throw him.

  “Are you finding everything you need?” he said. Translation, even though he was speaking plain, heavily accented English, I think you’re at the wrong party, dude.

  “Am I finding everything I need,” Stoke said, smiling at the guy and putting one of his huge hands on the guy’s shoulder as a display of international friendship. “Well, that’s a damn good question and the answer is no, I’m not. Let me ask you something.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Where all the black folks at?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Black folks. Brothers. Negroes. Where can I find them?”

  The little guy was starting to puff up like an overheated pastry.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I do not understand.”

  “That’s all right,” Stoke said, patting the guy on the back. He tried to be gentle but he thought he heard ribs cracking. “My name is Stokely Jones, Jr. You may have heard of my family. The West 138th Street Joneses of New York City? Ring a bell? No? We the ones everybody always trying to keep up with.”

  “Monsieur, I beg your pardon, but I—”

  “Am I on the right yacht? Maybe I read this thing wrong,” Stoke said, pulling the invitation Alex had given him out of his breast pocket. “It’s in French so I may be mixed up. Here, you read it, see what you think.”

  The guy got all wide-eyed.

  “You are Lord Alexander Hawke, monsieur?” the guy said, moving his lips while he read. Eyes, too, moving from the name handwritten on the card up to Stoke’s face and then back at the invitation.

  “Hell, no, I ain’t!” Stoke laughed, pounding the guy so hard on the shoulder he almost drove him straight down through the teak deck. “But that’s a good one! Am I Alex Hawke? I gotta remember to tell him that one!”

  “Well, then—”

  “I work for the man. He couldn’t make it tonight so he gave me his invitation. That’s his boat over there. See it? The big black one all lit up and shit. Kinda blocking out the horizon. Called Blackhawke. Hell, we’re practically neighbors.”

  “You are Lord Hawke’s guest.” His mood brightened considerably at this idea.

  “Technically,” Stoke said. “But, since it’s your boat, not. In reality, I’m your guest. See what I’m saying?”

  “Well—”

  “Listen. No harm done, Admiral. I’m not insulted. Hell, don’t even think about it. Skin thicker than a New York City phone book. Yellow Pages. Hey, question, all right? Where’s the host at? You ain’t him, are you?”

  “Certainly not, monsieur, I am the second chief steward aboard Valkyrie. My name is Bruno. The owner, Baron von Draxis, he is up on the bow. Giving a warm and welcoming toast to our guests at this moment. And unveiling an oil portrait of his newest project. An ocean liner. The world’s largest. She will be launched at Le Havre in a few short weeks.”

  “Really? I’d like to catch that welcome toast. I love German warmth. But, listen, Bruno, do me a favor. I’m kind of a boat guy myself. Navy SEALs, shit like that. Do you think I could get a stem-to-stern tour of this thing? Just you and me?”

  Stoke discreetly slipped a single Euro note into the guy’s breast pocket, sticking out right behind his little puffed-out polka-dot hanky. Bruno looked down at it, saw it was five hundred smackers. He looked around, then shoved the note down in his pocket.

  “I should be delighted, monsieur. Shall we start here at the stern?”

  “Certainly. Who are your two friends here?” Stoke said, smiling at the huge evil twins and sticking his hand out to the one on the left.

  “Guten abend,” the guy said. He sounded like a German Barry White.

  “Where are my manners? Damn! I didn’t even say hello. How you doing? Stokely Jones, Jr., is my name. What’s yours?”

  “Arnold,” the guy said, trying vainly to pulverize Stoke’s hand. Stoke managed to extract it without permanent nerve damage and offer it to the other guy.

  “Stokely Jones, nice to meet you.”

  “Arnold,” the second guy said.

  “You’re Arnold, too? That must get confusing.”

  Bruno said, “They are in charge of the baron’s security. Arnold and—”

  “Listen, Admiral. Tell the two Arnolds you’ll catch up with them later. Got it? We’ll start at this end of the boat and work our way to the beg
inning. Lead on, Bruno,” Stoke said, “I’ll follow you.”

  “Very good, Mr. Jones.”

  “Auf wiedersehen,” Stoke said, waving good-bye to the two Arnolds. And he really did get the feeling he’d be seeing them again.

  Bruno led the way, grinning with pleasure, and gave Stokely a running description of everything they saw. The big stern section that swung open hydraulically, where they kept a whole lot of silver-painted wave-riders and two Riva launches. The walnut-paneled smoking room, the card room, the screening room, the antique-filled interiors designed, naturally, by the famous Luigi di Luigi of Milano and shit like that. The Bagni Volpi sheets, the Descamps towels, all those good-life things you saw in magazines.

  Stoke wasn’t too impressed by much of what he saw below. All boats, no matter how much money you throw at them, are pretty much the same below decks. Long passageways with closed cabin doors on either side. The galley, full of smiling Italian cooks and waiters, always happy to have visitors. A monstrous sparkling engine room where the chief engineer and his mates gave detailed information regarding the two massive diesels. It was, in Stoke’s view, the most beautiful room on the boat. But Stoke had no time for that now.

  “Where’s this baron bunk his ass?” Stoke asked the admiral, gently squeezing his shoulder in a conspiratorial way.

  “Ah, he has a full beam owner’s stateroom just up at the end of this passageway. Afraid it’s off limits just at this moment.”

  “Really? Why’s that?” Stoke kept moving, leading them down the corridor leading forward until they reached the wide double doors.

  “Surely you can understand that—”

  “Man got to have his privacy, yeah, I can understand that. Question. What’s below our feet? You got enough space down there for four or five New York City buses.”

  “It’s just the bilges, very boring. Storage, fuel tanks. We motor a lot, so we have to carry many tons of fuel. Nothing very interesting, I assure you.”

  “I’m already interested. So, how you get down there? I’ve been looking for a stairway or elevator.”

  “I assure you it wouldn’t be of interest.”

  “Maybe some other time, then. Hey, listen, this has been great. Fabulous. I’ve got to run along now, but I’d love you to do me a favor.” Stoke fished inside his wallet. The guy rose like a trout.

  “Of course, sir, how may I be of further assistance?”

  “I really am dying to see the man’s bedroom, see,” Stoke said, putting a thousand-Euro note in the leaping hand. “I’m redoing one of my client’s staterooms. Looking for decorating ideas, you understand. You don’t need to stick around, just open it up for me and get back to your guests, okay?”

  “Well—”

  “Our little secret, Bruno old pal. Don’t worry. Somebody sees me, I just got lost looking for the head.”

  “You’re an interior decorator?”

  “More of an interior designer. You may have heard of my firm. Jones and Jones of New York? I like these chairs, covered in white leather. Good look.”

  “It’s not exactly leather,” Bruno said. “It’s the skin of whale scrotums.”

  “Whale scrotums?” Stoke said. “See, that’s exactly the kind of decorating input I’m looking for!”

  “The owner’s thinking of doing these companionway walls in aqua. What do you think?”

  “Bad idea.”

  “Really? How do you possibly know that without seeing it?”

  “Tricks of the trade, Bruno. I don’t have to throw up on the shag to know it’s going to look bad.”

  “Monsieur Jones, I can see you are a man of exquisite taste. Just don’t be too long in there. Five minutes, maximum.”

  “Max,” Stoke said. “I’m not good, but I’m fast.”

  The little guy inserted a card into the reader and the thick, varnished mahogany door hissed open an inch. Soundproof, Stoke thought.

  “Merci beaucoup, partner,” Stoke whispered over his shoulder, pushing the door open and then closing it behind him.

  The light was very dim but he was aware of beautiful paneling and what seemed like leather tiles beneath his feet. Leather floors! Now, that was serious decorating. The port lights were all shut and what light there was came from very low ambient fixtures hidden in the ceiling and bookcases. There was the dark shape of a large square bed against the far wall. Some kind of sheer curtains glimmering around it. A figure in black lay across the rumpled sheets. She was crying, sobbing softly into the pillow.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Stoke said, approaching the bed.

  “Who are you?” she whispered in a fierce hiss. “Get out! I’ll call someone!”

  “Take it easy,” Stoke said, holding up his hand and backing away. He had no interest in explaining his presence here. “I’m just a guy who got lost during the grand tour and—what the—”

  He’d reached out to pull the sheer curtains back when his fingers brushed cold metal. The bed was surrounded on all three sides by pencil-thin metal rods that disappeared up into the ceiling. Stainless steel by the look of them, about an inch apart.

  The bed was a cage.

  And the woman caged inside was badly hurt. What Stoke had taken for dark clothing was in fact a blood-soaked sheet she’d wound around her torso.

  “I’m going to get you out of here, is what I’m going to do,” Stoke said, squeezing his fingers between two of the bars to confirm what he’d seen. Solid steel rods, all right. “You’re hurt. You’re in some kind of cage. You need a doctor.”

  “Who the hell are you?” she said, her voice ragged, druggy, and, come to think of it, not very damn appreciative.

  “My name is Stokely Jones. Friend of Alex Hawke.”

  “Alexander Hawke?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Who are you?”

  “Jet.”

  “Jet? Tell me something, Jet. That cage supposed to keep you in or other folks out?”

  “Both.”

  “Okay, Jet, it’s a little weird, but I’ll go with it. Tell me, what’s the magic word that gets you out of the joint? You look like a girl longing to be free.”

  “Come here. Closer. Into the light. Let me see you.”

  “Awright,” Stoke said, and did.

  “My God, you are huge.”

  “Big.”

  “You’re the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Glandular condition. How do I get you out of there?”

  “There is a remote over there by the television. Next to that silver ice bucket.”

  “A remote?” Stoke said, shaking his head as he moved across the Italian leather tiles. He picked up the silver remote and pushed a couple of buttons. On the third try, the steel cage structure retracted silently into the ceiling and he dropped the remote into his jacket pocket.

  Man, these rich people were into some weird shit.

  Whale scrotums.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paris

  MADAME LI ENCOUNTERED ONLY MODERATE HEADWINDS EN route from Hong Kong to Charles de Gaulle and his BA 747 arrived at the gate twenty minutes early. British Air had been lovely. They’d done something marvelous to the first-class seating arrangements since he’d last flown the carrier. He’d had his preferred placement, Seat 4-D, the bulkhead window.

  And now, when he’d finished his meal and was ready for sleep, an elegantly molded wooden partition rose up between him and the aisle seat at the push of a button. His seat had reclined to full horizontal and he’d curled up under a soft duvet cover and slept like a little angel.

  Well, he thought, giggling silently, perhaps not exactly like an angel.

  I love Paris…

  The assassin breezed through Customs. After all, he held a diplomatic passport and the only thing he’d carried aboard was a valise containing his makeup, peignoir, and a few unmentionables. First thing in the morning, he was going to his favorite Chanel emporium near the Place Vendôme and pick up the requisite wardrobe for his stays in Paris and London.

>   He had his eye on a nice tweed suit he’d seen in the new Vogue on the airplane. He always bought ready-to-wear. And it was his practice to call ahead and give his sizes, changing rooms in Paris salons being so problematic. He’d had to kill more than one saleswoman who’d barged in at an inopportune moment. Messy.

  Yes, a tweed suit, perhaps in black. With his white coif and pearls, he’d be ready for anything. And anybody.

  It was Saturday morning, clear and cool, when he stepped outside Terminal One. He was glad he’d brought the mink stole and he pulled it snug round his shoulders. He stood on the curbside for a few moments, eyes moving from side to side, a wealthy woman looking for her driver.

  Not two minutes later, a German Maybach limousine slid to a stop in front of him, as long and black as a hearse. Diplomatic flags, one of them French, were mounted on the fenders just above the headlights. The other flag was one of the small Middle Eastern countries, though he couldn’t remember which.

  A thick armored door swung out and from within a deep voice said, “Get in.”

  Get in? So much for diplomatic courtesy and politesse. Madame Li was, after all, on a trade mission from Beijing. Her presence here was at the behest of the Chinese Politburo. The historic “meetings” she would hold with France’s leadership in the next two days were matters of grave international importance, were they not? Her mission here in Paris could change the face of Europe forever. She was not unaware of her place in history.

  And somebody, frankly he didn’t care who it was, was telling him to “Get in”? In French-accented Chinese?

  “That is certainly no way to address a lady, Comrade,” Madame Li said as he climbed up and into the dark cavern at the rear of the automobile. There were two men inside, and he sat in one of the rearward-facing seats. It was obvious which one was Bonaparte; he looked like a tall, thin version of his famous ancestor. Olive skin, brooding expression. The other fellow was heavily muscled and looked immensely strong. The hard plates of his skull at first appeared to be devoid of hair, but now he saw that it was covered in fine red-gold down.

  This would be the German, von Draxis, the man General Moon had charged with taming the wild daughter Jet. He looked fully capable of taming anything short of a herd of charging rhinos.