Pirate (40 page)

Namely, tomorrow. That’s when Stokely would arrive. Along with his deadly friends from Martinique, the antiterrorist team known as Thunder and Lightning. Tonight’s objective was solely to reconnoiter the powder magazine and find a safe way inside the fortress. To figure out precisely how to kick ass when they came back. And get the women and children out safely.

Loot and shoot
? That’s what Harry had said.

Hawke swam faster.

A loose cannon was one thing. But a loose cannon without a cannon was another matter entirely. Hawke made another mental note: Keep an eye on Harry.

THE TUNNEL WAS DANK AND CLAUSTROPHOBIC. THE STONE
walls were cold to the touch, wet. The ground beneath Stoke’s boots felt like loose shale, pockmarked with puddles. Jet led the way with a small halogen light from the SLR’s emergency roadside kit. Blondi ran ahead, sniffing the ground. Every fifty feet or so there was an alcove with an exit door. All the doors were painted the same faded luminous green. These exits to nowhere still glowed faintly in the dark, a century after they had been installed.

There were exposed pipes and pneumatic tubes running overhead. Strange egg-shaped lanterns were mounted on rusted steel frames attached to the walls, every twenty feet or so. Now and then you’d see hand-cranked ventilators beneath the egg lamps. Stoke stopped a second and tried one. It made a creaking sound, but it turned and he could feel a slight suction from the grate. Still operable, Jet said. They’d been installed in World War I. Their purpose was to thwart any lethal gases an enemy might unleash in the tunnels.

There was, Stoke learned, an extensive network of bunkers and abandoned tunnels beneath the Tempelhof airfield. All were laid with small-gauge railroad track. Smaller tunnels like this one led off to a vast system of bunkers beneath the city of Berlin. And connected with even larger tunnels that could actually accomodate automobile traffic.

“During the war,” Jet said, her words bouncing off the dripping stone walls, “Goering used his big Mercedes staff car to commute out here in secret. Every day, he was driven out from his Luftwaffe headquarters on Wilhelm Strasse in Berlin. This tunnel is seven kilometers long.”

“Yeah? What about these smaller tunnels?” Stoke asked.

“They loop around the entire field. During the war, electric trams ferried ammunition and supplies out to the squadrons. Luftwaffe Junkers and Messerschmitt crews used trams to get out to their aircraft. The idea was to keep as much human activity as possible below ground and away from the eyes of Allied bombardiers.”

“These tracks look new.”

“They are. There’s a tram station about five hundred yards ahead. New high-speed trams. That’s how I get out to my car.”

“Where’s the third rail? For the electric trams, I mean.”

“They’re not electric now. Levitation. Antigravity propulsion.”

“Get out of town.”

“You’ll see for yourself if we have time. When the Allied bombers came, these tunnels and bunkers were used as bomb shelters by millions of Berliners. I imagine you could barely feel the tremors down here.”

“Must have been great,” Stoke said.

After they’d been walking along the tracks for about five minutes, Jet paused at one of the unmarked green doors. “This is it,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Trust me. Where’s Blondi?
Kommen Sie hier! Schnell!”

She pushed the green door open and they went inside, Blondi trailing happily behind.

The walls of the large room were lined with triple-bunk beds. In the center of the room, what looked like an operating table. In a corner stood an old toilet. More hand-cranked ventilators. Over the door, in chipped and peeling paint, was the word
Wehenzimmer.
Stoke paused to look at the sign.

“This was one of the labor rooms for pregnant women,” Jet said. “There were shops, hospitals, breweries, everything you’d need down here in the
Unterwelt.
Come on, we’re almost there.”

“Where?”

“This route is Schatzi’s escape hatch. He showed me once. It leads indirectly to his private office. He can get out in a hurry if he has to.”

“Why does he need an escape hatch?”

“If I were your girlfriend, wouldn’t you want an escape hatch?”

“Good point.”

At the end of the narrow hall, another room. A
Weinstube,
looked like, with a dark oak bar and a modern glassed-in wine cellar. Schatzi’s after-hours hangout. Behind the bar, there was a nondescript wooden door with a modern elevator hidden behind it. Jet placed her hand on a biometric print scanner set into the wall and the doors parted, disappearing back into the walls. They rode in silence all the way to the top.

Once they came to a stop, Jet pressed a numerical keypad and the door slid open on another world. White walls, gleaming marble floors, high ceilings, and lots of glass. Even at night, the space was full of light.

“Überwelt,”
Stoke said.

Jet laughed. “Good one,” she said, “You know more German than you let on. Come on. His office is just down this way.”

They walked along the gently curving white hallway. There was magnificent art, massive canvases, and heroic sculpture lining both walls, but Stoke didn’t take time to admire it. He knew he was getting close to something. Whatever her reasons, and he still had his private suspicions, Jet was taking him to it. Her shifting loyalties were troublesome. Alex Hawke had gone along with his idea of bringing her to Germany. So far, that had been the right decision. He wouldn’t be here without her.

The white hall dead-ended in a glass-walled atrium that soared five or six stories high. It was some kind of reception room with an oval desk and a few leather sofas and chairs. On the opposite wall was a pair of stainless-steel doors flanked by a sculpted pair of golden eagles standing about thirty feet high.

“Schatzi’s got a thing for eagles,” Stoke said, crossing the atrium to the massive doors. To his left, visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, the moonlit airfield was spread out before him. The margins of the criss-crossing runways were lit with faintly glowing blue lights set low to the ground. It was beautiful, and mercifully free of command cars and half-tracks full of guys in black with machine guns.

“Caesar had a thing for eagles. So did Napoleon. So does Schatzi.” Jet leaned into what looked like a fish-eye lens set behind black glass in the wall.

“What’s that?” Stoke said.

“Facial thermography. Identifies the characteristic heat patterns of the face. Over sixty-five thousand different temperature points, believe it or not.”

“I’d believe pretty much anything at this point.”

“Far greater accuracy than fingerprints. Can’t trick it with facial hair or even cosmetic surgery. Only way you can beat a thermograph is with alcohol.”

“You been drinking? Looks like you beat it.”

The doors parted, disappearing back into the walls. “No. He just forgot to lock my face out. Probably figured he’d never see it again.”

Beyond the doors, Stoke saw another stark white room, smaller, but with equally spectacular views of the field. Schatzi’s office was filled with moonlight and more grandiose art. The white marble floor was covered with a large Oriental rug. Very cozy. The entire wall behind the German tycoon’s desk was a Mercator projection map of the world painted on glass. On the desk itself, a gleaming model of a flying saucer.

“Guess he didn’t change the locks,” Stoke said as he walked over to the ornate carved desk. He picked up the model saucer and turned it over.

“No, he’s not that stupid. He changed them. But that keypad in the elevator allows you to enter a code to override all the locks in this part of the building. He forgot to change that code. And to delete my print from the print scanner.”

“Forgot he showed his girlfriend the escape hatch, too. Hey, Jet, is Schatzi building flying saucers here?”

“That’s the new disc prototype. The Messerschmitt ME-1. The Germans were working on antigravity flying discs in 1944, so it’s not exactly new technology. The idea is that an electrogravitational field can be created by a fast-rotating superconductive disc. Schatzi’s just picking up where they left off. So is Boeing, by the way, but they don’t talk about it.”

“No shit? Who’s the fat guy in the painting?”

“Hermann Goering. Founder of the Luftwaffe. This was his old office.” Jet hit a button that illuminated the wall-sized map.

Every square mile of Europe, Asia, and Africa was the same color blue.
GERMANIA
was splashed across the map in bright red foot-high letters. An old vision of a new world. A vision that died hard. And took an unthinkable number of people with it. Standing in this room, you got a definite feeling of bad déjà vu.

“Deutschland über alles,”
Stoke said.

“That was the general idea.”

“Jet,” Stoke said, looking at her carefully. “You didn’t bring me all this way to look at Nazi maps and flying saucers.”

“No, I did not. Listen to me. Almost everything you and Hawke need to know right now is in this room. Three years’ worth of
Leviathan
correspondence, detailed project design drawings, financial records, everything. This keycard opens the desk. It also opens all those file cabinets along the wall.”

“Leviathan?
Harry Brock mentioned that. What is it?”

“The sea beast.” Jet opened the center drawer of the desk and took out a black leather folder embossed with a gold crown. “Start with this file. Good luck.”

“Good luck?” Stoke said, peeking inside the file. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going home, Stoke. I thought about it the whole time we were flying. I’ve had all the betrayal and treachery I can stomach for a while. I’ve done what I could to help you and your friend Alex Hawke. You’re on your own now, I’m leaving.” She called to Blondi and headed for the door. “I’m going to sleep for a few days. Don’t forget to lock up.”

“Wait a damn minute, Jet. How do I know what to take? Half this stuff is in Chinese. You just can’t walk out now and say—good luck!”

“I can’t?”

She and Blondi were halfway across the atrium when he caught her.

“Jet, hold up. You said, almost everything I need is here. What else is there?”

“I have no idea. I’m just a cop, remember? But I can promise you this, that if my father, Luca Bonaparte, and von Draxis have a hand in it, it’s something very, very bad. Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out, Stoke. You’re a smart guy. If you want to talk at some point, call this number in Hong Kong. Maybe I’ll feel different about helping you then.”

She started to say something else, then stopped herself. She handed him a card with her name engraved on it and beneath that a handwritten number. “A friend of mine will answer. She’ll tell you how to find me. Good-bye, Stoke.”

She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thanks, Stoke,” she said. “For saving my ass.”

Stoke watched Jet and Blondi disappear around the curving wall and then walked over to the glass overlooking the field. There was a faint red line glimmering on the eastern horizon. He figured it would take an hour to sort through everything in the office. Take whatever looked interesting. He’d love to take a look at the plans for
Valkyrie.
See what was up with that missing keel. With any luck, he and Arnold could be airborne before dawn.

Then he’d go find Alex Hawke down in Oman.

A few minutes later, he was still at the window, thinking about Jet’s kiss. Was it a “see you later” kiss? Or a “good-bye, dumbass” kiss? He couldn’t help thinking about what a perfect trap she could have led him into. Man shot dead while stealing secret documents on private property. Hell, it was true.

A moment later, he heard a muffled roar out on the runway. It was the black SLR. She had her night-vision goggles on all right, had the lights out, nearly invisible, a fast-moving blur streaking along the blue-lit runway at more than two hundred miles an hour. She was headed for the main gate. If they had any brains, the VDI guards would just put the damn gate up and to hell with it. One thing he knew for sure about Jet now. She sure as hell wasn’t going to stop for anything.

Or, anybody.

Had to get moving now, and be quick about it. He’d just seen an urgent text message on his PDA from Alex Hawke. He was in Oman and he needed help bad and he needed it now. He turned from the window.

Time to loot. And maybe, shoot.

AMBROSE CONGREVE WAS A LIGHT SLEEPER. THE SOUND OF
sirens and garbage trucks on the streets of old New York nudged him awake at 5:00
A
.
M
. He dozed fitfully for an hour or two, then, through sheer force of will, woke himself up. He slipped out of his warm bed and into his leather slippers and robe. He stretched and yawned and briefly considered jumping right back in bed. No, he was hungry. Ravenous. Small wonder. It was nearly tea back in London.

He fumbled for the bedside phone and rang room service. Yes, two eggs over easy, toast, a pot of black coffee and some fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. Thirty minutes? Thanks very much.

He gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. Turned on the bedside lamp. Ouch. It was bright. A sensation one might describe as severe pain bloomed somewhere behind his eyeballs. What on earth was the matter? He was a vigorous chap long accustomed to rising at the crack of nine. Ah, yes. Jet lag. Two days in New York and he was still suffering mightily. True, he and Captain Mariucci had stopped off for a nightcap, but—ouch. His head was banging.

Jet lag and—well, truth be told, he was a bit hung over. A wee touch of the Irish flu, to be perfectly honest about the thing. He had only a vague memory of going to bed in the first place.

After their midnight thrills at Coney Island, Congreve and Mariucci had fallen victim to consecutive nightcaps in Bemelman’s Bar, an establishment just off the Carlyle lobby downstairs.

“One and done,” Mariucci said when the cruiser braked to a halt outside the Madison Avenue bar entrance. One? Neither man knew the meaning of the word one when it came to adult potables. Yes, cold, wet, and exhilarated by their stunning success in the dark heart of Brooklyn, the two old chums had succumbed to the siren call of Mr. Bemelman’s bar.

The colorful and storied bar at that hour had been very nearly deserted. They chose the chocolate brown leather banquette beneath Ambrose’s favorite scene, an enchanting depiction of picnicking rabbits. After reviewing the evening’s macabre events, they had come to Joey Bones’s poignant last moments on the floor of the Ferris wheel car.

“Hell of a thing, Ambrose,” Mariucci said, draining the last of his third Gin-Gin Mule, “Seeing him go out like that.”

“Didn’t know Joe, obviously,” Ambrose agreed, sipping his delicious Macallan’s. “Still, I must confess I rather hated to see the old boy exit this mortal coil. I quite liked him during our brief acquaintance.”

“Well, you got your deathbed confession, Chief Inspector. Now what? Storm the beaches of France again? Take Paris? What?”

“The president of France is almost certainly a cold-blooded murderer. We now have eyewitness testimony to a murder. Interpol and the Yard will issue warrants and we’ll journey to Paris and take him into custody.”

“Simple as that, huh?”

“No one said it would be easy. He won’t give up without a horrific fight.”

“What’s this ‘we’ crap? I ain’t going to Paris. I got my hands full right here in River City.”

“In that case, I suppose I shall have to take sole credit for the collar of the century, Captain,” Ambrose said. Looking at his watch, he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. He thanked Mariucci profusely for his help and then bade the good captain a very good night indeed. Or, at least, that’s the way he seemed to recall his leave-taking.

Ambrose hadn’t even dared look at the clock when he’d switched out the light and climbed into bed. He didn’t want to know. He supposed he’d had two or three hours of sleep. In that time, he’d had a remarkable dream. The lovely Diana Mars had the starring role.

She was in some kind of danger. His cousin Bulling was slinking about, stalking her. No, no, it was that butler, Oakshott. He shook his head. Couldn’t remember anything more. He hoped Sutherland was keeping a watchful eye on her in his absence. He worried about her. No, he missed her.

Now, feeling as if he were moving underwater, he padded across the room to one of the corner windows. His slippers made slapping noises on his heels. A watery grey light was leaking through a crack in the draperies. Pulling the heavy chintz aside, he looked out at the city below. The skies were indeed grey, though the storms of the previous evening had abated, leaving only a soft rain to swirl against the window.

His mission was satisfactorily concluded. He’d call Kelly and Hawke and give them the details. Then he’d book himself on the evening BA flight to Heathrow. That left him with a free day in New York to spend any way he wished. Perhaps he’d stroll over to the Met. There was an exhibit of the drawings of Peter Paul Rubens he was keen on seeing and that would be a lovely way to spend—

The telephone jangled. He crossed the room and picked it up.

“Hullo?”

“Is that you, Ambrose?”

“Diana?”

“Yes.”

“You sound like you’re just next door.”

“I am, almost. I’m at the Colony Club on Park Avenue.”

“You’re in New York?”

“Arrived late last night.”

“Good heavens. You’re here. Are you quite all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. It’s just that—”

“Just that what, Diana?”

“Detective Sutherland thought it a good idea for me to go on holiday. To get away from England for a time.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“Well, it was nothing really. Someone got into the house. The night before last. About three in the morning. I heard a noise and called the number you and the detectives gave me.”

“Yes? Go on, go on.”

“Well, there are police on the property, as you know. They came at a run. But someone was right at my bedroom door. It was locked obviously, but the—the knob was turning and—”

“Good lord.”

“Yes. One hopes. At any rate, I got my trusty shooting iron from under the bed and went to the door. I gave fair warning. I said, ‘I’ve been waiting all my life to do this,’ and opened fire. It was quite marvelous.”

“Did you hit anything?”

“Well, the door, certainly.”

“I mean—did you shoot anyone?”

“No, unfortunately. He, or she, was gone by the time the coppers got there. No blood on the carpet, so I suppose I missed. I was disappointed, frankly. The nerve of someone to—”

“Thank God you’re safe.”

“Safe as houses, I suppose. What are you doing today?”

“Me? Well, I’ve a few phone calls to make. My trip’s been a great success. I can’t wait to tell you about it. And then—well, I was thinking of popping over to the Met. Been ages since I’ve had a good look round. There’s a good Rubens show on if you’d like to join me?”

“Oh. I can’t, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, well. Perhaps another—”

“Ambrose, the reason I called is this. I’ve been invited out to the Hamptons for a few days. My dear friends the Barkers. Jock and Susan. They’re from Cleveland. He was America’s ambassador to Canada during the Reagan years. I told Su-Su I was coming to New York and—”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was wondering if you might not like to come along?”

“Come along.”

“Yes. They’ve a lovely old place on Gin Lane. Right on the ocean. I’m sure they’d be delighted if you came. Men of your brilliant attractions are rather at a premium at house parties in Southampton. I promise you shan’t have to play croquet or swim or do anything that might bring on physical prostration.”

“I don’t object to physical exertion. I play golf. I just don’t swim well.”

“Well. They’ve got oodles of room.”

“Oodles.”

“Please say yes. Jock has sent his car for me. I could have the driver stop at the Carlyle and pick you up.”

“What time?”

“Oh. Shall we say eleven?”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“See you then. What fun!”

“Oh, Diana, before you go—thank you very much indeed for the lovely flowers. I’m looking at them now.”

“Well, I thought they’d be cheery.”

“They certainly are. Well. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

Ambrose hung up and sat down for a moment on the edge of the bed, a rather large smile on his face. The whisky clouds had lifted, the gin mists had cleared, and the old brain was ticking over quite nicely, thank you. Life was good again. He kicked off his slippers, scrunched his toes into the soft carpet, and clicked his bare heels together. Time to get moving if he was going to be packed and checked out by eleven. What to wear?

He stood and saw the small blue envelope on the floor, peeking out from beneath the dust ruffle. It was Diana’s card. He’d intended to read her note at the bar at “21” and then again just before dropping off to sleep. It must have slipped unread from his hand. Now, he bent down, picked it up, and read her words: