Brock looked at him. “What did you call me?”
“I got it from the director. He says bullets bounce off your butt. So, what do you think?”
“Okay, how do you like your news?”
“Straight up.”
“Reminds me a little bit of Normandy in a funny, bad, way,” Brock said with a wry smile. “All we have to do is make it to the beach alive and then, completely exposed, dodge a few bullets going up fifty feet of steps, scale two sixty-foot-high towers and overpower the guards up there, take out a couple of their heavy machine guns, blast our way through an iron gate, kill a few dozen heavily armed ex–French Legionnaires and some Chinese characters, and then get twenty women and god knows how many children safely off this island.”
“I’m sorry,” Hawke said, “I wasn’t listening. What did you say, Brock?”
“I said, all we have to do is—”
“Hold on a second,” Hawke said. He’d been scanning the steel dock built into the rock on either side of the staircase. Now, he quickly swung his glasses a few degrees back to the left and froze. He’d seen something there a few seconds ago, during a break in the waves. Now it had disappeared underwater. An anomaly in the rock, perhaps, just above the waterline. He started moving the glasses in tiny increments farther to the left. The binoculars froze once more.
“What have you got, Hawke?” Brock said, raising his binoculars. “You see something I don’t see?”
“Ahmed, take a look at this, will you?” Hawke said, handing the man at his left the Zeiss glasses. “Left of the staircase. About four or five meters. Almost invisible. Tucked up under the dock.”
“Ah, yes, I see it.”
“What is it? It looks like some kind of small crescent-shaped opening in the rock.”
“It leads to the powder magazine.”
For the first time all day, the sun came out on Alex Hawke’s face. “The powder magazine?”
“Yes, sir. For wartime purposes. So forces on the mainland could resupply the garrison. They could secretly ferry stores inside the fort during a siege. During the night. Powder and ammunition.”
“Strange, I didn’t notice it on any of the plans I saw.”
“You won’t see it anywhere.”
“And why is that, exactly?” Brock said, newfound optimism in his voice. He raised his glasses and found the near-invisible tunnel again.
“A military secret, Mr. Brock. If the fortress plans unfortunately fell into enemy hands…well, you could easily see what a disaster that would be, sir, if your enemy discovered a tunnel leading directly inside the fort to the powder magazine. Field Marshal Rommel had it sealed up for just such a reason in early 1941. I myself had it reopened when I restored Fort Mahoud to original specifications. Frankly, I’d forgotten all about it. It’s not on the tour.”
“That’s good news,” Hawke said, “Do you think our Chinese friends are aware of it?”
“I very much doubt it. It’s only a bit of chance that you yourself saw it. It is only visible from the sea at a certain precise angle. And even then, the chances of ever seeing it are minute.”
“Why?”
“The entrance is completely below sea level most of the time. Only at dead low tide, like we have right now, for a short time, is it visible and accessible.”
“Feel like a swim?” Hawke asked Brock, a wide grin on his face.
“A swim?” Brock hadn’t told Hawke this, but he was something of a landlubber. Unlike his lordship, who seemed in his element at sea, Harry Brock longed for the feel of good old shifting sand beneath his feet. Compared to Hawke, he was Ahab the A-rab, the Sheik of the Burning Sands.
“We’ll wait until dark. Then swim over there and check out this very serendipitous chink in the armor.”
“Yeah,” Brock said, his expression grim. “Thank God for serendipitous chinks.”
“Ever hear of an outfit called ‘Thunder and Lightning’?” Hawke asked.
“Hell yes. Everybody in the community has. Legendary. Fitz McCoy and Charlie Rainwater. Seriously bad boys. Bunch of kick-ass mercs based out of Martinique, right? Some old fort with a fancy French name.”
“Right. They call it Fort Whupass now.”
Brock laughed. “You know those guys?”
“We shared some special moments in Cuba a few years ago. When Fidel went on vacation and his generals took over. It got noisy. We all got along pretty well.”
“Still have their number?” Brock said, a big smile on his face.
“No, but my buddy Stokely Jones does. Maybe I’ll give old Stoke a call.”
“Yeah. Considering what we’ve got here, I think that’s a real good idea.”
Chapter Forty-two
Coney Island
“WHAT’S HE GOING TO DO?” MARIUCCI SAID, “A FUCKING swan dive?”
Congreve thought perhaps that was exactly what the Chinaman had in mind. His position was precarious. The second swipe of the ladder had crumpled the entire top section of the tower. The aircraft warning light formerly at the tower’s pinnacle was now dangling by tangled wires, sparking and snapping just above the killer’s head. The rotted black crossbeam he was standing on was sagging dangerously in the middle. It looked as if it could give way at any moment. The crowds below were swooning in anticipation. It was all faintly ghoulish, Ambrose thought, but he couldn’t turn away.
“I’ll be right back,” the captain said, “I think they’re about to get the Ferris wheel moving.”
Mariucci had no need of seeing another jumper. Congreve imagined he’d seen enough falling bodies for a lifetime on that cruel day in September.
The captain squeezed the top of Ambrose’s arm gently and disappeared into the maze of police, fire personnel, television news crews, and their respective vehicles, all parked willy-nilly wherever they had come to a stop. The midway was now jammed with useless emergency equipment and mobbed with people who had no business being there. All massed between the two opposing attractions and all looking up into the sky.
They stood with their eyes riveted on the drama unfolding a hundred feet up. Light rain was still falling. The beams from spotlights on the ground and mounted on the hovering helicopters looked like solid columns of light.
All were trained on the little man in white coveralls. He had his back to the crowd. His arms were stretched above his head, hands clinging to the beam above. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes. His audience was rapt, transfixed.
For those fortunate enough to have binoculars, the only thing missing was the expression on the man’s face as he unslung the haversack from his right shoulder and let it fall. It hit a beam or two going down, bounced once or twice, and dropped out of sight.
“Jump!” some civilian screamed. It seemed not everyone in the crowd was rooting for the Chinaman. Some of them even laughed out loud. “Turn around so we can see you!” a woman cried out.
As if in response to the crowd’s demands, the man could be seen to loosen his two-handed death grip on the skewed beam just above his head. He pried the fingers of one hand loose and slowly released the beam with that hand. He deftly turned ninety degrees, so that he was facing parallel to the beam. His grace and economy of movement, Congreve had to say, were those of a champion gymnast. An Olympian performance.
He paused and took a deep breath, or so it seemed, and then released the other hand. He gently lowered both arms to his side and stood unassisted on the narrow beam. It was a feat of balance to be admired, and some in the crowd showed their appreciation with applause as if he were a circus artist. This was Coney Island, after all.
The man then moved his feet slowly, tiny steps, turning carefully around so that he was now facing the midway.
“I can’t look!” a woman cried out, but she did.
The Chinaman raised his arms straight out from his side holding them poised like a high diver at shoulder
