Pirate (47 page)

Gooch brushed past her and came into the room, his face drawn.

“I’ve just received word, sir. French troops and armored vehicles are landing on the Omani coast. They’ve opened up a naval bombardment of the capital of Muscat and certain important coastal cities. Paratroops are on the ground at the airport.”

“Jesus,” McAtee said. “Any word from Hawke?”

“Just now, sir. He’s safely out.”

“Did he bring Sultan Abbas out with him?”

“No, sir. The sultan is dead. He was killed during the rescue attempt.”

“Goddamn it.”

“There is some good news. Hawke’s got it, sir. He’s got the sultan on tape pointing the finger straight at France. Denouncing Bonaparte. Denying that he invited France in.”

“Thank you, John. Call the networks and get that tape on the air immediately. CNN, FOX, Al Jazeera.”

“Done.”

“And get Mr. Bonaparte on the phone. It’s time I had a little têteà-tête with this asshole.”

OF ALL THE WATERFRONT DIVES IN MACAO, STOKE THOUGHT,
she had to pick this one.

He’d called Jet as soon as he’d arrived that morning. Twelve hours after saying good-bye to Hawke at Muscat airport, he was checking into his hotel in Hong Kong. Hawke wanted him to follow the threads he’d picked up in Berlin. To find out what the hell this General Moon was up to and fast. He stretched out on his bed overlooking the beautiful harbor. Thinking about what he’d say, he called the number on the card she’d handed to him in Berlin. On the phone, she’d sounded good. Upbeat. Staying out of sight at some girlfriend’s house in Macao.

Before he could even get to the purpose of his visit, she asked about Alex, which Stoke found pretty interesting. Wanted to know how he was, what he was up to. Yeah, he’d been right all along. The girl was a torch-bearer for Alex Hawke, all right. Get in line. Well, if it was true, good luck. Hawke had only loved two women in his whole damn life besides his mother. Consuelo de los Reyes, who wasn’t talking to him right now. And Victoria Sweet, who was dead.

Stoke told her that a good friend of Alex’s, a wonderful guy named Ambrose Congreve, had been shot at some fancy party out on Long Island and had been rushed to a hospital. All they knew, so far. Alex was en route to New York now to be by his friend’s side. Stoke was headed there, too, soon as he’d done what needed doing here in Hong Kong.

Said she was sorry about the friend; that she wanted to help Alex in any way she could. Help
them.
Alex needed her help more than he knew, she said. Stoke was still thinking about that one when she added, “Whatever you’ve figured out about von Draxis and Leviathan, I’m guessing it isn’t the whole story. As I told you, I don’t know the whole story myself. But I know one thing, Stokely. You don’t have China. You don’t have my father.”

“You can’t tell me.”

“I can’t tell you because I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. My relationship with him is complicated enough.”

Stoke told her some stuff he and Alex had discussed with Brick Kelly at CIA and she said, yeah, that was the right direction. It was definitely a French, German, Chinese connection. It was all about oil. But there were a whole lot more pieces to this puzzle. Bad pieces.

They should meet, she said. Tonight.

Stoke had learned a few things as an NYPD detective. One of them was that prearranged meetings with people you didn’t completely trust were always interesting. A lot of things could be prearranged. Stoke knew this was the final act with Jet. It would go one of two ways. Either she was going to hand him the keys that would lead to the kingdom. Or, another possibility, she was leading him smack into a very dangerous situation.

He had a vision of himself drugged and shanghaied. Bound for nowhere on a tramp steamer or sent to some farm for reeducation. Maybe even something more deadly.

Nothing to do but find out. Her idea was they’d hook up tonight at a place called, believe it or not, the Krazy Kat Klub. It was long on atmosphere, you had to say that. A cross between a hooch house and an opium den. The smoke-filled joint was full of wharf rats and zombies who looked like they had serious opium or smack issues. Jet said be there no later than eight. It was now almost nine. He was still sitting at the bar nursing a warm Coke with his eye on the door, waiting to see her waltz in.

She had told him they’d need some kind of boat. Nothing fancy, but something fast. Something that could get them over to Hong Kong Harbor, even if the weather was bad. The weather was bad. There was a typhoon brewing out in the China Sea. The leading edge had rolled into Macao about two hours earlier. It was blowing like stink outside. No rain yet, but that was coming.

He’d done the best he could with the boat. But it hadn’t been all that easy. You don’t just walk into Hertz Rent-a-Boat in Macao and get the keys to a Chris-Craft.

He’d finally paid cash to a guy he’d met down on the docks that afternoon. His name, believe it or not, was He Long. Bought a little stinkpot from him, mainly because he was the only guy Stoke could find who spoke a little English.
Foo Fighter
was only twenty-four feet or so but she had an enclosed flat-roofed wheelhouse to keep Jet dry and a big Chevy 327 gas engine that looked pretty clean, points and plugs looked after, well-maintained. Owner said she’d do thirty knots and Stoke believed him. Had a fresh paint job, too. Bright red.

“I like your name,” Stoke told the owner before he left the dock. “Guy could get a lot of mileage out of a name like that. Hormone replacement business, Viagra shops, something like that.”

He Long was still bent over on the dock and laughing his ass off when Stoke rumbled away. Stoke was pretty sure He Long didn’t have a clue what was so funny but everybody was pretty polite here in Macao. Maybe He Long was just giggling because Stoke had just paid him twice what his boat was worth.

Stoke was just about to check his watch for the umpteenth time when Jet Moon walked in. She looked spectacular, her black hair held up with a pearl comb, all dressed up in a tight white dress. Guy next to him never even noticed. Gay bar? No. Just the last guy on the last stool in the very last bar at the end of the road. Stoke looked at the guy’s eyes for a second, then looked away. The Chinese Thought Police would have a field day in here. Some crazy shit going on behind those eyes.

Jet headed straight for him. Guess he wasn’t too hard to spot in a crowd of pint-sized Oriental drug addicts.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. He could tell she meant it, so he smiled and slid off the stool.

“Hey. Have a seat. Want a drink?”

“A glass of white wine?”

“Really? Here?”

“That was a joke, Stokely. I’ll take a brandy. Neat.”

Stoke ordered from the little guy with the Fu Manchu goatee and got another Coke. Unlike American bars on a Saturday night, this one was pretty quiet. Everybody zoned out on China White maybe. At least you could have a private conversation without screaming.

Jet said, “So, you got the boat?”

“Yeah. It’s that bright red one tied up outside.”

“That will do. Good work.”

“Can I ask where we’re going?”

“A restaurant over in Hong Kong Harbor. The Golden Dragon.”

“Really good food, must be, go all the way over there. With this weather and all.”

“We’re having dinner with my father. It’s his restaurant.”

“Yeah? Wants to meet your personal trainer, huh?”

“You’re my fiancé now. I just told him an hour ago.”

“Hey, I’m moving up in the world. Even if you’re just using me to get to Alex Hawke, I’ll take it.”

“That’s not funny, Stoke.”

“Yeah, it is. You were supposed to kill him but your heart wouldn’t let you. Right? Tell me I’m wrong.”

She waved his smile away. “Look, Stoke. I’m doing you a huge favor here. My father’s a very important man in China. There are worlds within worlds in Hong Kong. I’m saving you a lot of time sorting them all out.”

“Tell me what I’m looking for here, Jet.”

“My father, I learned last night, is privately selling nuclear materials. Off the books.”

“Materials. You mean weapons?”

“I don’t know.”

“Off the books. You mean Beijing doesn’t know about it?”

“I have no idea. I told you, I’m just a cop.”

“Selling to who? France?”

“To Germany.”

“And what are the Germans doing with these weapons?”

“That’s why you’re here, Stoke. My father’s house has many rooms. I’m sure there’s something horrible in every one of them. But I’ve just told you all I know.”

“I know what kind of man your father is, Jet. Just like I know who you are. But I got to say, I’m kind of surprised at the way you’re handling this part.”

“You don’t trust me? After all I did in Berlin?”

“I trust you, Jet. Yeah. I do. Pretty much.”

“Thank you. Really.”

“Jet, let me tell you something. I appreciate all you’re doing. You know I do. But I don’t see how you survive this, girl. Going against a man like your father. Maybe we’ll get out alive tonight. But they’ll find you, Jet. He’ll find you. He won’t let you go after this.”

“That’s my problem, isn’t it? You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

“Sorry about the choppy ride,” Stoke said, the two of them side by side at the wheel of
Foo Fighter.
The storm was kicking up now and they were getting bounced all over the tiny wheelhouse. Rain was beating against the windshield but the wipers worked pretty well. And it was warm and dry inside. “Want me to slow down?”

“Actually, I’m amazed at how you keep missing all these sampans. You see that thing all lit up on the horizon? That’s the Golden Dragon. We’ll tie up on the other side.”

“Got it.”

Jet looked at him. “How much do you know now, Stoke? From what you took out of Schatzi’s office?”

“Not enough, Jet, or I wouldn’t be here. I work for Alex Hawke. And Alex, at least for right now, is working for the U.S. government. I’m here in Hong Kong because Alex Hawke told me to be here. Just so we’re clear. Who’s doing what for who, I mean.”

“I’m clear, Stoke. I want you to be. I’m on your side.”

“Good. Anyway, Washington is still busy examining everything I stole from Schatzi’s office. We know the Germans are building a supertanker fleet for the French. Ultralarge crude carriers in the half-million-ton range. We know the French government-owned company, Elf, is setting up a massive operation of ship terminals, refineries, and tankers to transport oil from the Gulf to China.”

“What else have you got?”

“China gets oil. France gets money. End of story.”

“And
Leviathan
?”

“Same story. She was built in Germany for the French by your pal, Schatzi. Just like the tankers. Good business idea, if you ask me.”

“My father’s got a lot of ideas, Stoke. Some good, some no doubt very, very bad. That’s why we’re having dinner with him on the Golden Dragon.”

“Just the three of us, huh? Nice and cozy.”

“There’ll be four. I don’t know who the mystery guest is. Probably his righthand man, Major Tang.”

“Tony Tang? Charming guy.”

“You know him?”

“We just met. He’s dead.”

“You might not want to mention that to my father. Major Tang was his best friend.”

“Lips are sealed.”

She looked at him a second, then said, “Okay. Slow down. We tie up over there at the restaurant dock. Where all the water taxis wait. We’re going to his private dining room up on the top deck. About halfway through the meal, I’ll figure out some kind of diversion. At that point, you’re going to excuse yourself. Say you’re going to the loo. But you’re really going to the kitchen that prepares meals for my father and his staff. Don’t worry. The kitchen staff is too crazed to pay any attention to you. Just act like you’re lost.”

“That will be easy.”

“There’s a young sous chef down there who works for me. He’s expecting you. His name is Wan Li. He’ll ask if he can help you. You tell him you’re looking for the lavatory.”

“Then what?”

“I’ve drawn a diagram of the Dragon’s upper deck. My father’s private offices are here. Here’s the small dining room where we’ll be having dinner. The kitchen is here. Wan Li will take you where you need to go.”

“Where’s that?”

“You’ll see. From what I know now, the answers to all your questions is down in the bowels of the Golden Dragon. Wan Li will show you.”

“And after that?”

“I’ll give you twenty minutes. That should be enough time. Then I’m storming out of the dining room and returning to the boat. Leave the keys in it. I’ll bring it around and pick you up at this cargo door on the stern. Wan Li will show you. It’s a gangway where the produce barges unload for the kitchen.”

“You have a weapon?”

“In my handbag. I hope I don’t need it.”

“You might.”

“He’s my father, Stoke.”

“I know.”