Pirate (10 page)

“Good work, sir! Let’s have a look.”

“In due time. A man like Henry Bulling has three lives, Sutherland. Many men do, I suppose.”

“Three?”

“Yes. There is his public life, you know, the facade, the persona he dons every morning in his shaving mirror before sloughing off to his sad cubby at the embassy. A chimera. And then there is his private life. Much of that can be adduced by simply observing the artifacts in this house. These chairs, for instance. There is a dark, Gothic cast to that mind, isn’t there, Inspector Sutherland?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And then there is his third life.”

“Yes?”

“His secret life.”

“You mean the envelope?”

“Yes. Please open it.”

Sutherland picked the thing up with thumb and forefinger and slid the plastic zipper open.

“It’s a DVD disc, sir. Two of them. Unmarked.”

“Yes. That’s what it felt like to the touch. You have one of those laptop computers in your murder bag, I believe.”

“Back in a flash, sir.”

Ambrose sipped his tea, contemplating the enigma that was Henry Bulling, keen with anticipation as to what might be encoded on the discs. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be prize-winning dahlias.

“Here you are, sir. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Ross inserted the first disc into the small Sony laptop, and Congreve heard the faint whir as the thing spooled up. Both men leaned forward as the screen came to life.

“It appears to be a very large oil refinery, sir,” Sutherland said, disappointed that the image was not salacious or at the very least intriguing.

“Go to the next one,” Ambrose said.

“Same refinery, different angle.”

“An infamous French refinery, Inspector. Can you zoom in on this area here? The small sign above this lorry?”

Sutherland used the cursor to create a small shaded box on the area Congreve had indicated. Then he used the zoom to enlarge it.

“A-ha,” Ambrose said, “the center of the storm. Our Henry may have gotten in a little over his head here. This is juicy stuff indeed. Keep clicking.”

“I’m not with you, sir.”

“Oil is a very hot topic these days, Sutherland. This is the famous Leuna oil refinery, built by the French and Germans in Eastern Germany. Operated by Elf Aquitaine, the largest corporation in France. Publicly owned. In reality, an extension of the French government. Leuna was at the center of a huge scandal involving the French Foreign Trade minister a few years ago. The infamous Monsieur Bonaparte.”

“Right. Budget irregularities. Kickbacks to African countries, as I recall,” Sutherland said, excitement starting to color his voice. He continued to scroll through the disc, which contained countless scenes of pipelines, tankers, and the like.

“That’s it. A tawdry romance involving Bonaparte and his German counterpart.”

“That German shipbuilder. Giving African politicians cash for every barrel extracted.”

“Ah, yes, our old friends, the French and the Germans.”

“The new Europe,” Sutherland said, looking up at his superior.

“Don’t forget the Iraqis,” Ambrose said. “Billions traded hands illegally. The oil-for-weapons transactions. France got oil. And cash, of course. Iraq got French Mirage fighter jets and restricted French nuclear technology and power plants. It was the biggest French scandal since the war. Now, what do you suppose our Henry is doing with pictures of French refineries in his freezer?”

Sutherland clicked through to another photo. “Good lord.”

“What?”

“Look at this thing, sir. A bloody big supertanker. Never seen one half this size. Certainly has a head of steam, though.”

“Yes, I was just noticing the size of that bow wave. Just leaving the Strait of Hormuz, it would appear. What’s her name there on the side? Can you make it out? Zoom in.”

“The
Happy Dragon,
sir. Sounds more Chinese than French. She’s not putting out any smoke, sir. No visible stack at all.”

“Nuclear? That’s an interesting notion. Let’s have a look at that second disc, shall we?” Ross said, ejecting the first and inserting the other. An image appeared, and this time he wasn’t disappointed. It was both salacious and intriguing.

“Good heavens,” Ambrose said, looking carefully at the image. “Henry, you naughty fellow, what
have
you been up to?”

Sutherland stared at the picture. It was a starkly lit amateur color photograph of some kind of fancy dress ball. Very grand, judging by the opulent interior design and a few famous faces from the tabloids. In the foreground, a very thin chap, all but naked, with shockingly bright orange hair. Plainly the infamous Cousin Henry. He was wearing some kind of choke collar. Not a few of the costumes seemed to involve leather and studded chokers.

The other end of the leash was in the hand of an extraordinarily beautiful Oriental woman, a peroxide blonde wearing nothing but a smile, high-heeled shoes, and a black leather bustier. He clicked to another image, then another. The woman smiled back from each photo.

“She is rather exquisite,” Sutherland said.

“Bianca Moon is her name,” Ambrose said, leaning forward to examine her more closely. “Not to be confused with her twin sister, Jet. A very senior Whitehall chap came a cropper in Bianca’s company. One of Her Majesty’s closest aides. He fell in love with her. The daughter of a high-ranking official in the Chinese PLA. A spy, in fact. Worked for something called the Te-Wu. Chinese secret police. The tabloids all called her the ‘China Doll.’ I’ve always wondered what became of her.”

“What on earth is the China Doll doing with your cousin Henry Bulling?”

“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Ambrose said, his keen blue eyes sparkling with satisfaction at his little joke. It wasn’t a joke at all. He knew very well what Henry and the beautiful Chinese woman were up to and it was certainly no good.

“Good one, sir,” Sutherland said.

“Hmm, yes, isn’t it? It would appear the chinless wonder has given us the Chinese connection at last. Do you see that bottom portion of a large painted picture portrait in the upper right of the photo? Mostly gilt frame, but you can make out the hem of a blue silk gown and one silk-slippered foot.”

Sutherland leaned forward, peering at the image. “Yes. You mean this section here.”

“Hmm. A rather famous portrait, Sutherland. John Singer Sargent’s study of the great beauty of her age, Lady Cecily Mars. It still hangs in the Great Hall at Brixden House. Lady Mars’s great-granddaughter, Diana, lives in the house now, I believe.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. A ‘stately,’ I believe. Just west of Heathrow, isn’t it? One of Britain’s more celebrated country houses, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Quite right. Bit more notorious than stately, from what I’ve heard, however. Brixden’s been the scene of many wild nights, orgies and the like, according to what one hears. Somehow, the current Lady Mars has managed to keep the whole unsightly mess out of the papers. She’s quite something, from all you hear.”

“Have a look at this one, Chief Inspector,” Sutherland said, looking at one of the seamier photos from Henry Bulling’s private collection.

“What is it?”

“What are they doing with that demitasse spoon?”

“Good heavens!”

“GET THIS MAN TO SICKBAY,” HAWKE SAID TO A YOUNG
crewman, stepping from the bobbing Zodiac onto the floating dock extending from
Blackhawke
’s stern hangar bay. “His pulse is irregular. Malnourished. And he’s dehydrated. Check for fractures, left wrist specifically.”

Stokely stood on the gently rolling deck with what was left of Harry Brock cradled lightly in his arms. The broken man was out cold, his head lolling against Stoke’s broad chest. Stoke was broad all over. Hawke liked to say Stoke was as big as your average-sized French armoire. Maybe. Stoke had seen a couple of French armoires in his day and hadn’t been all that impressed.

“I think he’s sound asleep,” Stoke whispered, lowering Brock carefully to the waiting stretcher. “Probably had him down in the sleep-deprivation spa for a few days. Had the boy on that alfalfa diet. Shoots and leaves. You can’t help but lose weight, you on that program.”

Hawke looked at Stokely and shook his head at the big man. Ex–Navy SEAL, ex-NYPD, Hawke couldn’t remember how many scrapes the man had bailed him out of, but each one of them had been a special moment. Beginning with that very suspicious warehouse fire in Brooklyn, when New York Detective Sergeant Stokely Jones, Jr., had carried an unconscious Alex Hawke down six flights of burning stairs. Hawke had been the victim of a kidnap gone bad. After refusing to pay his own ransom, he’d been bound by his Colombian abductors and left to die on the top floor of the deserted warehouse.

“No worries, Skipper, we’ll take good care of him,” said one of a pair of young Aussie sickbay orderlies, stepping forward. “Ship’s surgeon is standing by, as ordered. How about yourself, sir? Nasty cut below that left eye.”

Hawke swiped at his face with the back of his hand and was surprised to see it come away bright red. No memory of the wound.

“Tell commo to put me through to Langley, please,” Hawke said to the nearest crewman. “The director. Secure line. Straightaway. Five minutes. I’m going to my quarters.”

“Aye, sir,” the man said and took off at a run.

“Tommy,” Hawke said, looking at his security chief who was now hoisting the Zodiac aboard. “Well done. If someone told me you could outrun a Harpoon missile in a rubber boat, I’d have suggested they seek psychiatric treatment.”

“Thanks, Skipper. Six hundred horsepower works wonders sometimes. Sorry about our surprise guest here. Mr. Jones, uh, seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Thanks, Tom. Stoke is always a good idea. So, who the hell do you think took a shot at us?”

“Military, sir. Had to be, a weapon like that.”

“Right. Let’s hope the terrorists don’t have sea-launched guided weapons systems quite yet. But
whose
military, Sergeant?”

“That is an extremely interesting question, Skipper.”

Ten minutes later, Hawke was in his quarters. He’d stripped off his clothes, taken a steaming hot shower, and stretched himself out on his bed. He picked up the secure line to the CIA director, his old Desert Storm buddy and former ambassador to the Court of St. James, the Honorable Patrick Brickhouse Kelly. Brick was a tall, soft-spoken Virginian who cloaked his fierce intellect behind a veil of old-fashioned southern style and manners.

“Hi, Brick,” Hawke said. “Lovely night for international incidents.”

“So I hear. Casualties?”

“No good guys. You can delete the
Shanghai Star
from your current edition of Lloyd’s International Ship Registry, however.”

“Out of commission?”

“Out of commission at the bottom of Cannes harbor.”

“You had to sink her?”

“It happened.”

“Brock?”

“We got him off first, luckily enough,” Hawke chuckled. “He’s down in our sickbay. A bit worse for wear, I’m afraid.”

“How bad is he?”

“Nothing life-threatening. The Chinese are good at torture. I’m sure they were saving all the really good stuff for some hellhole prison in Shanghai. He’d clearly been drugged, however.”

“Sweet Jesus. Okay. I’m going to call Jenna and his kids right now, tell them he’s okay. Is he mobile, can he get around all right? I’m ordering a chopper airborne to medevac him.”

“What the bloody hell is going on, Brick? After Stokely and I got Brock off that Chinese junker, somebody gave chase and fired a surface missile at us. At our bloody Zodiac. Right outside the bloody harbor.”

There was a silence as Brick Kelly absorbed the import of what Hawke had just told him. He said, “You were fired upon. Okay. But a surface-to-surface missile? Are you absolutely positive about that?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“We evaded. Lucky for us, it was heat-seeking and our outboards don’t put out that much.
Blackhawke
counterlaunched. Sank the attacking vessel before she could launch another one.”

“You sank two boats inside Cannes harbor.”

“One inside, one outside. Affirmative.”

“Christ.”

“Exactly. That’s why I brought up that international incident idea.”

“You know the identity or nationality of the attacking vessel?”

“I do not.”

“Educated guess. I’d say it was the French navy.”

“The French? What the hell is going on, Brick?”

“The Napoleonic Wars with a new Bonaparte at the helm. I’ll tell you all about it when you get to London.”

“Me? I thought you wanted Brock.”

“Both of you.”

“London isn’t in my travel plans. I’ve got a date tomorrow evening.”

“Rain check. You’re acquainted, aren’t you, with
Big John
?”

“The USS
Kennedy
? Yeah, I landed my seaplane on her once. Bit of difficulty. I don’t think they like me much aboard that carrier. Certainly the air boss would not number me among his favorite sons.”

“That’s what happens when the Royal Navy tries to land a single-engine seaplane on a U.S. Navy carrier deck, Hawkeye. You are a legend on that boat. At any rate, she’s the closest thing we’ve got to you in the Med. I’m going to put a helo down on
Blackhawke
’s aft pad.
Big John
is sending a Sea King to retrieve you two. She should be in the air in an hour. Once you’re aboard the
Kennedy,
I’m putting you on the first thing smoking to London.”

“Lucky me. I hate the Riviera in June.”

“I’ll have a medevac navy Gulfstream warming up her engines on
Big John
’s flight deck. Once you leave the
Kennedy,
you’ll be in London in four hours. Get some sleep now. We’ll debrief Brock here in D.C. at Walter Reed. Before and after his brain scan. Is he talking much? What kind of stuff is he saying?”

“Not much. He’s in and out most of the time.”

“Someone should scribble down everything he says, everything he’s said since you first found him. That would be very helpful, Alex. We’re going to be looking for inconsistencies.”

“Why?”

“The Red Chinese are big into autosuggestion and cranial implants these days. Our HRT guys bring back schizos all the time. You don’t know who’s talking, your guy or the microchip embedded in his cerebrum. Hard to keep track of who’s still on your side once they’ve met the Chinaman.”

“Yeah. Manchurian Candidate stuff. No such thing as science fiction anymore. All right, Brick. See you in London. Come out to Hawkesmoor for a day or two. We’ll do some shooting.”

“I’ll do that. Listen, Hawkeye, your new pal Brock is a very big deal to us. You’ll know just how big when I see you.”

Before going to bed, Hawke met Stoke topside for a late drink at the small aft bar. They stood on the upper deck under a dense net of stars. It was the first good night in over a week. The mistral had departed, the ill wind disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.

“Thanks again, Stoke,” Hawke said, raising his brandy.

“De nada,”
Stoke said.

“One does not expect to get one’s arse shot at by the French navy.”

“No. One’s arse definitely does not. Not after Normandy and all that other conveniently forgotten history we got going back. You know, Omaha Beach, Ste.-Mère-Église, distant, foggy memories like that. Makes me nuts, boss. You really think that’s who it was fired at us? A French navy boat?”

“That’s what Brick thinks. He’s pretty good at this stuff.”

“France ain’t exactly my idea of a perfect ally, but shooting at us is taking the game to a whole new level.”

Hawke nodded in agreement, sipping his brandy, watching a shooting star blaze and die overhead. He said, “Sky look strange to you, Stoke?”

“Nope. Same old, same old.”

“Really? Look at the constellation Orion. See how it’s tilted? See that? Like our planet’s shifted a few degrees on its axis. Christ. I’m beginning to think it has.”

“You okay?”

“No, I don’t think I am, quite.”

“You want me to stick around with you, buddy? When you go meet with the director in London? I got nothing on my dance card but a trip to Miami to see the next Mrs. Stokely Jones, Jr.”

“The lovely Fancha from Cape Verde.”

“Girl got a legitimate shot at the title, boss.”

Hawke nodded. “I think we all ought to stay in close touch. You, me, Sutherland, Ambrose. Something tells me we are embarking on a long and dangerous journey, Stoke. Here. Your first assignment.”

“Every dangerous journey begins with a single step,” Stoke said, looking at the small envelope.

“An invitation to a dinner party tomorrow night. Aboard a very fancy yacht moored off the Hotel du Cap. I’d like you to go. See what you can find out about a Chinese movie star named Jet. She lives aboard. Ever hear of her?”

“Nope. Don’t see many Chinese movies.”

“She’s very cozy with some character named von Draxis. German chap who owns
Valkyrie.
Some kind of industrialist. Shipbuilder. Owns a lot of newspapers and television stations in Eastern Europe as well. I read an SIS document about him some years ago. A Saddam stooge in those days, getting oil vouchers for political favors. I think he’s dirty. She may be, too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I was with her just before I boarded the
Star.
She may have tipped them—I don’t know. They seemed to be expecting me. Anyway, I’d like you to check it out. Have a good look round. See what you can get by being your sociable self.”

“You mean you want me to go over to that fancy yacht and just sort of ‘blend in.’”

“Right, Stoke, just blend in,” Hawke said. “Disappear into the crowd. Lose yourself…”

After a beat, the two of them eyed each other and burst out laughing. The only place on earth Stokely Jones might be able to blend in would be the Olympic wrestlers’ locker room.

Stoke was well over six-foot-six and weighed nearly two-sixty, not an ounce of it fat. He’d started life in the projects and on the streets selling product and muscle. A wise old judge gave him the navy as an alternative to Riker’s Island. He did his SEAL training at Coronado and ended up as a river rat in the Mekong Delta in ’68. Coming home, the New York Jets signed him as a walk-on running back. He got hurt in his first game and spent an unhappy year on the injured reserve bench. Then he joined the New York City Police Department.

“Yeah. I like this part,” Stoke said. “Spy stuff. Hey, boss, I never got to tell you about Ambrose.”

“What about him?”

“Somebody trying to kill him.”

“Any idea who?”

“Nope. But he’s taking it personally.”

Hawke laughed. “I would, too.”

“I mean he’s on the case himself.”

“He’s got the right man for the job.”