and modernization. In 1941, when the Desert Fox left to join his Afrika Korps in Libya, he left behind a great fortress indeed. And, a small Wehrmacht garrison as well. The Nazis remained there on the rock until the Allies finally drove them off near the end of the war.”
“And exactly how did the Allies do that?” Hawke asked. “Drive them off.”
“Bombed the living hell out of them, sir. From the air and sea.”
“That works for me,” Brock said.
“Bomb the living hell out of the sultan’s family?” Hawke asked Brock, his blue eyes unwavering.
“It was the only way to do it, as you will both soon see,” Ahmed said.
“Then what happened?” Hawke asked.
“There was much damage, and after the war, the fort was pretty much forgotten. About twenty years ago, His Highness decided to turn the fortress into a national museum. A showcase for new generations to see the glories of Oman’s past. I am an architect by training. I was chosen by His Highness as the designer and curator. I have with me many sets of plans for the fort. Even those Rommel left behind. And my own plans for the museum I built. It has not changed much since I completed the work some twenty years ago.”
Hawke was encouraged by this access to the plans. “Good. Could be a fairly simple snatch, then. Let’s find a fisherman willing to take us out there and go have a look.”
“Have no false impressions, your lordship,” Ahmed said, rolling the plans out on the table. Brock put beer bottles at two corners to hold them down. “It will not be simple at all.”
“Tell me why,” Hawke said, turning over an old exterior elevation of the fort, being careful not to tear it. “We just have to get the sultan and his wife out. And a few children.”
“You have put your finger on the problem, sir.”
“What problem?”
“The sultan has more than one wife, sir.” “How many? Two? Three?” “Over twenty of them when last I counted, sir.”
Hawke looked at Brock. “Twenty women?”
Brock grinned, looking at Hawke. “Doesn’t sound like a simple snatch to me, your lordship,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Coney Island
LIGHTNING SIZZLED ALL AROUND THE OLD AMUSEMENT park. Every second or two, the bizarre skyline of rocket towers and roller coasters was etched in stark relief against the dark sky. Congreve stood in the blinding rain, bathed in flashing blue lights, wiping the water from his eyes. The English detective looked through the binoculars for the umpteenth time, silently praying that one of these jagged bolts would strike the great whacking tower atop which the Chinaman now clung for dear life.
Most noncivilians present were convinced that as soon as this driving rain and wind let up, the Chinaman would remove his weapon from the haversack on his back and start shooting. From his angle, at the very top of the Parachute Jump, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. He would be able to see almost straight down into the swinging car where Joe Bones cowered. Now, thank God, it was all the assassin could do just to hold on. Congreve knew how he felt. He, too, was holding on, but his frustration was mounting with every added second of uncertainty.
Above his head, the rumble of thunder was preempted by the booming thump-thump-thump of the ATAC and NYPD helicopters hovering over the park. Most had their brilliant bluish white spotlights trained on the swinging car at the top of the Ferris wheel. A single black ATAC Sikorskey chopper under the ground command of Captain Mariucci was now hovering directly above the tower. The chopper trained its beam on the tiny man in white.
Also aboard was a medical retrieval team. And an ATAC sniper who stood braced in the open bay. He had his sniper rifle zeroed on the Chinaman’s heart. His finger was on the trigger but he didn’t dare pull it. He had orders not to.
He couldn’t fire because of the extraordinary political situation on the ground below him. Nor could his brethren in the circling NYPD helicopters. It wasn’t for lack of muzzles aimed in his direction that the man on the tower was still alive. There were plenty of guns trained on him. It was because an impasse had been reached in the raging turf battle between city, state, and federal law enforcement units. So, everyone just stood at the base of the tower and looked up at the Chinaman in the spotlight, clinging to the Parachute Drop.
Except for Captain Mariucci, who was stomping around, splashing furiously in the puddles and demanding to know who the hell was in charge here. It was a good question.
Amazingly enough, in Ambrose Congreve’s view, the sharpshooters on both sides of the law enforcement equation had been ordered to hold their fire. This was the crux of the argument. The man on the tower was trespassing, correct. He was a suspect in a homicide that had just occurred in Queens, yes. He was armed, yes, maybe, but you couldn’t prove it. Who knew why he was up there? And he hadn’t threatened or shot at anyone. Who knew?
An NYPD commander had just told Mariucci that, for all he knew at the moment, the guy had permits to carry a concealed weapon from the freaking FBI. At this point, who knew? Maybe it wasn’t even a gun in that case on his back! Maybe it was an umbrella! Or a nine iron!
“What? What did you just say?” Mariucci screamed. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Congreve, his face contorted with disbelieving rage. “You won’t believe what this lunatic just said to me.”
“What did he say?” Congreve asked.
“He said, and I quote, ‘Suppose we shoot this guy and when we scrape him up off the sidewalk we find out he’s some wacko Chinese rock climber on holiday who’s just getting in a little practice,’ close quote.”
Who knew, indeed?
Congreve and Mariucci, at least, were equally convinced of one thing. This was the Chinaman who had only hours ago stood over Benny Sangster and ingested his heart while the old mobster slowly bled out on his bed. Motive? It could only be that certain members of the French government had heard somebody was poking around inside a thirty-year-old murder case. So they sent a Chinese assassin to rub out the only two remaining eyewitnesses save the murderer himself.
That, at least, was the case the captain was making to the powers that be at One Police Plaza at this very moment. That, and the indisputable fact that it was an urgent matter of national security.
But Mariucci couldn’t prove any of it standing down here on the ground in the pouring rain.
More red and blue lights flashed across Congreve’s face as Ladder Company 103 arrived on the scene. The massive hook and ladder fire engine came rolling to a stop on the midway, just at the base of the Ferris wheel. Immediately, firemen leaped off the truck and converged on the controls at the rear. There was a huge extension ladder mounted on a turntable. The fireman operating the ladder began raising it.
As the ladder ascended into the rain-whipped sky, Ambrose Congreve had, as was his wont, an idea.
It took a few minutes, but he finally managed to get his friend the irate NYPD captain to stop screaming into the phone and discuss the situation like a reasonable facsimile of a normal human being.
“What am I going to do?” a still livid Mariucci said to Ambrose, snapping his phone shut. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get one of my guys here to volunteer to go up that frigging ladder and get Joey out of the frigging car. That’s what I’m going to do. Because, despite the mass of chaos and confusion you see on the ground and in the frigging air, I am in charge here, goddamnit.”
“The Chinaman will shoot as soon as your man starts up the ladder,” Ambrose said in a deliberately soothing voice.
“Exactly! Now, you’re thinking, Inspector. You’re right, he will! And, as soon as he even looks like he’s going to shoot, blammo, my sharpshooter takes him out like fucking dumplings in a box. Capisce?”
“A clever way out of the current stalemate, perhaps.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’re putting your man’s life in grave danger.”
“Really? I didn’t think of that. Good point. Now that I do, you’re absolutely right. But, gosh darn it, that’s just the way we do things here in New York City, Inspector. So, if you’ll excuse me a second—”
