still got it penciled in as a probable U.S. Mob hit.”
“Patricide. At fifteen years old. That’s fairly staggering.”
“Yeah. If he actually pulled the trigger. Some of the New York families had deep roots within the Union Corse in those days. I’ve got an FBI file on my desk an inch thick. Maybe Luca somehow coordinated the hit on his old man with the Mob and then laid it off on them to keep his record shiny and new. He’s had his eye on the throne for a long, long time.”
“You could take him down that way, Brick. Legally.”
“Yeah. We’ve been talking about that. At this point, it’s all rumor and conjecture. It’s too vague for Langley to pursue at this point. But Brock’s source said there may have been a couple of eyewitnesses who are still around somewhere. I’d like you to bring Chief Inspector Congreve into this thing, Alex. Here’s the file. It’s a very cold case, but if anybody could prove Bonaparte murdered his own father, it’s Ambrose Congreve. Do that, and Bonaparte might go down under his own weight.”
Hawke took the heavy folder and placed it on the table beside his chair. He looked up at Kelly.
“Get the proof of this homicide into the hands of his political opposition in France. Let them take him down. And the U.S. keeps its hands clean.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Ambrose will be thrilled. I’ll call him tonight. He’s spent so much time planting dahlias lately he’s bouncing off the garden walls.”
Hawke got to his feet and placed one hand on the mantel. It had been a long day and his stomach was growling. Another rum was out of the question.
He said, “Brick, it stands to reason that Bonaparte’s rise is behind all this heightened unpleasantness with France. They were bad enough before, God knows, with their support of that murderous Saddam. Not to mention actually supporting Hezbollah’s right to raise money in Europe. But this is beyond the pale. Now it’s personal. I mean, imagine shooting at helpless Englishmen on the open seas and all that sort of thing? Is it Honfleur and President Bocquet? Or is it the rise of Boney?”
“The military’s loyalties are shifting rapidly to Boney. They see him as the long-awaited savior of France. Bocquet still sits in the big chair. And Honfleur is his big French poodle. But Boney’s Chinese death squad is the one they’re going to sic on you. You sank a French navy vessel, old buddy. And they don’t admit to firing on you first. I had that scoundrel president Guy Bocquet himself on the phone this morning. They want blood.”
“They keep this up, they’ll get it.”
“It’s been suggested that you act contrite.”
“Really? By whom? Not by my government, I assure you.”
“No, mine. Your old pal the secretary of state for one,” Kelly said, “Madame Consuelo de los Reyes.”
“Conch? Rubbish. I don’t believe a word of it.”
“She’s mad as hell at you. What happened between the two of you, anyway? For a while there, I thought you were going to get married.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Conch said in a Cabinet meeting yesterday that she’s got enough trouble on her hands with the Iranian- Syrian alliance, long-range missiles, and Kim Il Jong right now without you adding France to her shitlist.”
“Me? Brick, damn it, I was doing a snatch for you. And somebody shot at me. I shot back. I don’t give a damn about your bloody list.”
“Easy, buddy. It ain’t my shitlist and it certainly ain’t my point of view. I told her exactly the same thing. You were on an approved mission for the United States of America and you acted in justifiable self-defense. What happened in Cannes is just the calm before the shitstorm.”
“Meaning?”
“Two things. Right now, Conch has got her hands full trying to convince France and Germany to stop selling weapons and dual-use technologies to Iran and Syria. So France is already high on Conch’s list. She just doesn’t quite know how high yet. France’s tacit approval of terrorism is an abomination and President McAtee, despite his proclamations of improving relations, is not going to stand for it. Put that together with the rise of Bonaparte and —”
Pelham had somehow floated into the flickering shadows of the room unseen and unheard.
“Dinner is served, m’lord.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hong Kong
“MADAME LI, I PRESUME,” MAJOR TONY TANG SAID, GETTING to his feet. Tall, imperious, and elegant, Major Tang was the pretty public face General Moon put on all of his ugly little secrets in Hong Kong. A PR flack, they’d call him back in Arizona. But he was far more interesting than that. He sat at the right hand of the king and he was the second-most-powerful man in Hong Kong. He was also frequently sent abroad to handle delicate situations. Major Tang had finesse.
“Yes, I am Madame Li, you wicked boy,” Madame Li said, taking his proffered hand and shaking it delicately. “But tell me, Major, how did you know my new name?”
“Wu called me from Reception. Even now the Documents Section upstairs is preparing your travel papers, tickets, and a new passport. They are using the digital picture Wu took of you moments ago at the desk. And your signature from the guest registry.”
“Flattering picture, I hope.”
“See for yourself,” Tang said, revolving his small Sony laptop so Hu Xu could see his portrait on the screen. Tang hit a button and the scene shifted back to a live feed from the communications center. He closed the laptop and pushed it aside.
“Charming photograph,” Madame Li said, eyeing the man warmly. Despite (or perhaps because of) his powerful position and a noteworthy penchant for cruelty, Tony Tang was a very attractive human being. The type of man who could raise the temperature of any room he walked into. Oh, dear. He had to restrain himself from giggling at how easily he slipped into character.
“How silly of me. I should have known. Your staff is so very well trained.”
Both enjoyed this little game of flirtation. Frequently, it was the major who vetted Hu’s character choices and disguises before departure for a new assignment. When last they’d met, Hu Xu had been a portly and bespectacled petroleum geologist headed out to Oman on a fact-finding mission. The time before that, a middle-aged HKSB hedge fund manager on his way to Wall Street to assess the strength of the U.S. markets.
Tonight the major was, surprisingly, not in uniform. Rather, he wore a beautifully cut navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a navy silk bowtie. He was taller than the typical PLA officer, and exceedingly handsome. He had a strong chin and good high cheekbones that could hardly be improved upon. They made a handsome couple, Madame Li thought, smiling to himself. Possibly mother and son on some future assignment for General Moon? Thailand, perhaps, or Kauai.
“Please. Be seated here, madame, where you can enjoy the best view,” the major said in flawless English, his smooth and gracious manners polished to perfection. The two often spoke in English, each trying to one-up the other with the latest Americanism. China’s fate was to rule; it made sense to be fluent in the enemy tongue.
Tang pulled out a chair and he sat down, waiting to be pushed up to the table. Madame Li smiled up at him. This character Madame Li, for all the trouble and fuss she took to create, had its compensations. Perhaps, Hu Xu thought, folding his little white-gloved hands delicately on the white tablecloth, she should appear more often.
“So,” Hu Xu said, smiling coquettishly at Major Tang, “Paris.”
“Yes, Paris. I am envious.”
All night, his expectations of Paris had caused a tingle down the spine. After all, there would be a suite at the George V and plenty of blood money to fritter away in the shops along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore when he wasn’t working. And there were darker treasures, too, antique medical instruments in dusty bins tucked away on side streets in St. Germain des Pres. He hoped he’d have enough free time to go exploring.
Collecting wildly expensive surgical antiquities from the far ends of the earth was certainly an extravagance,
