“And as of this moment you are under my protection as well,” Luca Bonaparte said, smiling. “For the time being. Immediately following your speech and a press conference, you will be flown secretly to Oman to rejoin your family.”
“As prisoners in an island fortress.”
“Only temporary, I assure you. Once systems are in place to redirect Oman’s oil production, restrictions upon you and your family will ease considerably.”
“I should like to sit down. Perhaps to have another brandy.”
“Please. Let me pour it for you, Excellency,” Luca said, taking a seat opposite his newly converted ally. “Let us now speak of opportunity. You are aware of a quotation, perhaps, one of my personal favorites? It begins: ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men—’”
The sultan stared into the amber depths of his glass, his eyes glistening, thinking of his beloved family, now all held hostage by this madman. Then, he looked up and stared at Bonaparte.
The Arab began, “‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune… Omitted—’”
“Omitted,” Bonaparte continued, “‘All the voyage of their life is bound in shallows, and in miseries…’”
The sultan finished for him, his old eyes gleaming, “‘And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.’”
“Well done! Tomorrow morning, we must take the current, my friend! The world is changing before your eyes! A flood tide that leads on to fortune! Now, I suggest you retire upstairs and get some sleep while I will return to my guests. I will say that you were tired. In the morning, wearing your new trinket, you will inform the world of your wise decision from the Salon Napoleon at the Elysee Palace,” Luca said. “Do we understand each other?”
“I’m afraid we do.”
“Good! There is one remaining thing. Very important.”
“Tell me, for God’s sake, what more I can do for you.”
“You go before the cameras at ten-twenty. Afterward, I want you to invite Prime Minister Honfleur to go for a walk. A private discussion, tete-a-tete, most important, you will tell him. Do not allow him to refuse. You will take him for a stroll along the private road just on the north side of the Elysee. Do you know it? Closed to all traffic.”
“Yes. I have walked with him there before.”
“Tell him anything you wish. Bait the hook. Tell him you have certain reservations about me. That will be all you need to say. He will leap at that. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“After exactly twenty paces, you must find some excuse to distance yourself from him. A particular flowerbed catches your attention. Make some excuse. Get away from him. Quickly. Someone will be watching.”
“That someone will be me,” Hu Xu said from his chair in the shadows.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hawkesmoor
THE CLOCK SITTING ON THE MANTEL STRUCK ELEVEN TIMES, and Hawke looked up from his book. Rain beat against the tall windows opposite his chair and the distant rumble of thunder could be heard rolling across the countryside. It was a quiet Sunday night at home and all was reasonably well. Picking up the telephone twice, he had started to dial Ambrose’s number, then put the receiver down. It wouldn’t do to fret over him. He was a big boy and he was sleeping with a pistol under his pillow these days.
Hawke had gone to bed with a book at ten, intending on doing some homework. It was a big, thick thing called, reasonably enough, China. A modern political history by someone named Chan, no relation to Charlie by the tone of the first few chapters. He dozed off, fitfully, for a quarter of an hour or so, couldn’t sleep for some reason or other, and so wandered downstairs to the library, fishing for something else to read. He decided on Riddle of the Sands, one of his boyhood favorites, a novel written by Erskine Childers in 1903. It was about two young Englishmen on a sailing holiday in Germany who—
“Sorry to bother you, m’lord,” Pelham said in his ethereal way, appearing magically in the doorway. “Someone wishes to see you, sir.”
“See me? Really? I didn’t hear the door.” Hell, it was Sunday night. Steaming rain. Who in hell would be out mucking about on a night like this?
“She didn’t come to the door, sir. She rapped on the pantry window.”
Hawke put down his book. She? That was better. But it still seemed improbable.
“Pelham, have you been nipping at the sherry?”
The man didn’t dignify that riposte with a retort. Or vice versa, Hawke wasn’t sure which was which. “She says it’s rather urgent, your lordship. She seems to be—in distress—and I admitted her to the kitchen. Her car broke down and she’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Gave her a cup of tea, sir.”
“All right, old thing, tell her I’ll be right with her. As you can see, I’m in my pajamas. I’ll just run upstairs and put something on. How odd. Knocked on the window?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pelham?”
“Sir?”
“This mystery woman. What does she look like?”
“Wet, m’lord. Soaked to the bone. But quite beautiful in an exotic way, if I may say so, sir. She bears an extraordinary resemblance to a film star I saw last Sunday afternoon at the Bexleyheath Cineworld. An Oriental lady, sir.”
“Jet.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“That’s her name. I’ll be right down. You might bring her in here, by the fire. Offer her some brandy, if you don’t mind.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Hawke bounded up the stairs. The woman had figured prominently in his dreams ever since his return to England from the Cote d’Azur. In some, she was a good girl. In others bad. He supposed the truth was somewhere in between. Ah, well. Gave her his number at the office and hadn’t heard from her since. Thought that was the end of it. Clearly, it wasn’t. She’d somehow tracked him down. Something was urgent enough to warrant this nocturnal excursion into the heart of darkness. Car had broken down? Surely she could do better than that.
Still, he did have a few rather fond memories.
Five minutes later he was descending the staircase in a pair of faded jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves yanked up to his elbows. “Jet,” he called out when he was halfway down, “I’ll be right with you. I just have to speak to someone in the kitchen.”
No reply from inside the library, and the door had been left open only the slightest crack. He caught a whiff of Gauloise cigarette smoke, however, and knew she was in there waiting for him. Fascinating. He strode across the center hallway and headed for the butler’s pantry where Pelham would be closing up shop for the night.
“Pelham, what is her story? Did she say anything?”
“She thanked me profusely for the offer of brandy but said she would prefer a whisky, sir.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. As I mentioned, she appears highly strung. Perhaps you could drive her to her destination.”
“No other hints of any sort? Nothing at all?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing for it, then. I’ll enter the ring unarmed.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Goodnight then, old soul. Trudge ever upward and onward in pursuit of your dreams. Don’t wait up on my account. The lady and I are old friends, you see. We may sit up half the night recounting with unbridled joy the
