“Quick,” a voice said.
“Tommy, it’s me,” Alex said.
“Yes, sir. How are you, sir?”
“Bloodied but unbowed. Is Stokely still aboard?”
“Aye-aye, sir. He’s gone to bed, though.”
“Put me through to his stateroom.”
“Right away. You take care, sir. You don’t sound all that great.”
Stoke, God bless him, picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, bossman.”
“Stoke, listen carefully. You said you met Jet aboard the von Draxis yacht.”
“I did.”
“She was hurt. You brought her back to my boat and put her in sickbay.”
“All true.”
“Have you heard from von Draxis?”
“Heard he wants me dead is all.”
“When did Jet leave? Did she fly out of Nice?”
“Leave? She didn’t leave.”
“She didn’t leave.”
“No, boss. She didn’t leave.”
“She didn’t fly to London.”
“She most definitely did not fly to London.”
“Where is she now?”
“In her stateroom, I guess. Girl hasn’t left there since the doc let her out of sickbay two days ago.”
“She’s in her room. Now. Aboard Blackhawke.”
“Right. Just like I said. You okay, bossman? You don’t sound all that great.”
“Everybody says that. When was the last time you saw her?”
“I dunno. About ten, eleven o’clock, maybe. I peeked my head in the door to say nighty-night on my way down here.”
“And she was in her bed.”
“In her bed, reading a book. You want to know which book?”
“Stoke, look at your watch.”
“Yeah. I’m looking at it—”
“I want you to remember this precise moment in time. You can tell everybody that this is the exact moment when Alex Hawke lost his bloody mind.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Paris
EARLY NEXT MORNING, MADAME LI SASHAYED DAINTILY OUT onto the pavement beneath the covered entrance of the Hotel George V, smiling at the bellmen in their crimson uniforms. He already enjoyed a reputation for tipping heavily and often; and the resulting bowing and scraping everywhere he went was joyous to behold. He was wearing a black Chanel suit and carrying his custom umbrella. On his head, a wide-brimmed black silk hat with veil. Dangling from his shoulder, his new bright-red Kelly bag. It was the largest one Hermes made and just the right size for all Madame’s essentials, the shopgirl had said.
Oh, how right she was! Everything fit perfectly inside! But, my, wasn’t it heavy? Modern life had gotten so complicated. His necessities weighed almost ten pounds!
The petite Chinese delegate made his way to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore. He quickly strode past the street’s glittering array of haute couture emporiums and jewels sparkling in every window. Directly across the street, the colorful windows of Christian Lacroix. And then the ultramodern shops of Yves St. Laurent, and then Valentino, and—no matter. He tripped right past them all without so much as a glance in the windows.
No time to shop. He was a woman on a mission.
At number 76, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, just a brisk walk from his hotel, he arrived at his destination. This was Sotheby’s, Paris, a bastion of Old World style and elegance. Auctioneer to kings. And to not a few old queens like himself, he giggled. He paused a moment and looked up at the exterior facade, then at the edifice just across the narrow street. The wistful smile he wore belied a busy mind. He was getting his line-of-sight bearings. Directly across the street from Sotheby’s, though he pretended not to notice, was the main entrance to the Elysee Palace. This was the ancient seat of government in France.
He was not surprised to see the flurry of activity at the gate. Beyond the large black iron gates of the Elysee, a huge cobblestoned courtyard was visible. Many black cars were parked inside, many more official vehicles were lined outside, waiting to get in. Police and palace guards were everywhere, examining identification cards, inspecting vehicles both visually and with bomb dogs. Video uplink trucks parked along the curb. France 2, CNN, and Fox News. There was a huge press conference going on inside the Elysee. Rumors were flying.
The sultan of Oman was set to stun the world in exactly twenty-six minutes. Having just received the prestigious Legion d’Honneur, he was going to announce that his country was inviting French troops into the capital city of Muscat, a drastic measure intended to put down an insurgency supported by the People’s Republic of Yemen against his government. Prime Minister Honfleur would then declare that France was proud to come to the aid of her old and valuable friend.
He glanced at his Cartier tank watch. Almost ten. In fact, the sultan was probably making his way to the podium just about now. He walked through Sotheby’s door and made his way slowly to the reception desk. Two or three staffers were there, and he picked the one who looked most eager. An attractive boy, very well dressed, arranging catalogs for the upcoming show. He’d picked one up yesterday and enjoyed it immensely. The catalog, not the boy.
“May I help you, madame?” the boy said as he approached and put his small, gloved hands on the glass counter.
“Yes, you may,” he said with a small smile. “I’m interested in purchasing a few items. Before they come up at auction this evening.”
“Mais oui, mais oui. Which items are you interested in, madame?”
“The Maria Callas collection.”
“Splendid. Callas. What a voice, what a marvelous woman. Her Rigoletto is still the standard. A soprano for the ages. You know, she died here in Paris in 1977. The Greek, Onassis, broke her heart when he married Mrs. Kennedy. You’ve seen our beautiful catalog, I take it? Magnificent jewels.”
“Lovely.”
“And, precisely which pieces is madame interested in purchasing?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?” The boy, a young Louis Jourdan, was taken aback but manfully determined to hide it. “The entire collection?”
“Yes. All of it.”
“Ah. I see. Well, in that case, let me just ring up to our director of fine jewels, madame. Monsieur Hubert Vedrine. Would you like to take a seat for a few moments? I’m sure Monsieur Vedrine will be right down.” The boy’s hand was trembling as he picked up the phone.
“Splendid,” he said. He turned away to look through the window, humming a few bars from Gigi. He’d been singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” all morning long. His Maurice Chevalier had been realistic enough to startle the elevator operator at the George V out of his gloomy torpor.
“Your name, s’il vous plait?” the boy inquired.
“Madame Li.”
“Of the Chinese delegation? You are here for the afternoon Middle East conference?” He nodded discreetly in the direction of the palace across the street.
