Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  “He wouldn’t do that, Stoke. My father’s not that evil. He’s no mass murderer. I don’t think he—oh, god, I hope to hell you’re wrong.”

  “I think a bomb that big will take out the whole West Side of New York. And, what’s left of the city after the explosion will be flooded with dirty water. Radiation levels so bad no one can live there for at least ten years.”

  She looked up at him. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  “I can’t believe he’d do that, Stoke. Blow up the whole goddamn world. Even for my father, that’s complete, utter fucking insanity.”

  “Okay, Jet, tell me this. Do the French know about these bombs? Are they in on this?”

  “I don’t think so. This isn’t about France. France is fucking clueless. This is all about who rules the world, Stoke. It’s about China and America, dividing the spoils, upping the ante. In case you haven’t heard, the next world war is going to be over oil. We’re running out.”

  “Listen. You see that berth down there? Why don’t you go lie down for a few minutes? I’ll take the helm, okay? I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Need me?”

  “We got company, Jet. Back there. Couple of blue-light specials. This is a pretty crowded neighborhood and maybe I can lose ’em. I stowed some weapons under that berth. Two HK machine guns and a grenade launcher.”

  Stoke took the wheel and put the boat hard over to avoid a suddenly oncoming ferry. Jet ducked down into the little cabin and lifted up the cushion, moving very slowly and deliberately. She handed up one of the HKs, but she was clearly in shock. If he did need her, she wasn’t going to be much help.

  A rapidly blinking blue light had flickered across Stoke’s peripheral vision. Then it disappeared into the great floating city of barges, scows, and sampans. He thought he’d lost it. A minute later, they were everywhere. Two or three fast patrol boats, maybe more. He saw their flashing blue lights bearing down on Foo Fighter from astern and abeam, weaving through traffic at ridiculous speeds.

  He was smaller, though, and, he hoped, faster.

  He was sure more would be on the way any second now. Shit, General Moon would have the whole Chinese navy out here as soon as he came to his senses. Stoke leaned on the throttles, firewalling them. The answering roar and the little hull’s great leap forward was reassuring. The good news here was Foo Fighter was a screamer. He’d seen the chrome-plated heads and that big Holley hot-rod four-barrel carburetor sitting on top. He knew that big block Chevy V-8 might come in handy.

  He was running flat-out in open water now, a blurred neon skyline out his window, ahead the dark silhouettes of sampans moving on the water, merging into the darker mass. He was doing nearly fifty miles an hour, headed straight toward that big black wall. The almost solid city of sampans and ferries between him and Kowloon Harbor would be tough to navigate with the throttle wide open. But slowing down was definitely not an option. He leaned forward over the wheel, ignoring the rapidly gaining patrol boats, his concentration total.

  The window about six inches in front of his face exploded a second before he heard a sizzling round just below his left ear. Now he heard and felt the heavy thunk of rounds slamming into the transom and the deck behind him. They’d found his range all right.

  Oh, shit. He cranked the wheel hard to starboard and missed a big sampan by inches. He saw a hole in the black wall that loomed up in front of him. The alley created by two hulking barges was about six inches wider than his beam. A bullet in the back or collision at sea can ruin your day. But he didn’t slow down. He didn’t really have time for a shootout with Chinese gunboats right now. He had a plane to catch. And a phone call to make.

  Alex Hawke was in New York City. He was probably at New York Hospital this very minute, sitting in a room somewhere with Ambrose Congreve. He kept his left hand on the wheel and took out his sat phone. He and Hawke needed to have a very serious conversation.

  Right now.

  He put the wheel hard to port and Foo Fighter ducked down another blind alley at full bore.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  New York City

  “OH, HULLO,” AMBROSE CONGREVE SAID, HIS EYELIDS FLUTTERING. A wavering shape had mysteriously appeared at his bedside. Yesterday, he’d come into New York City from Southampton by ambulance. The surgery to remove the bullet from his spine took place at New York Hospital. That was six hours ago. Congreve’s voice was very weak, his face a kindred shade to the grey-white pillow beneath his head.

  “Is that you there, Alex?”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “You’re in New York City.”

  “Yes. I came just to see you.”

  “Oh. How am I?”

  “That’s what I came to find out. How are you?”

  “In hospital, I’m afraid. I, uh, had a bit of surgery.”

  “So I understand. It went very well, according to your doctor. How do you feel?”

  “All right, I suppose. My eyes are a bit wonky. Sleepy.”

  “Well, you’re still in the arms of morphine. You’ll be swell in the morning. The doctor assures me that with a little bed rest, you’ll make a full recovery. Back to fighting strength in no time, old scout.”

  “What pretty flowers. Dahlias. Who are they from?”

  “I believe they’re from Mrs. Purvis. The roses are from Ross Sutherland.”

  “Ah. Who’s that? In the chair?”

  “That’s Detective Mariucci. He and I have been getting acquainted while we waited for you to wake up.”

  “Whom is he talking to? I can’t hear what he’s saying. I don’t see anybody in the other chair.”

  “He’s on his mobile to someone in Washington. The game is afoot, as your idol Mr. Holmes would say.”

  “Watson. The game?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Is Diana here?”

  “She was. She’s been in that chair for the duration. I told her to go out and get some air. She should be back any minute.”

  “You met her?”

  “I did. She’s everything you said and more. Lovely woman. I’m very happy for you.”

  “She’s too good for me, Alex.”

  “That’s true, obviously, but I think given enough time she’ll bring you up to speed quite nicely.”

  Ambrose closed his eyes and whispered so softly that Alex had to bend down to hear, “What, when drunk, one sees in other women, I see in Diana, sober.” After that he made no sound. He’d drifted away again.

  “Alex?” Detective Mariucci whispered, “I need you over here a second.”

  “Yes?”

  “That was ATAC Command in D.C. The friggin’ French have invaded Oman. Bonaparte’s sticking with his story.”

  “What about the sultan’s tape?”

  “Claims the Oman tape was made under coercion by the West. By you, specifically. French TV is showing the beginning of the tape where you’re wiping blood off the guy’s face before he speaks. Jesus Christ. Here, take this phone. Somebody’s patching an urgent call through. Stokely Jones calling you from Hong Kong. Ten seconds.”

  Hawke put the phone to his ear, his eyes cold as stone. He spoke to Stokely for two minutes, max, disconnected, said good-bye, and punched in another number.

  “I’m putting this call on speaker,” Hawke told Mariucci and collapsed exhausted into the chair next to him. He placed the phone on the small table between the two of them and tilted back the rest of his cold coffee. He had wiped blood off the sultan’s face. And the sultan had thanked him for—wait. Bonaparte was running that part of the tape without sound.

  “Jack McAtee,” they heard the gravelly voice of the president say a second or two later.

  “Mr. President, sorry to disturb you at this late hour. Alex Hawke calling.”

  “Alex! Good to hear your voice, partner. Good work over there. I’m in the Situation Room with Kelly, Gooch, and Charlie Moore. We’ve already got your videotape on the air. Al Jazeera’s running it every ten minutes and F
rance is already taking serious heat from the Arab world.”

  “Glad I could help, Mr. President. About the tape. The French media are running the first part without sound. Under government orders. We need to get the whole thing on the air, sir, the entire thirty seconds preceding the sultan’s speech.”

  “Done. Tell me what you need, Alex.”

  “Mr. President, I’m on speakerphone in New York with Captain John Mariucci of the NYPD Anti-Terrorist Task Force, sir. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Just got the news, Alex. I was on the phone with Bonaparte not three hours ago. I told the crazy sonafabitch that unless he wanted to be on the wrong end of another invasion at Normandy he should keep his ass out of Oman. He assured me he had no intention of invading. Now I learn the French have gone into Oman anyway.”

  “I just heard that, too, sir.”

  “Will we never learn?”

  “Sir, I have news of a different nature.”

  “Talk to me, Alex.”

  “Mr. President, fifteen seconds ago I got a call from Hong Kong. As Director Kelly knows, I sent a man out there early this morning to finish sorting out General Sun-yat Moon’s activities.”

  “Right.”

  “I believe we have a complete understanding of that operation now. It’s not good, Mr. President. In the last four years, four super-tankers were launched at various von Draxis shipyards in Germany. All were purchased by the French oil company Elf. Three of the four have extremely powerful nuclear devices secreted inside their lead keels. The keels were hung at Shanghai Shipyard at the same time that Chinese reactors and enriched fuel cores were installed.”

  “Alex, what kind of devices are we talking about?”

  “Implosion-triggered fission bombs, Mr. President. Heavy duty.”

  “Christ. Hold on a second, Alex. I’ve got you on speaker. Brick Kelly wants to know if these devices are plutonium or weapons-grade uranium?”

  “Stokely definitely said plutonium, sir.”

  After a few moments of muffled conversation, the president continued, “Go ahead, Alex. As of this moment, I have to inform you that this is a completely compartmentalized operation. It now has its own ticket. Codename: Wild Card. Langley’s putting the steel in it right now. Nobody gets in without that ticket.”

  “Acknowledged, sir. The devices are shielded inside the ship’s solid lead keel. Brilliant concept. Detection is virtually impossible by harbor security. No leaks. Impervious to X-ray inspection. No port security team in the world could screen them out.”

  “Location of these tankers now?”

  “Locations unknown at this point, sir.”

  “Names?”

  “Happy Dragon, Super Dragon, and Jade Dragon, sir. All sailing under French flags, sir.”

  They could hear the president barking orders at various staffers inside the Situation Room. Then he was back on the speaker.

  “Alex, we’re already all over the tankers. We’ll find them. I get the feeling there’s more to this story.”

  “Sir, such a device was also designed into the keel of the cruise ship Leviathan.”

  At that moment, Mariucci grabbed Hawke’s arm.

  “Holy mother of god!” Mariucci cried, jumping to his feet. “She’s here! Leviathan? She arrived this past Tuesday! I was on one of the Moran tugs that—”

  “Alex,” the president said, his voice steady, “you are talking about that huge ocean liner that arrived in New York earlier this week?”

  “Yes, sir. The new French ship. Leviathan.”

  “And you say her keel contains a large fission bomb?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I’m saying. I want to confirm that fact. But I believe it.”

  “You believe it’s a Chinese device? Put there by the Chinese? She’s a French-flag vessel, Alex. Built in Germany.”

  “Mr. President, her reactors were installed at Shanghai Shipyard. The keel was hung there, too.”

  “All right, Alex, listen carefully,” the president said, “Nobody says boo about this until I say so. Captain Mariucci, do you hear that?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I do.”

  “Nothing, I mean not a single word, gets said about this Leviathan situation until you two get over to that vessel, alone, and confirm the bomb’s existence. That includes you, too, Captain Mariucci. You’re the only one with a ticket. I don’t want any helicopters in the sky, harbor police boats, none of that crap. Nobody even breathes until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “We do, sir,” Mariucci said. “The danger of panic far outweighs the chance of immediate detonation. If we find there really is a bomb hidden aboard that monster.”

  “Right. Okay. Get going. Alex, you’ve got my secure number. It’s what, ten-fifteen? Call me one-half hour from now no matter what. We’re nose-to-nose with the Chinese over this goddamned Oman incursion. Until I have a definitive answer from you on this thing, I’m paralyzed in these negotiations.”

  “Sir—”

  “Unless we get that bomb out of New York, there’s a very good chance we’re going to war with China.”

  The president was gone.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  New York City

  NEITHER HAWKE NOR THE CAPTAIN SAID A WORD DURING the elevator ride to the ground floor. Nor did they speak crossing the lobby. Instead of taking the cruiser idling out front of the hospital entrance, they jumped into a cab at the corner of York and Seventieth Street and headed across town. It was Sunday night and the traffic was light going through the park. They pulled up at the passenger ship terminal, Pier 93, just after nine-thirty.

  “Got any ideas?” Mariucci said to Hawke as they climbed out of the cab.

  “Nothing yet,” Hawke said, “I was hoping you’d have one by now.”

  Hawke handed the driver a twenty and joined the captain on the sidewalk. The upper decks of the enormous ship, illuminated, blocked out the sky above the terminal. She was, Hawke knew, two times longer than the Eiffel Tower was high, and four times the size of the Titanic. Hawke saw the word Leviathan stenciled in gold on her beautiful black bow. No doubt about it, she was monumentally impressive.

  “Let’s go find the captain,” Hawke said.

  They raced through the terminal and arrived at the deserted check-in area. The floor was still littered with streamers and confetti. The French Line had decorated the entire area with paintings, ribbons, and pictures of the great liners of the past, the Île de France and the Normandie. A massive oil painting dominated the scene. In the foreground of the painting, the largest ship ever built, Leviathan. In the background, almost hidden by the arcs of water jetting from the fireboats, the Statue of Liberty.

  There were two desultory guards at the boarding door who barely looked up from their newspapers as Mariucci flashed his shield and barreled through. When they got outside on the dock, they couldn’t even see the ship. It was too close to the building. It looked like a black wall.

  There was a gangway leading up the side of the black wall, its rails festooned with wilted red, white, and blue streamers. Hawke raced up, followed closely by Mariucci. There was an officer in white at the top with a clipboard. At the sight of two men running toward him, he put on a welcoming smile to hide his confusion. The passengers were all long gone and these two men didn’t look like crew.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the officer said.

  “Yeah, how are you doing tonight? Listen, I’m Captain John Mariucci, NYPD, and this is my colleague Alex Hawke. Royal Navy. Mind if we take a look around?”

  “I am so sorry, sir, but you see we do not allow tours or uninvited visitors. The ship is—”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Mariucci said, moving right up into his face. “You are?”

  “I am the ship’s chief purser, monsieur. And, I will have to ask you to—”

  “Look, Alain, that’s what it says on your security tag thing there, you’re new, so let me expl
ain how this all works. This is New York City, see. We have our own unique style. Like, I’m a cop here. I don’t have to be invited.”

  “We’d like a brief word with your captain,” Hawke said. “Would you be so kind as to take us to the bridge?”

  “Well, I—”

  “After you, Alain. Lead the way.”

  “As you wish.”

  As it happened, the ship’s captain, Francois Dechevereux, was not on the bridge at all. He was standing alone on the open observation deck, high above the graceful curve of the bows, looking at the pristine New York skyline. He was a tall man, angular, and his white uniform hung on him the way a tent hangs on poles. Hawke noticed his yellow fingertips and the unfiltered cigarette that seemed a permanent fixture in the corner of his mouth.

  “Beautiful ship, Captain,” Hawke said after they’d been introduced by the purser. “Magnificent lines.”

  “Yeah, nice,” Mariucci said. “Big. But nice.”

  Captain Dechevereux whispered something in the purser’s ear and sent him scurrying away. Then he turned to Hawke, removing his cigarette only to speak. He didn’t look happy to see them.

  “Leviathan is a wonder, Monsieur Hawke, a symbol of the new French Renaissance. Our great leader, President Bonaparte, has given her to France as proof of her restored glory. La Gloire. I am glad you appreciate her. I don’t mean to be rude. But, may I ask why you gentlemen wished to see me? Is there some problem? Some irregularity with our paperwork?”

  “There certainly is a problem, Captain,” Mariucci said, “But I’m here to make it go away.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “It’s the mayor, Captain. Of New York. He’s a greenie, see? One of those tree-hugging environmental wackos, right? Hizzoner has never much liked the idea of a nuclear-powered vessel with a foreign flag zipping in and out of New York Harbor and—”

  “He is anti-French,” Captain Dechevereux said with disdain, flicking his cigarette over the rail and immediately lighting another. “I have read this about him.”

  “No, no. The mayor of New York loves France. It’s not that. He—”