Pirate

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?”

Mrs. 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.”

“I’ll volunteer for that assignment,” Hawke said, not smiling.

“You already have, Alex,” Kelly said. “Finding out where the sultan is and getting the truth out of him is a good start.”

Kelly was silent for a moment, looking at both of them and collecting his thoughts. “You’ve nailed the issue. France needs a wake-up call. And fast. But, we can’t smack them, as you say, without putting the whole damned world at risk.”

“Why not?” Congreve asked.

“Very simple, actually. In a word, China.”

“I’ve been thinking about this, Brick,” Hawke said.

“Please,” Brick said, and motioned for him to continue.

“The French abandoned the EU because they were sick and tired of being lumped in with the ‘old Europe.’ They’re psychically tortured by decades of political impotency—so they’re using the Chinese to reassert themselves. Provide some nuclear and economic muscle, you might say. That is pretty much it, at least as I see it.”

Brick nodded. “Exactly. Fifty years of America and the Soviets hogging the limelight has been extremely tough on France’s national ego. But this new relationship with China, it’s more complicated, more—symbiotic than that, Alex. These two feed off of each other. But China is in the driver’s seat. A surging China is using a resurgent France to further the global interests of each.”

“It’s simple, isn’t it?” Congreve said. “China wants oil, France wants power. Voilà!”

Brick said, “Yes, Ambrose, and if they succeed at this game, America will have to go to war to protect her vital interests in the Gulf.”

“France is riding the tiger,” Hawke said. “And tigers bite.”

“Yes,” Brick said. “France, however, may be just an unwitting pawn in this game. Ready to be sacrificed by China at the earliest opportunity. But, meanwhile, just as you say, Alex, France has gotten tired of sitting on the sidelines. They’ve got the spotlight now and that’s just where they want to be.”

“And China stays in the shadows, right where she wants to be,” Hawke agreed.

“Yes. There’s a desperate power struggle going on in Paris right now. The attempt on Bonaparte’s life two days ago, the assassination of the French prime minister yesterday. I think it all leads back to Beijing. Right back to the top of the Chinese Communist Party. To the Forbidden City and to the premier’s powerful Hong Kong stooge, General Sun-yat Moon.”

Congreve was startled. “The CCP took out Honfleur? Good lord, man, why?”

“To pave the way for their enfant terrible, Bonaparte.”

“What are the details, Brick?” Hawke asked.

“We can’t prove anything yet,” Kelly said. “But we think a Chinese agent, working for Moon, murdered the director of Sotheby’s in his office overlooking the Elysée Palace. Then she shot Honfleur with a sniper rifle from the dead director’s office windows. The sultan of Oman, luckily, was not wounded in the attack.”

“You said ‘she’ murdered the director. The assassin was a woman?”

“Yes. A woman carrying Chinese diplomatic credentials, as a matter of fact. She slipped away in the confusion.”

“Well, hell,” Hawke said, looking directly at Congreve. “Chinese female assassins seem to have arrived on our shores in droves. Brick, do you have a witness who can identify her?”

“Yes. A man working Sotheby’s Paris reception desk survived the bomb blast in the street seconds before the assassination. He provided a detailed description of the killer. The woman was in her seventies, well-dressed in French couture, shopping for very expensive jewelry. She was escorted up to the director’s office for a private viewing, where she killed him with some kind of poison-tipped weapon. Drove it into his groin, I might add.”

“Lovely,” Congreve said, wincing. “Was she carrying an umbrella, by any chance?”

“Good point,” Kelly said, smiling at Ambrose.

“Weapon of mass deduction,” Hawke said, patting Ambrose on the shoulder.

“Too kind,” Ambrose said, and took a sip of his drink.

Hawke massaged the slight stubble on his chin. “Where was Luca Bonaparte during all this bloody excitement?”

“You mean the brand spanking new prime minister of France? In his brand spanking new office at the Elysée. Handling the press furor over France’s imminent incursion into Oman.”

“The French press is furious?” Congreve asked, a wry smile on his face.

“Are you joking? The French press is ecstatic. Paris Soir ran a headline saying ‘France Is on the March!’ It’s the rest of the world who take a dim view of this invasion. France says they were ‘invited’ in by the sultan. To suppress a radical insurgency. My guys think Bonaparte leaned on the sultan. A physical threat to him or his family, or perhaps some kind of blackmail. Nothing else makes any sense.”

“I’ll find him, Brick,” Hawke said.

“Yes. But, this is very strictly off the record. You’re going NOC on this one, old boy. As I said, the United States simply cannot afford to be seen as meddling in French or Arab affairs right now.”

“NOC?” Ambrose asked.

“Not on Consular,” Hawke said to Congreve. “No records. It means if I get caught you don’t have to worry about funeral arrangements.”

“Ah.”

“Since the president was reelected,” Brick said, “the administration has been in a full fence-mending mode with our European allies. We very much hope to solve this quietly.”

“But I can meddle,” Hawke said. “Quietly.”

“You certainly can. You’re a Brit, after all. You have three or four hundred years of bad blood with the French. I want you to meddle to your heart’s content.”

“I love to meddle, too,” Ambrose said. “I was born to meddle.”

Kelly smiled. “I was just coming to you, Chief Inspector. Bonaparte is, to all appearances, invulnerable. Right now, he’s viewed as the modern savior of France. Hell, he’s the new Napoleon. Napoleon’s brains, charm, and charisma. But he’s dirty, Ambrose.”

“Money? Haven’t they all been on the take for years? Saddam and Elf Acquitaine and all that rotten business. Doesn’t seem to have made one whistle’s worth of difference to any of their careers.”

“I think Luca Bonaparte coerced Oman into this invasion. China needs oil and oil means money. Huge amounts. He knows everybody. Hell, he was the Foreign Trade minister. And there are far too many rumors around that he murdered his own father when he was fifteen years old. We’re going after him on both counts. If we’re lucky, and you two succeed, we’ve got a chance to bring him down without a shot.”

“Do you have any new proof of this murder?” Ambrose asked.

“Not yet. That’s where you come in. You’ve read the file. It’s a thirty-year-old homicide, still unsolved on the Paris Deuxième’s books. It seems likely that Luca was a boyhood bagman for the Union Corse back in Corsica. We think he made his bones by killing his father. And we think the American Mob, which was battling with the Corse in those days, was somehow involved.”

“I think I see where you’re going. If you can prove that, you might bring him down quickly and with a minimum of international fuss,” Ambrose said. “People don’t forgive patricide easily.”

“That’s the idea. We’ve just uncovered some old French Sûreté case notes. Apparently, two American mobsters were involved in the murder. My case officer in New York believes she has identified two possible suspects. Both quite elderly, but still alive. Possibly residing in New York City.”

“When do I start?” Congreve asked, literally rubbing his hands together. “Nothing like a foreign intrigue to take one’s mind off troubles at home.”

“I’ve got you on a military transport leaving RAF Uxbridge at noon tomorrow. Arriving in New York in time for supper. Does that work?”

“Splendidly.”

“Good. Now you, Alex, how soon can you be ready to travel?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Good. I’m chairing an emergency Gulf States sitrep briefing aboard the USS Lincoln at thirteen hundred hours tomorrow. I’d like you to be there. There’s an operation still in the planning stages at Langley. An idea Brock had. A good one.”

“We’re flying out to the Lincoln together?”

“No, I’m going out early. You’re going to like this. I’ve lined up a new Joint Strike Force airplane that needs strenuous exercise. I’m talking about the F-35, Alex.”

“What?”

“You heard right, Hawkeye,” Brick said, smiling. He knew Hawke was crazy to get back in the air. A friend of Brick Kelly’s at Britain’s Ministry of Defense had told him weeks ago that Lockheed-Martin was looking for a few top British fighter jocks with Harrier VTOL combat experience. They were needed to evaluate the new jet intended to replace the Royal Navy’s Sea Harrier FA2.

Alex’s face lit up. “The F-35? Never even heard of it.”

“Not surprised. It so happens I’ve landed you an extremely early prototype of the new U.S.-U.K. Joint Strike Fighter. Built in the States by Lockheed-Martin. The most advanced supersonic single-seater in the air. The latest STOVL technology. Apparently, the thing can come to a complete stop in midair. Yours for the duration of this operation, if you don’t crack it up. You can practice your night traps. Maybe even your shooting, if you get lucky.”

“Shooting?”

“After you download your impressions of the F-35 to the Pratt & Whitney engineers, you’re headed to the Gulf. We’re implementing Operation Deny Flight, a no-fly zone over northern Oman. You’ll hear all about it on the Lincoln. And get briefed on what I have in mind for you and Brock.”

“Brock? What’s he got to do with this?”

“He’s going to help you track down the sultan. Let’s order some food, shall we?”

Yours for the duration!

Hawke went through the motions of ordering and eating Harry’s renowned pasta, but all he could think about was the fact that the navy (probably with a little push from his friend Brick) was putting him back in the saddle. And not some Barney Rubble fighter like he flew in the Gulf War, either. No, a single-seat supersonic stealth fighter just off the drawing board.

Good lord, a man could fly straight to heaven with an airplane like that.