Pirate (15 page)

“Merci beaucoup,
partner,” Stoke whispered over his shoulder, pushing the door open and then closing it behind him.

The light was very dim but he was aware of beautiful paneling and what seemed like leather tiles beneath his feet. Leather floors! Now, that was serious decorating. The port lights were all shut and what light there was came from very low ambient fixtures hidden in the ceiling and bookcases. There was the dark shape of a large square bed against the far wall. Some kind of sheer curtains glimmering around it. A figure in black lay across the rumpled sheets. She was crying, sobbing softly into the pillow.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Stoke said, approaching the bed.

“Who are you?” she whispered in a fierce hiss. “Get out! I’ll call someone!”

“Take it easy,” Stoke said, holding up his hand and backing away. He had no interest in explaining his presence here. “I’m just a guy who got lost during the grand tour and—what the—”

He’d reached out to pull the sheer curtains back when his fingers brushed cold metal. The bed was surrounded on all three sides by pencil-thin metal rods that disappeared up into the ceiling. Stainless steel by the look of them, about an inch apart.

The bed was a cage.

And the woman caged inside was badly hurt. What Stoke had taken for dark clothing was in fact a blood-soaked sheet she’d wound around her torso.

“I’m going to get you out of here, is what I’m going to do,” Stoke said, squeezing his fingers between two of the bars to confirm what he’d seen. Solid steel rods, all right. “You’re hurt. You’re in some kind of cage. You need a doctor.”

“Who the hell are you?” she said, her voice ragged, druggy, and, come to think of it, not very damn appreciative.

“My name is Stokely Jones. Friend of Alex Hawke.”

“Alexander Hawke?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Who are you?”

“Jet.”

“Jet? Tell me something, Jet. That cage supposed to keep you in or other folks out?”

“Both.”

“Okay, Jet, it’s a little weird, but I’ll go with it. Tell me, what’s the magic word that gets you out of the joint? You look like a girl longing to be free.”

“Come here. Closer. Into the light. Let me see you.”

“Awright,” Stoke said, and did.

“My God, you are huge.”

“Big.”

“You’re the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”

“Glandular condition. How do I get you out of there?”

“There is a remote over there by the television. Next to that silver ice bucket.”

“A
remote?”
Stoke said, shaking his head as he moved across the Italian leather tiles. He picked up the silver remote and pushed a couple of buttons. On the third try, the steel cage structure retracted silently into the ceiling and he dropped the remote into his jacket pocket.

Man, these rich people were into some weird shit.

Whale scrotums.

MADAME LI ENCOUNTERED ONLY MODERATE HEADWINDS EN
route from Hong Kong to Charles de Gaulle and his BA 747 arrived at the gate twenty minutes early. British Air had been lovely. They’d done something marvelous to the first-class seating arrangements since he’d last flown the carrier. He’d had his preferred
placement,
Seat 4-D, the bulkhead window.

And now, when he’d finished his meal and was ready for sleep, an elegantly molded wooden partition rose up between him and the aisle seat at the push of a button. His seat had reclined to full horizontal and he’d curled up under a soft duvet cover and slept like a little angel.

Well, he thought, giggling silently, perhaps not
exactly
like an angel.

I love Paris…

The assassin breezed through Customs. After all, he held a diplomatic passport and the only thing he’d carried aboard was a valise containing his makeup, peignoir, and a few unmentionables. First thing in the morning, he was going to his favorite Chanel emporium near the Place Vendôme and pick up the requisite wardrobe for his stays in Paris and London.

He had his eye on a nice tweed suit he’d seen in the new
Vogue
on the airplane. He always bought ready-to-wear. And it was his practice to call ahead and give his sizes, changing rooms in Paris salons being so problematic. He’d had to kill more than one saleswoman who’d barged in at an inopportune moment. Messy.

Yes, a tweed suit, perhaps in black. With his white coif and pearls, he’d be ready for anything. And anybody.

It was Saturday morning, clear and cool, when he stepped outside Terminal One. He was glad he’d brought the mink stole and he pulled it snug round his shoulders. He stood on the curbside for a few moments, eyes moving from side to side, a wealthy woman looking for her driver.

Not two minutes later, a German Maybach limousine slid to a stop in front of him, as long and black as a hearse. Diplomatic flags, one of them French, were mounted on the fenders just above the headlights. The other flag was one of the small Middle Eastern countries, though he couldn’t remember which.

A thick armored door swung out and from within a deep voice said, “Get in.”

Get in? So much for diplomatic courtesy and
politesse.
Madame Li was, after all, on a trade mission from Beijing. Her presence here was at the behest of the Chinese Politburo. The historic “meetings” she would hold with France’s leadership in the next two days were matters of grave international importance, were they not? Her mission here in Paris could change the face of Europe forever. She was not unaware of her place in history.

And somebody, frankly he didn’t care
who
it was, was telling him to “Get in”? In French-accented Chinese?

“That is certainly no way to address a lady, Comrade,” Madame Li said as he climbed up and into the dark cavern at the rear of the automobile. There were two men inside, and he sat in one of the rearward-facing seats. It was obvious which one was Bonaparte; he looked like a tall, thin version of his famous ancestor. Olive skin, brooding expression. The other fellow was heavily muscled and looked immensely strong. The hard plates of his skull at first appeared to be devoid of hair, but now he saw that it was covered in fine red-gold down.

This would be the German, von Draxis, the man General Moon had charged with taming the wild daughter Jet. He looked fully capable of taming anything short of a herd of charging rhinos.

“Drive,” the Frenchman said to the driver, ignoring Madame Li. The big car gathered speed smoothly and was almost instantly cruising at well over one hundred kilometers per hour, gracefully moving through the light morning traffic headed toward Paris.

The Frenchman pushed a button in the center console and a grey felt privacy panel slid up behind the driver’s head. Then he fingered another panel of buttons, one that reclined his seat back to a more comfortable angle and another to dim the interior lights to a soft warm glow. A muted flat-screen monitor mounted on his armrest was tuned to local news. Some kind of procession was leaving Charles de Gaulle for Paris via the A-1 motorway. In the center of the procession, amidst a sea of flashing blue lights, a black Maybach limousine identical to the one Madame Li was riding in.

“I am Luca Bonaparte, madame,” the Frenchman said, extending a stiff hand to be shaken. “This beautiful Maybach belongs to my dear friend here, Baron von Draxis. He was kind enough to volunteer his splendid vehicle for today’s operations. He insisted on picking you up as he has heard so many interesting things about you.”

“I’m a very interesting person. I am also not subject to anyone’s approval. I am here to do a job and I intend to do it.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Don’t misunderstand. The baron here is a great friend to our mutual cause. So. You have a lot of work to do here in Paris. Are you fully prepared?”

Madame Li sat back and regarded the two men without a reply.

Bonaparte was as described by Major Tang. Good-looking enough to be a French film star, with a powerful intelligence burning within his dark eyes. His Chinese was beyond fluent. The German was beefy and bullet-headed but wearing a beautiful grey cashmere roll-neck sweater under a soft black calfskin jacket. Rich. Very, he decided. Rumor had it he’d made a fortune building supertankers for the French.

Madame Li crossed his legs and smiled. “Yes, I had a lovely flight, thank you for asking. The service was cheerful, the food delicious, although I detested the movie, something politically correct about Rwanda.”

“Your sarcasm is ill-advised. Suppose you behave yourself.”

“Suppose you let me explain something to you, Comrade Bonaparte,” he said in flawless French. “I am attached to the personal staff of General Sun-yat Moon of the People’s Republic of China. I hold the rank of colonel in the PLA. I am here at his behest, not yours. I am only in your country because of his personal involvement in your current situation. As it happens, his desires, and those of China herself, intersect with your own at this moment in history. That may not always be true. It is an alliance of convenience. You would do well to remember that.”

“Are you quite finished with your geopolitical lecture, Madame Colonel?”

“No. I don’t like surprises. You were supposed to meet me, not him. I know why he’s here. You two are appraising me, deciding whether I’m up to the task. Well, I don’t take orders from you, or him, or anyone else. I expect to be treated with the respect and courtesy befitting my rank and the current state of affairs between our two countries.”

There was a brief silence as the French minister considered this. Bonaparte had asked the Chinese in Beijing for a supremely qualified assassin. Their best, in fact. He’d clearly gotten even more than he’d asked for. He looked at von Draxis and smiled, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Male shorthand for “What can one do?” When he next spoke, his voice was gentle and well-oiled.

“Sorry, Comrade Colonel. My profound apologies.”

“That’s much better. Continue to use that tone and we shall get along splendidly. Now, precisely when does this operation commence?”

“It has already begun. If you push that button by your right hand, a small monitor will come up out of the armrest. Good. There is the newscast showing the motorcade a few miles up ahead. You see the vehicle similar to our own, yes? Inside that car is the sultan of Oman, who has just arrived for a state visit. I am personally awarding him the Légion d’Honneur at a ceremony tomorrow morning.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“As you know, we always field a decoy vehicle or two on such occasions. To thwart potential terrorist attacks.”

“Naturally,” Madame Li said. “Standard procedure.”

“This morning, after a press conference at the Elysée Palace, a sécurité spokesman leaked a last-minute schedule change to a paid informant. He was told that I myself, and not Prime Minister Hon-fleur, would be greeting the sultan at the airport.”

“Ist gut, ja?
The media follows that car and not this one. That one on the television,” von Draxis said in his thickly guttural German accent, “that is the sultan’s.”

“I made the connection, Baron,” Madame Li said, unable to hide his irritation with this kind of condescension. “But why?”

“We want the media choppers following the other car,” Bonaparte said calmly. “You’ll find out why in a minute.”

“Das ist sehr gut,”
the German said, amused at the little woman’s impatience with them. He opened an aluminum case that was resting on his lap. Inside, nestled in black foam, a lightweight assault weapon and two rocket grenades. Von Draxis quickly assembled the weapon and affixed a grenade to the muzzle. A broad smile spread across the Teutonic features.

“Schatzi and his toys,” Bonaparte observed with some amusement.

“You should see mine,” Madame Li said with a coy smile. He found himself relaxing, having fun.

“Fasten your seat belt,” Bonaparte said, “I see we are getting close.” He lifted a receiver from its cradle and said a few words to the driver. The big car slowed perceptibly approaching an overpass over the A-1 motorway to Paris.

“Ach!
Here zey come,” von Draxis said.

A second later, another vehicle swerved into view beside them traveling at high speed. It braked hard, slowing to match the pace of the Maybach. A hooded gunman was visible by the rear window of the nondescript Citroën sedan. As the distance between the two cars narrowed to six feet or less, a bearded man lowered the tinted window and pointed the muzzle of a heavy automatic weapon directly at the Maybach.

Madame Li’s instinct was to dive for the floor, but the seat belt and the meaty hand of the German on his shoulder kept him pinned to his seat. There was a muffled rattle from the sedan and heavy thuds as high-caliber rounds slammed into the door. The armor inside the door shuddered and stopped the bullets, but it was disconcerting, to say the least. He plainly saw the gunman, who wore a black balaclava, raise his sights, now aiming at the window inches away from his face.

“Get us the fuck out of here!” Madame Li screamed, and Luca looked over at her, amazed. The genteel and aristocratic female voice was gone, replaced by that of an older man, crazed with fear for his life.

“Schatzi, if you don’t mind?” Bonaparte said, pushing a button that retracted the large sunroof above their heads. Sunlight flooded the car and also the sound of a second automatic weapon at very close range. Another gunman was firing at the front-seat window, attempting to take out the Maybach’s driver.

Von Draxis, frighteningly quick for his size, got to his feet with the stubby grenade launcher in his hands. At that moment, the first gunman opened up again. The passenger window by Madame Li’s face instantly frosted over in overlapping starburst patterns as the heavy rounds slammed into the thick glass. Madame Li closed his eyes and waited for the next burst. There was a pause in the fire as if the terrorist shooter could not believe what he was seeing. He was firing from less than six feet away!

“Now, Schatzi,” Luca Bonaparte said.

The German was standing now, his feet wide apart to maintain balance. He was tall enough so that his body from the chest up was outside the big Maybach. He raised his weapon and fired. As he did, the Frenchman lowered the shattered window so they could see.

A loud whoosh above Li’s head and then a thunderclap explosion and a flash of fire lit the interior of the Citroën. The blast blew the roof off the sedan and thick black smoke poured from the blown-out windows as the car careened away, out of control. As the Maybach accelerated, Madame Li saw the burned-out sedan hit a bridge abutment head-on, and then the fuel tank blew. Flame and smoke climbed into the morning air. Out of nowhere, a motorcycle escort appeared around them and the big car surged forward and sped away from the carnage, quickly reaching a speed of 170 kph on the A-1 to Paris Centre Ville.

Madame Li sat back and closed his eyes. The powerful air-conditioning systems were quickly sucking the sharp smell of cordite out of the Maybach’s interior. He was content to wait for the explanation he knew would come. In the meantime, he formulated the message he would encode and transmit to the Golden Dragon as soon as he was comfortably checked into his suite at the hotel.

For the next forty-eight hours, he would be working with a man who was absolutely fearless and unstoppable. General Moon’s assessment had been correct. Luca Bonaparte was precisely the man Beijing had been looking for, for a long, long time.

“Well, that’s done,” Bonaparte said, and, with an appreciative nod to the German, reclined his seat once more. There was apparently a humidor in the console, because he extracted a cigar and fired it with a beautiful gold lighter. It was engraved with an ornate B encircled by an olive wreath.

Delusions of grandeur? This modern Bonaparte was many things, but Madame Li didn’t think delusional was one of them. A twisted visionary, perhaps, nothing new about that. Expelling a cloud of pungent smoke, he said, “Sorry, how rude of me, Madame Li. Would you care for a cigar? Schatzi doesn’t touch tobacco.”

“I think not.”

“A Vegas Robaina. A gift from my amigo, Fidel, during my last visit to his island paradise. A manly smoke.”