Stoke figured he had two-three seconds before the guy came over the bed or around it. “Stay down on the floor, girl,” he said to Jet, “no matter what.” And then he just exploded up and sideways, planting one foot in the bed and using it as a springboard to the right. He fired the Sig while still midair, putting one in the German’s shoulder, spinning him clockwise. Stoke caught the wall pretty high up and shoved off that by planting one foot, did a little half spin and flew into the German hard, using his right shoulder, hitting the guy just below the knees. There was a loud pop as the braced knee went and then the baron screamed a whole lot of unprintable stuff in German as he hit the deck.
Von Draxis was rolling around on his back, grunting with the pain of that bad knee and the shoulder. He still had the gun and he was pointing it in dangerous directions, so Stoke wrapped his hand around the man’s pistol. He twisted the weapon, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. Oldest trick in the book, but the German hadn’t seen it coming. The big fella howled in pain and Stoke sat back on his heels and tried to offer some comfort by patting him on the top of his big downy head.
“See? That’s your problem, Baron, thinking you some kind of badass. You just a stereotype, son. Get over it. I’m serious. Relax.”
Stoke removed the man’s gun from his grip as gently as he could, trying to wriggle it free from the broken index finger. Still, you could tell it hurt a little bit when it came off. He pocketed the gun, got to his feet, and walked around to where Jet lay beside the bed.
“You can open your eyes now,” Stoke said, bending to cradle her in his arms. “Fireworks are over.”
“They’ll never let you off this boat,” Jet said.
“Really? We’ll see.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“I got a launch picking me up in about, oh, four minutes. We’ve got a great doc on board Blackhawke. Danish woman Alex hired because of her resume. Former Miss Denmark. She’ll stitch you up. Then we’ll see where you want to take it from there. Sound good? What do you think?”
“I think you are out of your mind.”
“Yeah, most probably. Picking up strange women and taking them home when we hardly know each other.”
“Let’s go.”
“Good idea. Hey, Baron. Auf wiedersehen, okay? I’ll check up on you tomorrow. Thanks a lot for the party. I really enjoyed myself.”
Stroke stepped over the German guy writhing on the floor on his way to the door. He could see the guy thinking about grabbing his foot or some crazy shit like that and then see him figuring out just how bad an idea that was, seeing Stoke’s foot an inch from his head.
He got an idea. He took the German by one hand and dragged him across the leather floor to the bed.
“Alley-oop, Mein Herr,” he said as he lifted the baron up and plopped him down right in the middle of the bed. Then he pulled the remote out of his pocket and lowered the cage back into place. As an afterthought, he dropped the remote on the floor and stepped on it, crushing it. That drove the baron crazy, beating on the cage and all with his good hand, but Stoke just let it go.
“Shut up, Schatzi,” Jet said to the guy and, amazingly enough, he did.
“I like the name Jet,” Stoke said to her as he carried her out into the passageway and closed the door on the stateroom behind him. “What’s your last name?”
“Moon,” she said. “But I don’t use it.”
“Jet Moon. That’s cool. New wave. What do you do?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Yeah? Like a model-actress or an actress-actress?”
“You tell me. Am I acting now?”
“That’s a very good question, Jet. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You work for Alex Hawke, is that right?”
“You could say that.”
“What do you do for him?”
“Blow things up. Kill people.”
“My God, I can’t believe this.”
“What?”
“I’m just swapping one homicidal maniac for another.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Chateau Belmaison
LUCA’S HISTORIC BAL MASQUE WAS HELD IN A HOUSE REEKING with history: In the winter of 1798, Napoleon, who had not yet conquered the world, declared himself in need of a country seat. A graceful country house on the outskirts of Paris had caught his eye. It was called Chateau Belmaison. The house was in a very sad state of disrepair, but Napoleon saw possibilities. Still, he hesitated. His star was ascendant, but he felt he could simply not afford the property on his paltry military salary.
Josephine disagreed. In the unusually cold April of that year 1799, while France’s new First Consul and his army were busy killing Arabs and conquering Egypt, Madame Bonaparte bought the estate by incurring a debt of three hundred thousand francs. Knowing her penurious husband would be angry with her, she began at once to decorate it in an inexpensive manner, a style that would surely please him.
Napoleon worshipped at mighty Caesar’s throne, so she imagined a blend of the neoclassical and the warlike: a space where Caesar himself would feel at home. She hired the architects and designers Percier and Fontaine. Together, they created the exquisite Roman-themed Belmaison. The house was smashing and was immediately imitated and widely copied throughout Europe.
Red (the color of Imperial Rome) was used throughout the house. The walls of the library were covered with Roman red fabric. A black-and-gold balustrade with lions’ heads joined doors topped with eagles. On the ceiling, fabric was draped to form a tent shape. Napoleon loved it, and so did Luca. But the seventeenth-century chateau would pass through many hands over the centuries before he would acquire it.
After Napoleon’s exile and death on the remote island of St. Helena, Belmaison was a historic site, open to the public. Millions passed through its rooms, the French citizens among them touched by a wistful longing for grander days. Dreaming of La Gloire.
The property eventually fell on hard times. It stood empty for many years, sunk in gloom, forgotten. Luca, riding on horseback to meet his mistress one afternoon, had spied it through the trees. When he learned of its storied history, he made a cash offer for the estate, sight unseen. It was accepted. When news broke that the famous Belmaison had been acquired at great expense by the current French minister of Foreign Trade, Napoleon’s self-styled heir apparent, Luca, an alarm sounded. It was still echoing down the long halls of the Elysee Palace.
Many in government still regarded this Corsican upstart as a grave threat to the status quo. But Paris the city went into giddy paroxysms of social and political anticipation. Rumors swept the capital. A new Bonaparte was on the rise. Could gilded days of glory be far behind?
The bal masque was the first party of any consequence at Luca’s new residence. More than 250 guests received engraved invitations honoring the latest recipient of the Legion d’Honneur. The invitations called for First Empire period costumes. A state dinner would be served, with an early-nineteenth-century menu. A full orchestra would provide music for the waltz, the quadrille, the sautese, and la boulangere.
Until he got too warm, Luca wore a costume replicating Napoleon’s coronation finery, including a faux ermine cape. Madame Li, no stranger to the art of disguise, came dressed in a ball gown as the tiny Empress Josephine. The sultan of Oman appeared dressed as a captain of the Barbary pirates. None of the three costumes were too far wide of the mark.
Shortly after nine, Luca slipped away for an hour. He had gone quickly to his study to take a call on his secure line. The call was from Beijing and he’d been expecting it. He spoke in whispered tones with the general secretary
