skidded to a stop next to a massive nineteenth-century cannon in the southwest corner of the cobblestone courtyard.
“Well, kid, this is us,” the big man said, sucking in his gut and looking at Luca through a haze of cigarette smoke. He said, “Napoleon’s Tomb. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ it. I hear it’s even bigger than my friggin’ mausoleum at Mount Olivet in Queens. Hey, how you doing, kid?”
“Who are you?” Luca said.
“Who, me?” The man stuck out his big meaty hand. There was a massive gold nugget on the small finger.
“Greetings from Gangland, U.S.A., kid,” the big bald man said, grabbing Luca’s hand and pumping it. Luca whipped his hand away, rubbing it on his trousers, and stared into the man’s eyes until the American gangster averted them.
“What did you say?” Luca said coldly.
“Name is Benny,” the man said, and shrank back from Luca’s gaze. “Benny Sangster.”
Chapter Six
Cannes
HAWKE SLID HIS GREEN AMERICAN EXPRESS CARD UNDER the hotel cashier’s grate and waited for the clerk to raise the dreaded issue of whether one had raided the bloody honor bar. It was a universal travel wrinkle he loathed. He found it unbearable, in the process of checking out of a hotel, that one must stand there trying to recall if one had eaten any peanuts or opened a bloody Perrier before turning in.
Having paid, he strode across the lobby and informed the concierge that he was leaving, discreetly slipping the mustachioed man a sealed hotel envelope containing one hundred Euros, informing him that the lady, his— guest—might be staying in his rooms until next morning.
“Mais oui, monsieur. Pas de probleme.”
Hawke emerged under the hotel’s porte-cochere entrance, pausing for a moment. On assignment abroad, one expects to be watched. He saw no quickly averted head, or raised newspaper, however, so he turned right, descending the gently curving drive that led to the avenue. There was little traffic and he sprinted across the four lanes and grassy median to the beach promenade. Following the curve of the harbor west along le Croisette, he kept the Star in view on his left. From this distance, it looked like normal departure preparations were well underway.
Beyond the twinkling lights of the Vieux Port, the glittering coastline lay like a necklace beneath the dark sky. He was, he thought, ready. It promised to be a simple business, to be sure, but it was not in Hawke’s nature to pursue any objective with less than the maximum of his ability.
He walked as quickly as possible without attracting undue attention. A pair of rope-soled espadrilles had replaced his evening shoes. Here in the South of France, the thin canvas shoes were conveniently stylish and stealthy. Approaching the palm-lined fringes of the marina, he spoke softly into the lipmike of his wireless Motorola.
“Hawke,” he said.
“Quick,” the distinctly American voice of his security head replied in his earpiece. “Good evening, sir.”
“Hi, Tommy,” Hawke said. “How do we look for this thing?”
“All the telephoto surveil monitors look good, sir. Normal last-minute activity aboard the subject vessel. Ship’s radio officer has been monitoring the Star’s transmissions and reports business as usual. Idle chit-chat. A pair of cargo cranes loading the midships hold now, as you can probably see from where you are. Looks like heavy equipment. She got her final departure clearance from the port authority an hour ago, confirmed a midnight sailing.”
“Good.”
“Skipper, again, I have to urge you to reconsider some backup. I don’t want—”
“It’s a civilian vessel, Tommy. Not military. The hostage is being smuggled out to China by a single guard. I’m good.”
“With all due respect, sir, I really gotta say—”
Hawke cut him off. “I’m allowing myself just twenty minutes. Time. Mark.”
“Yes, sir. Time: coming up on 23:29.57 GMT…and…mark.”
“Mark. Twenty-three-thirty GMT. Twenty minutes. Mark.”
“Sir, I confirm a fast Zodiac standing off the vessel’s portside stern at precisely twenty-three fifty.”
“Zodiac mission code?”
“She’s mission-coded Chopstick One. Twin Yamaha HPDI 300s. She’ll get you out of there in a hurry. I say again, sir, I believe there should be at least minimal backup. If you’d only—”
Hawke cut him off again.
“Tommy, if I can’t handle a simple snatch aboard an old rust bucket like this I really ought to pack it in. Chopstick One stand by and confirm pickup at eleven-five-oh. Okay? Chop-chop!”
“Aye-aye, sir. There is one thing—”
“Make it snappy. I’m about to do this.”
“If you look back up at your hotel, sir, you’ll see someone standing out on your terrace with binoculars trained on you. One of my guys has a long telephoto on her now. She’s…uh…not wearing much, sir.”
“That will be all, Sergeant,” Hawke said.
He snapped his mobile shut and quickened his pace. He had deliberately left the Ikons hanging on the balustrade, left behind like all the few recently acquired and untraceable possessions in his suite. But why the hell would she—He paused and looked back at the Carlton. With the naked eye, he could just make out Jet’s tiny black silhoutte standing at the balcony of his suite. There was a glowing orange dot, her cigarette. He smiled and waved. The glow was immediately extinguished. Interesting behavior. Was she sad that he’d left or curious about where he was going? Make a mental note, old boy.
Hawke made his way past the long row of charter boats, all moored stern to in the Mediterranean style, and then out along the curvature of an outer breakwater that culminated in a deepwater pier. There was a trickle of passersby, mostly lovers linked arm in arm, out for a stroll now that the weather had changed. Otherwise, the harbor was quiet. The only activity was dead ahead where the Star of Shanghai was moored. Lights atop a pair of very tall cranes created an oasis around the ancient steamer. At her stern, the faded red flag of the People’s Republic of China hung limply in the light breeze.
All the intel he had from Admiral “Blinker” Godfrey at DNI Gibraltar and his old friend Brick Kelly, the director at Langley, suggested this nocturnal visit of his would be a complete surprise to the Chinese operative on board the Star. He was a man operating under the name of Tsing Ping. He was a Te-Wu secret police officer whose dossier Hawke had read twice just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The man, whose base was an ancient enclave on the Huangpu River, was apparently a human killing machine.
CIA had assured Hawke that both the Te-Wu man and the Chinese skipper aboard the old tramp steamer had no idea the Americans were on to them. They knew that the Americans would think Brock had simply missed a pickup in Morocco, that’s all. Happened all the time. Besides, this guy Brock, whoever he was, was a NOC. Normally such agents, captured in the line of duty, were simply dead men, no questions asked, no answers given.
Unless Hawke got him out tonight, his slow death at the hands of the world’s most sophisticated torturers was a given.
More important, Brock’s superiors in Washington would never learn what secrets were imprinted upon his brain. Kelly wanted him alive. Badly.
Hawke stepped over a mooring line running from a hawser on the Star’s stern to a bollard on the deepwater pier and brought the scene before him into focus.
A couple of seamen were lounging at the stern rail, smoking cigarettes, watching the fog roll into the harbor. Most of the crew was engaged with the loading going on amidships. There was a single lookout standing at the bow. They’d posted a pair of standard-issue guards at the foot of the gangway. Both were wearing greasy orange slickers with rain hoods. One of them was looking at him now, carefully observing his approach. Unlike most such
