“Yes, sir. The new French ship. Leviathan.”
“And you say her keel contains a large fission bomb?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I’m saying. I want to confirm that fact. But I believe it.”
“You believe it’s a Chinese device? Put there by the Chinese? She’s a French-flag vessel, Alex. Built in Germany.”
“Mr. President, her reactors were installed at Shanghai Shipyard. The keel was hung there, too.”
“All right, Alex, listen carefully,” the president said, “Nobody says boo about this until I say so. Captain Mariucci, do you hear that?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I do.”
“Nothing, I mean not a single word, gets said about this Leviathan situation until you two get over to that vessel, alone, and confirm the bomb’s existence. That includes you, too, Captain Mariucci. You’re the only one with a ticket. I don’t want any helicopters in the sky, harbor police boats, none of that crap. Nobody even breathes until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here. Understand what I’m saying?”
“We do, sir,” Mariucci said. “The danger of panic far outweighs the chance of immediate detonation. If we find there really is a bomb hidden aboard that monster.”
“Right. Okay. Get going. Alex, you’ve got my secure number. It’s what, ten-fifteen? Call me one-half hour from now no matter what. We’re nose-to-nose with the Chinese over this goddamned Oman incursion. Until I have a definitive answer from you on this thing, I’m paralyzed in these negotiations.”
“Sir—”
“Unless we get that bomb out of New York, there’s a very good chance we’re going to war with China.”
The president was gone.
Chapter Fifty-nine
New York City
NEITHER HAWKE NOR THE CAPTAIN SAID A WORD DURING the elevator ride to the ground floor. Nor did they speak crossing the lobby. Instead of taking the cruiser idling out front of the hospital entrance, they jumped into a cab at the corner of York and Seventieth Street and headed across town. It was Sunday night and the traffic was light going through the park. They pulled up at the passenger ship terminal, Pier 93, just after nine-thirty.
“Got any ideas?” Mariucci said to Hawke as they climbed out of the cab.
“Nothing yet,” Hawke said, “I was hoping you’d have one by now.”
Hawke handed the driver a twenty and joined the captain on the sidewalk. The upper decks of the enormous ship, illuminated, blocked out the sky above the terminal. She was, Hawke knew, two times longer than the Eiffel Tower was high, and four times the size of the Titanic. Hawke saw the word Leviathan stenciled in gold on her beautiful black bow. No doubt about it, she was monumentally impressive.
“Let’s go find the captain,” Hawke said.
They raced through the terminal and arrived at the deserted check-in area. The floor was still littered with streamers and confetti. The French Line had decorated the entire area with paintings, ribbons, and pictures of the great liners of the past, the Ile de France and the Normandie. A massive oil painting dominated the scene. In the foreground of the painting, the largest ship ever built, Leviathan. In the background, almost hidden by the arcs of water jetting from the fireboats, the Statue of Liberty.
There were two desultory guards at the boarding door who barely looked up from their newspapers as Mariucci flashed his shield and barreled through. When they got outside on the dock, they couldn’t even see the ship. It was too close to the building. It looked like a black wall.
There was a gangway leading up the side of the black wall, its rails festooned with wilted red, white, and blue streamers. Hawke raced up, followed closely by Mariucci. There was an officer in white at the top with a clipboard. At the sight of two men running toward him, he put on a welcoming smile to hide his confusion. The passengers were all long gone and these two men didn’t look like crew.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the officer said.
“Yeah, how are you doing tonight? Listen, I’m Captain John Mariucci, NYPD, and this is my colleague Alex Hawke. Royal Navy. Mind if we take a look around?”
“I am so sorry, sir, but you see we do not allow tours or uninvited visitors. The ship is—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Mariucci said, moving right up into his face. “You are?”
“I am the ship’s chief purser, monsieur. And, I will have to ask you to—”
“Look, Alain, that’s what it says on your security tag thing there, you’re new, so let me explain how this all works. This is New York City, see. We have our own unique style. Like, I’m a cop here. I don’t have to be invited.”
“We’d like a brief word with your captain,” Hawke said. “Would you be so kind as to take us to the bridge?”
“Well, I—”
“After you, Alain. Lead the way.”
“As you wish.”
As it happened, the ship’s captain, Francois Dechevereux, was not on the bridge at all. He was standing alone on the open observation deck, high above the graceful curve of the bows, looking at the pristine New York skyline. He was a tall man, angular, and his white uniform hung on him the way a tent hangs on poles. Hawke noticed his yellow fingertips and the unfiltered cigarette that seemed a permanent fixture in the corner of his mouth.
“Beautiful ship, Captain,” Hawke said after they’d been introduced by the purser. “Magnificent lines.”
“Yeah, nice,” Mariucci said. “Big. But nice.”
Captain Dechevereux whispered something in the purser’s ear and sent him scurrying away. Then he turned to Hawke, removing his cigarette only to speak. He didn’t look happy to see them.
“Leviathan is a wonder, Monsieur Hawke, a symbol of the new French Renaissance. Our great leader, President Bonaparte, has given her to France as proof of her restored glory. La Gloire. I am glad you appreciate her. I don’t mean to be rude. But, may I ask why you gentlemen wished to see me? Is there some problem? Some irregularity with our paperwork?”
“There certainly is a problem, Captain,” Mariucci said, “But I’m here to make it go away.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s the mayor, Captain. Of New York. He’s a greenie, see? One of those tree-hugging environmental wackos, right? Hizzoner has never much liked the idea of a nuclear-powered vessel with a foreign flag zipping in and out of New York Harbor and—”
“He is anti-French,” Captain Dechevereux said with disdain, flicking his cigarette over the rail and immediately lighting another. “I have read this about him.”
“No, no. The mayor of New York loves France. It’s not that. He—”
Hawke cast a sidelong glance at Mariucci. “Captain,” he said, “I’ve heard you can do well over thirty knots. Staggering. Please tell me about your propulsion system.”
“Ah. The most advanced in the world, monsieur. Two pods, submerged under the stern, that can rotate 360 degrees. Driven by 4.2-megawatt thrusters controlled by a joystick.”
“Amazing. How many reactors? Four?” Hawke asked.
“Mais certainement. Four nuclear reactors each generating one-hundred-thousand-shaft horsepower. We keep her speed confidential. In brochures we say ‘It’s sufficient.’”
“That’s great,” Mariucci said. “But look around you here. Pretty densely populated area here in Manhattan. People get nervous when they even hear the word ‘nuclear.’ You understand that.”
Hawke said, “Captain, I saw a poster depicting Alaska at the dock-side check-in. I take it you intend to sail in waters where there are strict environmental controls?”
“Mais oui. But we are very conscious of the environment issues. President Bonaparte, who, perhaps, found it
