He’d reached out to pull the sheer curtains back when his fingers brushed cold metal. The bed was surrounded on all three sides by pencil-thin metal rods that disappeared up into the ceiling. Stainless steel by the look of them, about an inch apart.
The bed was a cage.
And the woman caged inside was badly hurt. What Stoke had taken for dark clothing was in fact a blood- soaked sheet she’d wound around her torso.
“I’m going to get you out of here, is what I’m going to do,” Stoke said, squeezing his fingers between two of the bars to confirm what he’d seen. Solid steel rods, all right. “You’re hurt. You’re in some kind of cage. You need a doctor.”
“Who the hell are you?” she said, her voice ragged, druggy, and, come to think of it, not very damn appreciative.
“My name is Stokely Jones. Friend of Alex Hawke.”
“Alexander Hawke?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Who are you?”
“Jet.”
“Jet? Tell me something, Jet. That cage supposed to keep you in or other folks out?”
“Both.”
“Okay, Jet, it’s a little weird, but I’ll go with it. Tell me, what’s the magic word that gets you out of the joint? You look like a girl longing to be free.”
“Come here. Closer. Into the light. Let me see you.”
“Awright,” Stoke said, and did.
“My God, you are huge.”
“Big.”
“You’re the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”
“Glandular condition. How do I get you out of there?”
“There is a remote over there by the television. Next to that silver ice bucket.”
“A remote?” Stoke said, shaking his head as he moved across the Italian leather tiles. He picked up the silver remote and pushed a couple of buttons. On the third try, the steel cage structure retracted silently into the ceiling and he dropped the remote into his jacket pocket.
Man, these rich people were into some weird shit.
Whale scrotums.
Chapter Eighteen
Paris
MADAME LI ENCOUNTERED ONLY MODERATE HEADWINDS EN route from Hong Kong to Charles de Gaulle and his BA 747 arrived at the gate twenty minutes early. British Air had been lovely. They’d done something marvelous to the first-class seating arrangements since he’d last flown the carrier. He’d had his preferred placement, Seat 4-D, the bulkhead window.
And now, when he’d finished his meal and was ready for sleep, an elegantly molded wooden partition rose up between him and the aisle seat at the push of a button. His seat had reclined to full horizontal and he’d curled up under a soft duvet cover and slept like a little angel.
Well, he thought, giggling silently, perhaps not exactly like an angel.
I love Paris…
The assassin breezed through Customs. After all, he held a diplomatic passport and the only thing he’d carried aboard was a valise containing his makeup, peignoir, and a few unmentionables. First thing in the morning, he was going to his favorite Chanel emporium near the Place Vendome and pick up the requisite wardrobe for his stays in Paris and London.
He had his eye on a nice tweed suit he’d seen in the new Vogue on the airplane. He always bought ready- to-wear. And it was his practice to call ahead and give his sizes, changing rooms in Paris salons being so problematic. He’d had to kill more than one saleswoman who’d barged in at an inopportune moment. Messy.
Yes, a tweed suit, perhaps in black. With his white coif and pearls, he’d be ready for anything. And anybody.
It was Saturday morning, clear and cool, when he stepped outside Terminal One. He was glad he’d brought the mink stole and he pulled it snug round his shoulders. He stood on the curbside for a few moments, eyes moving from side to side, a wealthy woman looking for her driver.
Not two minutes later, a German Maybach limousine slid to a stop in front of him, as long and black as a hearse. Diplomatic flags, one of them French, were mounted on the fenders just above the headlights. The other flag was one of the small Middle Eastern countries, though he couldn’t remember which.
A thick armored door swung out and from within a deep voice said, “Get in.”
Get in? So much for diplomatic courtesy and politesse. Madame Li was, after all, on a trade mission from Beijing. Her presence here was at the behest of the Chinese Politburo. The historic “meetings” she would hold with France’s leadership in the next two days were matters of grave international importance, were they not? Her mission here in Paris could change the face of Europe forever. She was not unaware of her place in history.
And somebody, frankly he didn’t care who it was, was telling him to “Get in”? In French-accented Chinese?
“That is certainly no way to address a lady, Comrade,” Madame Li said as he climbed up and into the dark cavern at the rear of the automobile. There were two men inside, and he sat in one of the rearward-facing seats. It was obvious which one was Bonaparte; he looked like a tall, thin version of his famous ancestor. Olive skin, brooding expression. The other fellow was heavily muscled and looked immensely strong. The hard plates of his skull at first appeared to be devoid of hair, but now he saw that it was covered in fine red-gold down.
This would be the German, von Draxis, the man General Moon had charged with taming the wild daughter Jet. He looked fully capable of taming anything short of a herd of charging rhinos.
“Drive,” the Frenchman said to the driver, ignoring Madame Li. The big car gathered speed smoothly and was almost instantly cruising at well over one hundred kilometers per hour, gracefully moving through the light morning traffic headed toward Paris.
The Frenchman pushed a button in the center console and a grey felt privacy panel slid up behind the driver’s head. Then he fingered another panel of buttons, one that reclined his seat back to a more comfortable angle and another to dim the interior lights to a soft warm glow. A muted flat-screen monitor mounted on his armrest was tuned to local news. Some kind of procession was leaving Charles de Gaulle for Paris via the A-1 motorway. In the center of the procession, amidst a sea of flashing blue lights, a black Maybach limousine identical to the one Madame Li was riding in.
“I am Luca Bonaparte, madame,” the Frenchman said, extending a stiff hand to be shaken. “This beautiful Maybach belongs to my dear friend here, Baron von Draxis. He was kind enough to volunteer his splendid vehicle for today’s operations. He insisted on picking you up as he has heard so many interesting things about you.”
“I’m a very interesting person. I am also not subject to anyone’s approval. I am here to do a job and I intend to do it.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Don’t misunderstand. The baron here is a great friend to our mutual cause. So. You have a lot of work to do here in Paris. Are you fully prepared?”
Madame Li sat back and regarded the two men without a reply.
Bonaparte was as described by Major Tang. Good-looking enough to be a French film star, with a powerful intelligence burning within his dark eyes. His Chinese was beyond fluent. The German was beefy and bullet-headed but wearing a beautiful grey cashmere roll-neck sweater under a soft black calfskin jacket. Rich. Very, he decided. Rumor had it he’d made a fortune building supertankers for the French.
Madame Li crossed his legs and smiled. “Yes, I had a lovely flight, thank you for asking. The service was cheerful, the food delicious, although I detested the movie, something politically correct about Rwanda.”
“Your sarcasm is ill-advised. Suppose you behave yourself.”
