our attention to more pleasant subjects. Let’s talk about Paris. Here is the brief prepared for you by the general’s staff. Once you arrive, you will receive more detailed instructions from Minister Bonaparte himself.”
“Le Roi! At last I get to meet this living legend.”
Major Tang laughed.
“He will only succeed to the throne if you succeed first, MadameLi. First, you must successfully accomplish your mission in Paris.”
“Tell me. Please don’t make me wait to read it.”
“The assassination of Prime Minister Honfleur and President Bocquet of France has been approved at the highest level.”
“I am flattered.”
“Who else would we trust to give the world a new Bonaparte?”
“I love my work.”
“General Moon will be delighted to hear that,” the major said, putting down his chopsticks. His handsome face and easy manner instantly lost all traces of levity. He stared at his principal assassin with flashing black eyes.
“Because without France,” he said, “indeed, without Bonaparte himself, the general’s great scheme for the future security of our country does not work. If the general’s plan fails, Beijing will have his head. And, need I even say it, yours and mine as well.”
“Leviathan will work, Major. It cannot fail.”
“See that it doesn’t, Colonel. After this dinner, I am to bring you to General Moon. There, he will impress upon you the absolute necessity of your success.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cannes
STOKELY JONES HAD NEVER SEEN SO MANY RICH, BEAUTIFULLY decked out white folk jammed into one small location in his whole damn life. Not only that, they were all floating. Of course, the boat they were floating on had to have cost at least fifty mil, but hey, this was the South of France! La dolce vita and shit.
He hadn’t met Hawke’s reason for his being here yet, some German baron or duke who owned this barge, but he’d sampled some of the hors d’oeuvres (prissy-ass version of pigs in a blanket and assorted sushi that looked like little flower arrangements), and he’d finally managed to get himself something to drink from one of the cute girls wandering around in short pleated sailor suits who didn’t speak word one of English.
A very tan couple was standing next to him sipping pink champagne. Lots of noisy gold jewelry. Major bling going on. Stoke had seen a lot of topless action around, but this woman was actually wearing one. Still, this being France, you could see right through it and there was a lot to see. He decided it was impolite not to speak so he said to the guy, “Hey, how you doing? Big boat, huh? What do you think one of these goes for?”
“Mais oui,” the guy said, “c’est formidable, le Valkryie. You are Americain, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yeah, Ameri-can. I like that. Put the accent on the last syllable. Who can? Ameri-can! We ought to try that. You guys are French, unless I’m very much mistaken?”
“Mais certainement, monsieur,” the French guy said, as if this were so damn obvious he couldn’t believe anybody was even dumb enough to ask the question. “My name is Marcel.”
“Stokely Jones, nice to meet you. In that case, Marcel, let me ask you a question. Why the hell does everybody over here in Europe call this stuff I’m drinking here ‘Coke Light’ instead of Diet Coke the way we call it in the U.S. of A.? You got any thoughts on that? Maybe it’s a marketing thing. Just curious. I had a hell of a time figuring it out. Almost died of thirst.”
“Pardon, monsieur? I don’t understand.”
“No? Well, I mean, it’s confusing. Let’s take Bud Light, for example, what we Americans call the low-calorie Bud. You guys call that Diet Bud? I mean, just for instance.”
The woman huffed out something that sounded like Oof! and turned away to look at the sunset. It did wonders for her transparent white blouse but Stoke didn’t stare because the French guy was looking at him funny. Wanted to say something but not sure what. Like he couldn’t get his mouth hooked up to his brain. Husband, Stoke decided. Definitely husband. Oh, well.
Having just about exhausted his small talk repertoire, Marcel lobbed a lame one from the foul line, saying, “You are staying at the Hotel du Cap, Monsieur Jones?”
“Me? Way out of my price range. No, I myself like to keep it low key. I’m up at the Plage Publique.”
“The Public Beach?” The two of them looked at each other.
“You’ve heard of it, huh? Great views of the ocean. Cheap, too.”
“I would imagine so, monsieur,” the guy said. “Oof.” Oof was a big word in France, Stoke figured.
“Well, I guess I’ll let you guys circulate,” Stoke said to him and began to move away. He stopped and looked at the guy over his shoulder.
“Hey, Marcel, you know what French word I really like?” Stoke said. “Sangfroid. Sang-fwa. Love to say that word. Ice in your veins. I can relate to that. Nice talking to you. Keep it real, you two.”
Stoke made his way over to the starboard side and stood for a moment admiring the cockpit. The electronics and navionics and shit. Big flat-screen TV monitor in front of each wheel, which was something to see. Color GPS, weather sat, and radar displays. Underwater camera showing the bottom just below the boat in real time. Stoke looked at that for a second, thinking about why they might have that. Security? Maybe they did underwater exploration. Treasure hunters, maybe. Something.
He noticed the couple he’d been chatting with talking to a toady little man in a white jacket with brass buttons and epaulets and stuff. Looked like a baby admiral. He had two goons with him, big blond Teutonic types, muscle boys, wearing tight black T-shirts and shorts. The duke and duchess were holding their hands up in front to shield their mouths while they talked to the guy, but they kept looking over at Stoke so he could pretty well imagine who they were talking about.
The little egg-shaped admiral bobbed his head up and down. He had an expression of grave concern on his pink face as he headed through the crowd in Stoke’s direction. The two storm troopers were right behind him.
“May I help you, monsieur?” he asked in a not-too-friendly way, moving close to Stoke so nobody could overhear him. That meant he had to crane his head way the hell back to look all the way up at Stoke’s face.
“Help me? With what?”
That seemed to throw him.
“Are you finding everything you need?” he said. Translation, even though he was speaking plain, heavily accented English, I think you’re at the wrong party, dude.
“Am I finding everything I need,” Stoke said, smiling at the guy and putting one of his huge hands on the guy’s shoulder as a display of international friendship. “Well, that’s a damn good question and the answer is no, I’m not. Let me ask you something.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Where all the black folks at?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Black folks. Brothers. Negroes. Where can I find them?”
The little guy was starting to puff up like an overheated pastry.
“I’m sorry, sir, I do not understand.”
“That’s all right,” Stoke said, patting the guy on the back. He tried to be gentle but he thought he heard ribs cracking. “My name is Stokely Jones, Jr. You may have heard of my family. The West 138th Street Joneses of New York City? Ring a bell? No? We the ones everybody always trying to keep up with.”
“Monsieur, I beg your pardon, but I—”
“Am I on the right yacht? Maybe I read this thing wrong,” Stoke said, pulling the invitation Alex had given him out of his breast pocket. “It’s in French so I may be mixed up. Here, you read it, see what you think.”
The guy got all wide-eyed.
“You are Lord Alexander Hawke, monsieur?” the guy said, moving his lips while he read. Eyes, too, moving
