the rest of the world who take a dim view of this invasion. France says they were ‘invited’ in by the sultan. To suppress a radical insurgency. My guys think Bonaparte leaned on the sultan. A physical threat to him or his family, or perhaps some kind of blackmail. Nothing else makes any sense.”
“I’ll find him, Brick,” Hawke said.
“Yes. But, this is very strictly off the record. You’re going NOC on this one, old boy. As I said, the United States simply cannot afford to be seen as meddling in French or Arab affairs right now.”
“NOC?” Ambrose asked.
“Not on Consular,” Hawke said to Congreve. “No records. It means if I get caught you don’t have to worry about funeral arrangements.”
“Ah.”
“Since the president was reelected,” Brick said, “the administration has been in a full fence-mending mode with our European allies. We very much hope to solve this quietly.”
“But I can meddle,” Hawke said. “Quietly.”
“You certainly can. You’re a Brit, after all. You have three or four hundred years of bad blood with the French. I want you to meddle to your heart’s content.”
“I love to meddle, too,” Ambrose said. “I was born to meddle.”
Kelly smiled. “I was just coming to you, Chief Inspector. Bonaparte is, to all appearances, invulnerable. Right now, he’s viewed as the modern savior of France. Hell, he’s the new Napoleon. Napoleon’s brains, charm, and charisma. But he’s dirty, Ambrose.”
“Money? Haven’t they all been on the take for years? Saddam and Elf Acquitaine and all that rotten business. Doesn’t seem to have made one whistle’s worth of difference to any of their careers.”
“I think Luca Bonaparte coerced Oman into this invasion. China needs oil and oil means money. Huge amounts. He knows everybody. Hell, he was the Foreign Trade minister. And there are far too many rumors around that he murdered his own father when he was fifteen years old. We’re going after him on both counts. If we’re lucky, and you two succeed, we’ve got a chance to bring him down without a shot.”
“Do you have any new proof of this murder?” Ambrose asked.
“Not yet. That’s where you come in. You’ve read the file. It’s a thirty-year-old homicide, still unsolved on the Paris Deuxieme’s books. It seems likely that Luca was a boyhood bagman for the Union Corse back in Corsica. We think he made his bones by killing his father. And we think the American Mob, which was battling with the Corse in those days, was somehow involved.”
“I think I see where you’re going. If you can prove that, you might bring him down quickly and with a minimum of international fuss,” Ambrose said. “People don’t forgive patricide easily.”
“That’s the idea. We’ve just uncovered some old French Surete case notes. Apparently, two American mobsters were involved in the murder. My case officer in New York believes she has identified two possible suspects. Both quite elderly, but still alive. Possibly residing in New York City.”
“When do I start?” Congreve asked, literally rubbing his hands together. “Nothing like a foreign intrigue to take one’s mind off troubles at home.”
“I’ve got you on a military transport leaving RAF Uxbridge at noon tomorrow. Arriving in New York in time for supper. Does that work?”
“Splendidly.”
“Good. Now you, Alex, how soon can you be ready to travel?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Good. I’m chairing an emergency Gulf States sitrep briefing aboard the USS Lincoln at thirteen hundred hours tomorrow. I’d like you to be there. There’s an operation still in the planning stages at Langley. An idea Brock had. A good one.”
“We’re flying out to the Lincoln together?”
“No, I’m going out early. You’re going to like this. I’ve lined up a new Joint Strike Force airplane that needs strenuous exercise. I’m talking about the F-35, Alex.”
“What?”
“You heard right, Hawkeye,” Brick said, smiling. He knew Hawke was crazy to get back in the air. A friend of Brick Kelly’s at Britain’s Ministry of Defense had told him weeks ago that Lockheed-Martin was looking for a few top British fighter jocks with Harrier VTOL combat experience. They were needed to evaluate the new jet intended to replace the Royal Navy’s Sea Harrier FA2.
Alex’s face lit up. “The F-35? Never even heard of it.”
“Not surprised. It so happens I’ve landed you an extremely early prototype of the new U.S.-U.K. Joint Strike Fighter. Built in the States by Lockheed-Martin. The most advanced supersonic single-seater in the air. The latest STOVL technology. Apparently, the thing can come to a complete stop in midair. Yours for the duration of this operation, if you don’t crack it up. You can practice your night traps. Maybe even your shooting, if you get lucky.”
“Shooting?”
“After you download your impressions of the F-35 to the Pratt & Whitney engineers, you’re headed to the Gulf. We’re implementing Operation Deny Flight, a no-fly zone over northern Oman. You’ll hear all about it on the Lincoln. And get briefed on what I have in mind for you and Brock.”
“Brock? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s going to help you track down the sultan. Let’s order some food, shall we?”
Yours for the duration!
Hawke went through the motions of ordering and eating Harry’s renowned pasta, but all he could think about was the fact that the navy (probably with a little push from his friend Brick) was putting him back in the saddle. And not some Barney Rubble fighter like he flew in the Gulf War, either. No, a single-seat supersonic stealth fighter just off the drawing board.
Good lord, a man could fly straight to heaven with an airplane like that.
Chapter Twenty-six
Aboard Blackhawke
“DOC SAYS YOU CAN GO HOME,” STOKE CALLED DOWN TO JET. She was standing a deck below him, leaning against the portside rail and smoking a cigarette. He watched her from above, saw her gazing out at her home away from home, the giant German yacht Valkyrie. The boat still lay at anchor about a half mile away. You had to wonder what the girl was thinking, lost in that cloud of blue smoke, not even hearing what he said, seemed like, zoned.
Stoke had emerged from his stateroom, coming out on the deck to perform his morning ritual: yoga and tai chi exercises and his old SEAL warmup routine. He was wearing his usual outfit, black Viet PJs and the U.S. Army Sniper School T-shirt that Sarge had given him a couple of years ago down in Cuba. The one that said, “You can run, but you’ll only die tired.” Loved that shirt.
He spaced his bare feet to the width of his shoulders, sucked down a lungful of air, placed his palms together before his face, and saluted the lazy old sun eight or nine times. The sharp iodine bite of the sea air felt good so deep down in his air bags. Bonjour, world! Speak to me! The rocky green coastline of Cap d’Antibes was sparkling on this fine morning, whirling birds, big white villas, and sandy beaches below the thick seaside forests. More huge yachts floating at anchor than you could shake a stick at.
After his workout, he used a towel to mop his face and torso and trotted down the curving steel and mahogany stairway leading below. He joined Jet at the rail, giving her plenty of space. He guessed he was still a little fragrant after a couple hundred ab crunches.
“Hey, you,” he said.
“Hey, you,” she said back, staring out to sea.
“Doc says you’re okay.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Oh. She’s in that mood. Okay, great.”
