“And then there is his third life.”
“Yes?”
“His secret life.”
“You mean the envelope?”
“Yes. Please open it.”
Sutherland picked the thing up with thumb and forefinger and slid the plastic zipper open.
“It’s a DVD disc, sir. Two of them. Unmarked.”
“Yes. That’s what it felt like to the touch. You have one of those laptop computers in your murder bag, I believe.”
“Back in a flash, sir.”
Ambrose sipped his tea, contemplating the enigma that was Henry Bulling, keen with anticipation as to what might be encoded on the discs. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be prize-winning dahlias.
“Here you are, sir. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Ross inserted the first disc into the small Sony laptop, and Congreve heard the faint whir as the thing spooled up. Both men leaned forward as the screen came to life.
“It appears to be a very large oil refinery, sir,” Sutherland said, disappointed that the image was not salacious or at the very least intriguing.
“Go to the next one,” Ambrose said.
“Same refinery, different angle.”
“An infamous French refinery, Inspector. Can you zoom in on this area here? The small sign above this lorry?”
Sutherland used the cursor to create a small shaded box on the area Congreve had indicated. Then he used the zoom to enlarge it.
“A-ha,” Ambrose said, “the center of the storm. Our Henry may have gotten in a little over his head here. This is juicy stuff indeed. Keep clicking.”
“I’m not with you, sir.”
“Oil is a very hot topic these days, Sutherland. This is the famous Leuna oil refinery, built by the French and Germans in Eastern Germany. Operated by Elf Aquitaine, the largest corporation in France. Publicly owned. In reality, an extension of the French government. Leuna was at the center of a huge scandal involving the French Foreign Trade minister a few years ago. The infamous Monsieur Bonaparte.”
“Right. Budget irregularities. Kickbacks to African countries, as I recall,” Sutherland said, excitement starting to color his voice. He continued to scroll through the disc, which contained countless scenes of pipelines, tankers, and the like.
“That’s it. A tawdry romance involving Bonaparte and his German counterpart.”
“That German shipbuilder. Giving African politicians cash for every barrel extracted.”
“Ah, yes, our old friends, the French and the Germans.”
“The new Europe,” Sutherland said, looking up at his superior.
“Don’t forget the Iraqis,” Ambrose said. “Billions traded hands illegally. The oil-for-weapons transactions. France got oil. And cash, of course. Iraq got French Mirage fighter jets and restricted French nuclear technology and power plants. It was the biggest French scandal since the war. Now, what do you suppose our Henry is doing with pictures of French refineries in his freezer?”
Sutherland clicked through to another photo. “Good lord.”
“What?”
“Look at this thing, sir. A bloody big supertanker. Never seen one half this size. Certainly has a head of steam, though.”
“Yes, I was just noticing the size of that bow wave. Just leaving the Strait of Hormuz, it would appear. What’s her name there on the side? Can you make it out? Zoom in.”
“The Happy Dragon, sir. Sounds more Chinese than French. She’s not putting out any smoke, sir. No visible stack at all.”
“Nuclear? That’s an interesting notion. Let’s have a look at that second disc, shall we?” Ross said, ejecting the first and inserting the other. An image appeared, and this time he wasn’t disappointed. It was both salacious and intriguing.
“Good heavens,” Ambrose said, looking carefully at the image. “Henry, you naughty fellow, what have you been up to?”
Sutherland stared at the picture. It was a starkly lit amateur color photograph of some kind of fancy dress ball. Very grand, judging by the opulent interior design and a few famous faces from the tabloids. In the foreground, a very thin chap, all but naked, with shockingly bright orange hair. Plainly the infamous Cousin Henry. He was wearing some kind of choke collar. Not a few of the costumes seemed to involve leather and studded chokers.
The other end of the leash was in the hand of an extraordinarily beautiful Oriental woman, a peroxide blonde wearing nothing but a smile, high-heeled shoes, and a black leather bustier. He clicked to another image, then another. The woman smiled back from each photo.
“She is rather exquisite,” Sutherland said.
“Bianca Moon is her name,” Ambrose said, leaning forward to examine her more closely. “Not to be confused with her twin sister, Jet. A very senior Whitehall chap came a cropper in Bianca’s company. One of Her Majesty’s closest aides. He fell in love with her. The daughter of a high-ranking official in the Chinese PLA. A spy, in fact. Worked for something called the Te-Wu. Chinese secret police. The tabloids all called her the ‘China Doll.’ I’ve always wondered what became of her.”
“What on earth is the China Doll doing with your cousin Henry Bulling?”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Ambrose said, his keen blue eyes sparkling with satisfaction at his little joke. It wasn’t a joke at all. He knew very well what Henry and the beautiful Chinese woman were up to and it was certainly no good.
“Good one, sir,” Sutherland said.
“Hmm, yes, isn’t it? It would appear the chinless wonder has given us the Chinese connection at last. Do you see that bottom portion of a large painted picture portrait in the upper right of the photo? Mostly gilt frame, but you can make out the hem of a blue silk gown and one silk-slippered foot.”
Sutherland leaned forward, peering at the image. “Yes. You mean this section here.”
“Hmm. A rather famous portrait, Sutherland. John Singer Sargent’s study of the great beauty of her age, Lady Cecily Mars. It still hangs in the Great Hall at Brixden House. Lady Mars’s great-granddaughter, Diana, lives in the house now, I believe.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. A ‘stately,’ I believe. Just west of Heathrow, isn’t it? One of Britain’s more celebrated country houses, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Quite right. Bit more notorious than stately, from what I’ve heard, however. Brixden’s been the scene of many wild nights, orgies and the like, according to what one hears. Somehow, the current Lady Mars has managed to keep the whole unsightly mess out of the papers. She’s quite something, from all you hear.”
“Have a look at this one, Chief Inspector,” Sutherland said, looking at one of the seamier photos from Henry Bulling’s private collection.
“What is it?”
“What are they doing with that demitasse spoon?”
“Good heavens!”
Chapter Eleven
Cannes
“GET THIS MAN TO SICKBAY,” HAWKE SAID TO A YOUNG crewman, stepping from the bobbing Zodiac onto the floating dock extending from Blackhawke’s stern hangar bay. “His pulse is irregular. Malnourished. And he’s dehydrated. Check for fractures, left wrist specifically.”
Stokely stood on the gently rolling deck with what was left of Harry Brock cradled lightly in his arms. The
