Pirate

Chapter Twenty-six

Aboard Blackhawke

“DOC SAYS YOU CAN GO HOME,” STOKE CALLED DOWN TO JET. She was standing a deck below him, leaning against the portside rail and smoking a cigarette. He watched her from above, saw her gazing out at her home away from home, the giant German yacht Valkyrie. The boat still lay at anchor about a half mile away. You had to wonder what the girl was thinking, lost in that cloud of blue smoke, not even hearing what he said, seemed like, zoned.

Stoke had emerged from his stateroom, coming out on the deck to perform his morning ritual: yoga and tai chi exercises and his old SEAL warmup routine. He was wearing his usual outfit, black Viet PJs and the U.S. Army Sniper School T-shirt that Sarge had given him a couple of years ago down in Cuba. The one that said, “You can run, but you’ll only die tired.” Loved that shirt.

He spaced his bare feet to the width of his shoulders, sucked down a lungful of air, placed his palms together before his face, and saluted the lazy old sun eight or nine times. The sharp iodine bite of the sea air felt good so deep down in his air bags. Bonjour, world! Speak to me! The rocky green coastline of Cap d’Antibes was sparkling on this fine morning, whirling birds, big white villas, and sandy beaches below the thick seaside forests. More huge yachts floating at anchor than you could shake a stick at.

After his workout, he used a towel to mop his face and torso and trotted down the curving steel and mahogany stairway leading below. He joined Jet at the rail, giving her plenty of space. He guessed he was still a little fragrant after a couple hundred ab crunches.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey, you,” she said back, staring out to sea.

“Doc says you’re okay.”

“That’s nice to know.”

“Oh. She’s in that mood. Okay, great.”

Jet was wearing a black-and-gold silk robe that used to belong to Vicky, Stoke thought. Trousseau stuff. Alex had bought it for her in India or Burma somewhere. The idea of Jet wearing it now made him a little queasy, but it probably wasn’t a good time to bring it up. Hawke had called. Jet and Stoke needed to have a little talk about the future.

“If you want to go home,” Stoke said, “you can. Is all I’m saying. Go home. Stay aboard Blackhawke. Either way, the man says it’s cool.”

Certainly what Stoke would like to do was stay aboard a big yacht on the Riviera. Hell, who wouldn’t? The beds were soft, the food was sensational, the morning sun was bright on the water, dancing gold coins on the surface, and white seagulls and terns were diving overhead. Made him kind of hate to leave.

But Hawke had called from the carrier Lincoln early this morning, round six. Brought him up to speed on the big CIA briefing out there. He wanted to know all about Jet. How she was doing. What Stoke thought about her. And her German boyfriend, von Draxis. One thing led to another and Stoke suddenly found himself with a brand new mission in life. Boss wanted him to go to Germany. Seemed that CIA guy, Harry Brock, the one they’d snatched off the Star, was doing a lot of talking now.

One of the things he talked about was some kind of French-German-Chinese operation. Something code-named Leviathan that originated in Germany. Von Draxis had a heavy hand in it, the boss said. Hawke wanted Stoke to go check out this von Draxis character a little more. Dig, poke, rattle the hometown cages in old Deutsch-land.

After what the man had done to Jet, that cage, Stoke couldn’t think of anything more fun than rattling von Draxis’s own cages some more. If it ain’t fun, stop. One of Stoke’s favorite mottoes.

Last time Stokely had had any real fun at all was down in the Florida Keys. That was a couple of years ago, back when he and Ross Sutherland were chasing that Cuban bad boy Scissorhands and his badass Cigarette boat to hell and gone along the Mosquito Coast of South Florida. Heat ’n Skeet, the SEALs had called that part of the Keys. That’s where Vicky’s murderer was running when they’d caught up with him. They caught him all right and stuck his ass in the ground for good on a place called No-Name Island.

“So, what do you think,” Stoke said. “See, I’m going to Germany. I could drop you off somewhere. Not that boat over there. That boat is definitely bad for your health, girl.”

Jet lit another smoke off the red coal of the old one. Her third since he’d been watching. Girl needed a new program. He had an idea for one that might do her some good.

She said, thinking about it, “Is Schatzi still aboard over there?”

“Der Führer? Hell no, girl, Schatzi’s long gone. He left in his big Nazi-black helicopter last night. Winging his way back to his Berlin flughafen.”

Jet was no longer surprised at the things Stoke knew about Schatzi or the comings and goings aboard the big German yacht. He’d told her a little bit about Blackhawke’s snooping capabilities. Didn’t mention the ship’s Aegis Defense System or Towed Array Sonar or any of that stuff. Just told her about how their commo center could eavesdrop on any radio or cell transmission within a radius of twenty miles or so. Triangulate the location, too, though he didn’t mention that part.

“So, I could go get my things.”

“Yeah, you probably could. What kind of things?” Stoke asked.

“Jewelry. A few clothes. Things I need.”

“An acetylene torch so you can hop in and out of bed.”

“That’s actually funny,” she said, coughing up some smoke.

“Thanks. You got a house, Jet?”

“A flat in Paris.”

“How about the baron?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where does he live mostly? Good old Schatzi, the lion tamer.”

“I don’t live with him, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re not that crazy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m leaning that way. Where does he live, Jet? I need to know.”

“He has houses all over Germany. There is a large one in Berlin. On Friedrichstrasse. Number 7. He also has a secret mountain château in Bad Reichenhall. Huge. A schloss. That’s ‘castle’ in Bavarian.”

“That’s helpful. Thanks.”

“Are you going to kill him? Blow him up?”

“How can I? You’re in love with the guy, remember?”

She laughed, making a raw sound. “Love? I was young. A somewhat exotic Chinese girl in Berlin trying to get into films. My background was—interesting to him. I’d just started working for the Chinese secret police. He was a successful film producer then. He cast me.”

“Happens all the time.”

“An escape from my crazy family.”

“Have you got a sister, Jet?”

“That’s an odd question, isn’t it, Mr. Jones?”

“Humor me.”

“There’s a twin sister. Bianca. We aren’t close. Why do you ask?”

“Humor me again.”

“She still works for my father. Te-Wu agent. I’ve no idea where she is. They don’t tell me anymore. Tell me about Alex Hawke.”

“What about him?”

“What is he like? As a man?”

“Grit clean through.”

Girl had no reply to that, just sucked the cigarette coal down to her fingertips and flicked it, jammed another one in the corner of her mouth, and lit up again.

“I like him. Tough outside. Soft inside,” Jet said.

Stoke looked at her and asked, “Okay, now you tell me about von Draxis. Why’d he beat you up, Jet? Something to do with Alex Hawke?”

“I’m going back to Valkyrie.”

“I figured that. They even got a syndrome named for that. Battered Movie Star Syndrome.”

“You don’t understand. I just want to get my things.”

“Good call. Sarge will get someone to run you over there whenever you ready.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. You’re all torn apart, girl. Hell, you don’t know what you want. Mixed loyalties. That’s dangerous. I don’t let dangerous women get too near Alex. He’s been hurt enough.”

“He can handle himself.”

“Yeah. Normally. Boy pretty much sealed himself up when his wife was murdered. But he likes you, too, for some unknown reason.”

“Ridiculous. He doesn’t even know me.”

“No, it ain’t. I like you, too, Jet. Don’t trust you worth a damn, but I like you.”

“When can I leave all this love?”

“Right now. Listen, Jet. Tell me something before you go. Why did your little pal Schatzi invite my boss to that party?”

“Spice up his guest list? Hawke is famous. He keeps his name out of the papers, but certain people know about him anyway. Schatzi likes to surround himself with famous people.”

“Wrong answer. Hawke makes people like Schatzi nervous. Hell, he makes me nervous sometimes and I’m his best friend. One of ’em, anyway. What Schatzi likes is to beat up women. He beat you up, girl! You let him down somehow, didn’t you? Was it the green-eyed monster? You and Alex Hawke got a little too close for comfort, that it?”

Jet sucked hard on her cigarette, burning it down to the filter. She looked up at Stokely, smiled, and then flicked the dead butt into the water. A symbolic gesture, they called it.

“Maybe,” she said.

“No more maybe. Tell me what all this is about, Jet.”

“I was supposed to find out why Hawke was in Cannes.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Did your job. So why’d Schatzi get so mad at you?”

“I was disobedient. My orders were to alert my colleague aboard the Star of Shanghai if I determined a hostage rescue was in play. I—hesitated. Hawke presented a clear threat and I did nothing.”

“What colleague?”

“My subordinate officer was aboard the Star with the prisoner. He took responsibility for reacquiring the American agent in Morocco. And returning him safely from France to Hong Kong. He and I work for the Te-Wu. Chinese secret police. I hold the rank of captain.”

“Your job to stop Alex, Cap?”

“My job was to kill him. I failed. I’d say my career at this point is pretty much over. Assuming I survive, I have no idea what to do next.”

“Kill him how?”

“With this,” Jet said, and reached inside the high slit in the silk robe. She pulled out a nasty little gun she must have had strapped to the inside of her thigh.

“You going to not kill me same way you didn’t kill Alex Hawke?” Stoke asked, “Are you? Captain?”

Jet held the gun up, loosely pointed at Stokely’s left eye. Her gun hand drifted out over the rail for a second, and the pistol fell thirty feet or so to the water. It made a faint splash. More symbolism, Stoke thought, looking at her hard now.

“Jet, this may turn out to be the worst idea I ever had in my whole life. How’d you like a free trip to Germany? All expenses paid.”

“You going, too?”

“Absolutely.”

“What a pair we’d make. What makes you think I won’t betray you?”

“Observed behavior. Love makes people do crazy things. You just changed sides, girl, even though you don’t know it yet.”

Girl didn’t reply and Stoke took that as a yes.

“We got to make one stop first. Pick up your stuff aboard Valkyrie. Also, I may need to talk to my friend Admiral Bruno again. How well do you two get along?”

“Bruno has seen every one of my pictures twenty times.”

“Does he like you enough to keep his mouth shut?”

“He worships the ground I will walk on in future lifetimes.”

“Good. Call Bruno up. Be nice. Tell him you’d like to come back. Like, early this evening. Would he go for that?”

“Yes.”

“You think you could occupy his mind for twenty minutes?”

“I think I could.”

“Okay. We go soon as it’s dark. I like to swim at night.”

Half an hour after the sun went down, Jet was aboard Valkyrie, finding new and different ways to distract Bruno without letting him anywhere near her. Stoke, in his old SEAL gear, was treading water about two hundred yards from the yacht’s bow. He looked at his dive watch. Jet was down in her stateroom by now, collecting her stuff and making goo-goo eyes at fat little Bruno. She had promised Stoke she’d keep him occupied for ten minutes minimum. Stoke thought that should about do it.

He’d dropped Jet off at the starboard-side boarding float. Then he’d gunned the Zodiac out of sight of anybody paying attention on board Valkyrie, zigzagging through all the anchored yachts. He found a good spot, threw a small Danforth anchor over the side, and paid out enough line to keep the inflatable hidden behind a big Feadship. Then he slipped over the side and swam the last thousand yards about ten feet below the surface.

When he got to the huge German yacht’s bow, he dove deeper, following the hull aft a few feet, inspecting the length of it for camera placement. He saw the first one, mounted in a clear housing suspended from the keel. The lens was moving slowly toward him. The new underwater video surveillance cameras made even the old-fashioned stuff a little tricky. He counted six cameras in all, two fore and aft, two amidships on either side of the keel housing.

That was weird. There was no keel. Maybe it was retracted inside the hull.

He paused for a few seconds, memorizing the different camera cycles while running his fingers along some odd protrusions on the hull. Through-hull fittings. A hairline seam in the steel. And some kind of retracting hatch, it looked like. Big enough to drive a truck through when it was open. What the hell? He swam then, kicking hard and fast, zigzagging through the oscillating cameras, until he reached the sternmost section of the hull. Two cameras remained, outboard of the massive bronze screws.

No divers had splashed. Good sign. His Draeger rebreathing apparatus meant no bubbles were visible on the surface. So he drove his flippers harder, swam through the two aft cameras while they were still both cycling outboard, and then hung in the water off the stern and simply allowed buoyancy to take him up. He surfaced just off the wide stern platform that ran the width of the beam.

This was the area they used for launching sailboards and Jet Skis and other equipment. Empty. Except for one bald-headed guy in a white jumpsuit who emerged through a small door in the hull. The guy stepped out to the edge of the platform and whipped out his willy. What?

Oh, yeah. Drain the lizard. While the bald guy took his pee off the stern, Stoke swam a few silent strokes to the far end of the platform and pulled himself up onto the teak deck.

The guy, still with a good stream going, turned around and looked at the recently arrived monster from the Blue Lagoon. Stoke had seen VC and NVA regs in Nam simply faint dead away at the sight of him appearing suddenly in his SEAL shit on a dark night. This guy didn’t faint or do anything much at all.

“How you doing?” Stoke said, getting to his feet. “Water was getting a little warm off the stern.”

“What the—”

“Shh. I ain’t supposed to be here. Private property.”

Stoke saw the guy had a lipmike and was about to use it. He covered the distance between them in one millisecond and smothered the man’s mouth with his gloved hand. When he felt teeth biting through the rubber glove, he shut the guy down with two fingers into the neck, collapsing the carotid artery. He put one hand on the unconscious man’s chest to hold him up and quickly patted him down. He didn’t normally swim with guns, but one might come in handy tonight.

No guns on the guy. Just a glass vial of pills and some kind of weird instrument in a black metal barrel that looked like a very high-tech fountain pen. He’d seen one like it before but couldn’t place it. Stuck both items in his waterproof dive bag just for fun. He rolled the guy over the edge into the water and looked back at the narrow through-hull door. There was a keypad beside it, but he wouldn’t be needing any entry codes right now. The guy’d figured on a quick squirt so he’d left it open. Mistake.

He stepped inside and was surprised to find himself in a small elevator. He hit the lowest button and it started to move, down and forward. He imagined the thing was on an angled track, running down the keel. Good. Real good. He was very curious about this part of the boat that was so boring nobody needed to see it.

When he stepped out, he was disappointed. He hadn’t any idea of what to expect, some kind of Dr. No running around with goggles on his head, maybe, dials and big glass static lightning balls, maybe. But not nothing at all, which was what he found down in the bilges. A huge black space, empty, except for some serious hydraulic machinery. It was mounted above the keel housing that rose from the shiny steel waffle-plated decks.

Having nothing better to do, he walked over to check it out. Below the boat, underwater, he’d noticed the keel was retracted. Which made sense in such shallow water. You needed the keel down only when you were sailing. Otherwise, you kept it stowed right here, winched up inside the hull.

What didn’t make sense was that somebody would remove the keel altogether. There was just a big housing, with waves lapping down inside. The twelve-foot-high housing would keep the water out, even if she was heeled hard over. But, still. Stoke had the very strong feeling he was seeing something here that he wasn’t supposed to see. Problem being, all he saw was nothing.

The dank oily space reminded him of something he’d seen as a kid. Couldn’t place it. Then he did. The bomb bay of a B-52. There were some metal shavings on the floor, like something had been sheared off when the keel was coming out or going in. He bent and picked up a handful. That’s when the barrel-shaped thing in his pocket started clicking rapidly. What the hell?

Click-click-click-click-click.

Hell, it was a dosimeter. Measured radiation. He pulled the guard’s little glass vial out of his bag and looked at it carefully. Iodine pills. Yeah, okay, iodine. For radiation sickness. Interesting.

He’d have to ask the baron about all this interesting shit next time they got together over some cold Liebfraumilch at his secret villa up in sunny Bavaria.

His big schloss.