Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  “No other hints of any sort? Nothing at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nothing for it, then. I’ll enter the ring unarmed.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Goodnight then, old soul. Trudge ever upward and onward in pursuit of your dreams. Don’t wait up on my account. The lady and I are old friends, you see. We may sit up half the night recounting with unbridled joy the many shared adventures of yore.”

  Pelham looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable as always. He dissolved away.

  “Goodnight, m’lord,” Pelham said, over his shoulder, drifting upward.

  “Yes. It’s the sleep of innocents for you, Plummie, my lad.”

  Hawke smiled at his retreating back. “Plummie” was his boyhood name for his old friend. Hadn’t thought of it in years. He turned round, headed across the black-and-white marble floors of the dining room and toward the library. Pulling open the door, he saw her in ivory profile, staring into the fire. It was Jet, all right. She was perched on the edge of the large sofa, an overstuffed monstrosity covered in pale blue satin.

  She looked quite as beautiful as he remembered. Pelham had taken her rainwear. Her damp hair, now dyed platinum blond, was slicked back and she was wearing a turquoise cowl top over tight-fitting yellow pants. A black raw silk shawl was draped round her bare white shoulders. Not at all dressed for the weather, but that, he remembered, was her style.

  “Hello,” Hawke said. “I see you’ve got a drink.”

  “Yes.” It was hardly the warm expression of gratitude one might expect on a night like this.

  “You don’t seem happy to see me. Pity, when you’ve come all this way. I’m sorry about Cannes.”

  He was trying to be light, but to tell the truth he was uneasy. Suddenly suspicious. He wasn’t at all sure of her motive for being here. Had he really offended her so horribly? Perhaps he could have forewarned her he wouldn’t be able to spend the night at the Carlton. Quick had seen her watching him from the balcony. Perhaps—oh, hell! If he smoked, he could have lit a cigarette now. Tamped down his pipe. Done something with his bloody hands.

  “You are sorry? That’s surprising.” Her voice was flat. “What on earth do you have to be sorry about? You’re alive.”

  “I mean—leaving so quickly.”

  “Leaving? Cannes?” she said, looking at him with a most curious expression. “You were on a mission, after all.”

  “Right. I’m glad you understand that. I assumed when I saw you up on my balcony that—well, then, I think I’ll fix myself a drink. A martini should do it.”

  He went to the drinks table and unstoppered the decanter of vodka. Poured two fingers into a tumbler and added ice cubes. Normally, he drank rum. But he felt a martini coming on.

  “You’re not surprised to see me?” she said, reaching into her bag. Her hair was gleaming in the firelight.

  “I am, actually.”

  “I didn’t think anyone would let me in. My idea was to lure you outside. I assumed you’d call the police. You’re not as clever as I’ve been led to believe.”

  “Not let you inside? I’m not that cold-hearted. A woman out in the rain on a night like this.” He turned to face her. He’d been more than accommodating. He wouldn’t suffer this kind of rudeness from anyone, no matter how beautiful.

  “Tell me something. Why have you come here?”

  “I thought it was the simplest option. I believe in the direct approach. Save you all the trouble of looking for me.”

  “You flatter yourself. I haven’t been looking for you.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got half of Scotland Yard on my trail.”

  “What? Good God, woman, what kind of a man do you think—”

  “My father sent me, Lord Hawke. He wanted me to give you this.”

  Hawke was so stunned at the sudden appearance of the gun that she almost got him. In that brief paralysis of incomprehension, she fired once, twice, the silencer deadening the sound to a spitting noise, and the paneling just above his head splintered, wood and plaster spraying all around him. He hurled himself sideways and hit the floor. Then he was up and lunging for the blue sofa. It was the only cover available.

  The woman turned to raise the gun again, tugging furiously at it. The silencer had caught in her shawl.

  Hawke was on his feet, circling round the sofa.

  “What exactly is this about?” he said.

  “This is about Harry Brock. You remember him.”

  “You’re crazy, woman. Put the bloody gun down. Now.”

  “You think you can thwart my father’s will, Hawke. You fucking Brits and Americans.” She was scuttling behind the desk, trying to keep it between them and buy herself a few precious seconds.

  “Your father? What the hell has he got to do with this?”

  “You have crossed the Yangtze one too many times.”

  “Ah, that’s it.”

  Hawke used this time to snatch up a small gilded chair. He raised it above his head and moved forward.

  “Drop it,” he said, but at that instant she got the damn gun free and pointed it at his head. He crashed the chair down, caught the side of her head, saw a flash of light and felt a blinding pain in his temple. He grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to spin her round. She twisted away. God, she was strong! He managed to catch one wrist and clamp it firmly, aiming the gun away from either of them. She stood there, spitting at him, hissing something in Chinese, and he took aim and high-kicked at the gun hand. The pistol sailed away.

  Her lips peeled back from her clenched teeth and a slow scream of frustration seemed to drain what was left in the woman. She relaxed her muscles, let it all go.

  “I’m going to release your arm, now. Do you promise to be a good girl and behave?”

  His head was throbbing and warm sticky fluid of a certain familiar shade was running into his eye. He felt unsteady but he wasn’t going to die anytime soon.

  “Get out,” he said, holding his hand fast to the wound to stanch the bleeding. “You’re mad! Get out of my bloody house.”

  Hawke bent to pick up her gun and put it in his pocket.

  They were both breathing hard. Neither spoke. Hawke felt dizzy, unsteady.

  “I said, leave,” Hawke said. Suddenly, it was very important that he get off his feet. Lie down somewhere. He couldn’t do that until Jet left his house. She was truly deranged. She might kill him if he passed out.

  “Look. I’ve no intention of calling the police. I’m sorry about Cannes. I was in a bit of a rush that night. I may have been a little abrupt. I apologize. Now, just please go.”

  She looked at him, trying to control her breathing.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, walking to the doorway. “You are the one who is insane.”

  “Me?”

  “You have me confused with someone, Lord Hawke. My sister, Jet.”

  “But—”

  “You haven’t seen the last of me. My sister’s heart got in the way. So my father sent the heartless one.”

  He barely heard this last. A red veil was coming down over his eyes. Not blood, that was outside. This was inside. His brain wasn’t processing new information. A few seconds later, he heard the muffled sound of the front door slamming shut. No car started. Either she’d walked from town or someone was waiting at the end of the drive.

  “You forgot your raincoat,” he said to the empty room. Then he fell down lengthwise on the blue sofa and passed out.

  He came to with the phone in his hand, the voice at the other end saying weakly, “Yes? Who’s there? This is Sergeant Smithers—the police station—who’s calling, please?”

  He woke, or regained consciousness, sometime before dawn. The tall windows opposite were still black. The lights in the library sconces were still burning brightly. He managed to get to his feet and stagger over to the desk. He collapsed into the chair he hadn’t broken. His memory of the moments before he passed
out were still fuzzy. He picked up the phone and speed-dialed Quick.

  Listening to the line ring at the other end, he noticed the front of his sweater was matted with thick blood. It had soaked his jeans and was in his moccasins, too. How much blood was in the human body? Oh, right. Ten pints. He didn’t think he’d lost quite that much.

  “Quick,” a voice said.

  “Tommy, it’s me,” Alex said.

  “Yes, sir. How are you, sir?”

  “Bloodied but unbowed. Is Stokely still aboard?”

  “Aye-aye, sir. He’s gone to bed, though.”

  “Put me through to his stateroom.”

  “Right away. You take care, sir. You don’t sound all that great.”

  Stoke, God bless him, picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, bossman.”

  “Stoke, listen carefully. You said you met Jet aboard the von Draxis yacht.”

  “I did.”

  “She was hurt. You brought her back to my boat and put her in sickbay.”

  “All true.”

  “Have you heard from von Draxis?”

  “Heard he wants me dead is all.”

  “When did Jet leave? Did she fly out of Nice?”

  “Leave? She didn’t leave.”

  “She didn’t leave.”

  “No, boss. She didn’t leave.”

  “She didn’t fly to London.”

  “She most definitely did not fly to London.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In her stateroom, I guess. Girl hasn’t left there since the doc let her out of sickbay two days ago.”

  “She’s in her room. Now. Aboard Blackhawke.”

  “Right. Just like I said. You okay, bossman? You don’t sound all that great.”

  “Everybody says that. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I dunno. About ten, eleven o’clock, maybe. I peeked my head in the door to say nighty-night on my way down here.”

  “And she was in her bed.”

  “In her bed, reading a book. You want to know which book?”

  “Stoke, look at your watch.”

  “Yeah. I’m looking at it—”

  “I want you to remember this precise moment in time. You can tell everybody that this is the exact moment when Alex Hawke lost his bloody mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Paris

  EARLY NEXT MORNING, MADAME LI SASHAYED DAINTILY OUT onto the pavement beneath the covered entrance of the Hotel George V, smiling at the bellmen in their crimson uniforms. He already enjoyed a reputation for tipping heavily and often; and the resulting bowing and scraping everywhere he went was joyous to behold. He was wearing a black Chanel suit and carrying his custom umbrella. On his head, a wide-brimmed black silk hat with veil. Dangling from his shoulder, his new bright-red Kelly bag. It was the largest one Hermès made and just the right size for all Madame’s essentials, the shopgirl had said.

  Oh, how right she was! Everything fit perfectly inside! But, my, wasn’t it heavy? Modern life had gotten so complicated. His necessities weighed almost ten pounds!

  The petite Chinese delegate made his way to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He quickly strode past the street’s glittering array of haute couture emporiums and jewels sparkling in every window. Directly across the street, the colorful windows of Christian Lacroix. And then the ultramodern shops of Yves St. Laurent, and then Valentino, and—no matter. He tripped right past them all without so much as a glance in the windows.

  No time to shop. He was a woman on a mission.

  At number 76, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, just a brisk walk from his hotel, he arrived at his destination. This was Sotheby’s, Paris, a bastion of Old World style and elegance. Auctioneer to kings. And to not a few old queens like himself, he giggled. He paused a moment and looked up at the exterior facade, then at the edifice just across the narrow street. The wistful smile he wore belied a busy mind. He was getting his line-of-sight bearings. Directly across the street from Sotheby’s, though he pretended not to notice, was the main entrance to the Elysée Palace. This was the ancient seat of government in France.

  He was not surprised to see the flurry of activity at the gate. Beyond the large black iron gates of the Elysée, a huge cobblestoned courtyard was visible. Many black cars were parked inside, many more official vehicles were lined outside, waiting to get in. Police and palace guards were everywhere, examining identification cards, inspecting vehicles both visually and with bomb dogs. Video uplink trucks parked along the curb. France 2, CNN, and Fox News. There was a huge press conference going on inside the Elysée. Rumors were flying.

  The sultan of Oman was set to stun the world in exactly twenty-six minutes. Having just received the prestigious Légion d’Honneur, he was going to announce that his country was inviting French troops into the capital city of Muscat, a drastic measure intended to put down an insurgency supported by the People’s Republic of Yemen against his government. Prime Minister Honfleur would then declare that France was proud to come to the aid of her old and valuable friend.

  He glanced at his Cartier tank watch. Almost ten. In fact, the sultan was probably making his way to the podium just about now. He walked through Sotheby’s door and made his way slowly to the reception desk. Two or three staffers were there, and he picked the one who looked most eager. An attractive boy, very well dressed, arranging catalogs for the upcoming show. He’d picked one up yesterday and enjoyed it immensely. The catalog, not the boy.

  “May I help you, madame?” the boy said as he approached and put his small, gloved hands on the glass counter.

  “Yes, you may,” he said with a small smile. “I’m interested in purchasing a few items. Before they come up at auction this evening.”

  “Mais oui, mais oui. Which items are you interested in, madame?”

  “The Maria Callas collection.”

  “Splendid. Callas. What a voice, what a marvelous woman. Her Rigoletto is still the standard. A soprano for the ages. You know, she died here in Paris in 1977. The Greek, Onassis, broke her heart when he married Mrs. Kennedy. You’ve seen our beautiful catalog, I take it? Magnificent jewels.”

  “Lovely.”

  “And, precisely which pieces is madame interested in purchasing?”

  “All of them.”

  “All of them?” The boy, a young Louis Jourdan, was taken aback but manfully determined to hide it. “The entire collection?”

  “Yes. All of it.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, in that case, let me just ring up to our director of fine jewels, madame. Monsieur Hubert Vedrine. Would you like to take a seat for a few moments? I’m sure Monsieur Vedrine will be right down.” The boy’s hand was trembling as he picked up the phone.

  “Splendid,” he said. He turned away to look through the window, humming a few bars from Gigi. He’d been singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” all morning long. His Maurice Chevalier had been realistic enough to startle the elevator operator at the George V out of his gloomy torpor.

  “Your name, s’il vous plaît?” the boy inquired.

  “Madame Li.”

  “Of the Chinese delegation? You are here for the afternoon Middle East conference?” He nodded discreetly in the direction of the palace across the street.

  “Mais oui, monsieur. Clever boy! How ever did you guess?”

  Ten minutes later, having taken the private elevator situated behind Reception up to the third floor in the company of Monsieur Vedrine, he was seated across a lovely Directoire desk from the Sotheby’s director. Like Li himself, the man was small and exquisitely attired. Starched white Charvet shirt and matching tie, navy thee-piece suit. He had a pencil-line mustache and heavily lidded soft green eyes. Their knees were almost touching under the desk and every now and then he would feel subtle pressure against his right knee. The man was actually flirting with him, he was sure of it. Men were such animals. Vedrine had even locked the door.

  He had trays of magnificent jewelry stacked by his right
hand. He would carefully remove a piece and place it on a black pillow just in front of Li, the facets brilliantly illuminated by a flexible halogen light. Madame Li was examining a ruby and diamond bracelet.

  “Her favorite piece,” Hubert said. “Cushion-shaped rubies and baguette diamonds. Callas had a marvellous eye.”

  “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.