“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.”
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 Hermès 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-Honoré. 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-Honoré, 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 Elysée 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 Elysée, 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 Elysée. Rumors were flying.
The sultan of Oman was set to stun the world in exactly twenty-six minutes. Having just received the prestigious Légion 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 plaît
?” 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.
“Mais oui, monsieur
. Clever boy! How ever did you guess?”
Ten minutes later, having taken the private elevator situated behind Reception up to the third floor in the company of Monsieur Vedrine, he was seated across a lovely Directoire desk from the Sotheby’s director. Like Li himself, the man was small and exquisitely attired. Starched white Charvet shirt and matching tie, navy thee-piece suit. He had a pencil-line mustache and heavily lidded soft green eyes. Their knees were almost touching under the desk and every now and then he would feel subtle pressure against his right knee. The man was actually flirting with him, he was sure of it. Men were such animals. Vedrine had even locked the door.
He had trays of magnificent jewelry stacked by his right hand. He would carefully remove a piece and place it on a black pillow just in front of Li, the facets brilliantly illuminated by a flexible halogen light. Madame Li was examining a ruby and diamond bracelet.
“Her favorite piece,” Hubert said. “Cushion-shaped rubies and baguette diamonds. Callas had a marvellous eye.”
“And deep pockets until Jackie O came along. How much, Hubert?” He found it amusing that they were already on a first-name basis.
“This piece, I would estimate one hundred thousand U.S. dollars. More or less. But this is the gem of the collection, if you’ll excuse my humor. A pair of ruby and diamond earclips, mounted by Cartier, once owned by the duchess of Windsor and—”
“I’ll take it.” He looked at his watch.
“Which one?”
“All of them. At the pre-auction price.”
“Parfaitement,
madame!”
“Will you take a check?” he asked, bending over to get to the bag at his feet.
“Certainly. A quick call to your bank, madame. To verify the funds. And then we should be delighted.”
Instead of the bag, he chose the umbrella. Still hidden behind the desk, he quickly removed a nearly invisible plastic protector from the sharpened tip. He could see Hubert from the waist down. His knees were apart and his shiny little shoes were bouncing up and down with excitement over the impending sale of the complete Maria Callas collection.
He drove the umbrella tip deep inside Hubert’s groin. The dioxin-tipped steel point found the artery. It was only a matter of seconds. The dosage was ten times that used on Ukrainian opposition leader Yevchenko in fall 2004. Yevchenko had been a failed Te-Wu experiment in collaboration with the Ukrainian secret police. He had lived. Poor little Hubert would not.
Hubert fell backward in his chair, expelling a whuff of air, and then he was around the desk and on the man, his hand clamped over his mouth. Hubert had gone instantly into shock, as expected, and his pulse was racing. Madame Li waited for the poison to take effect, watching the sweep second hand of his new watch. He’d found that if the surprise was wholly unexpected and sufficiently brutal, they seldom made much noise. The little man went slack and Madame Li got up quickly and returned to his bag.
He removed the rifle and quickly assembled it, taking great pride and pleasure in the doing. The matte black weapon was Austrian, a Steyr, 7.62mm, with a lightweight polymer stock, and most suitable for effective engagement of targets up to fifteen hundred feet or less. The Scout Tactical model also had a low-magnification scope—only 2.5X but ideal for quick target acquisition at short and medium distances. It was a lovely toy and perfect for the occasion. Chosen with care by those who do care.
Checking to ensure that Hubert had expired (he had), Madame Li moved to the window. He’d noticed the old-fashioned window sashes earlier and the book lying on the sill, obviously used to prop up the window whenever Hubert felt warm. It was a feeling he was rapidly losing now, but Madame Li would be gone long before the corpse had gone cold. The carefully planned escape route assumed a damaged elevator. The service stairway led to a door on a back alley. The confusion of a prearranged bomb would ensure he was out and window shopping before anyone made it to the fourth floor.
He lifted the window three feet off the sill. It stayed there. The private street alongside the palace was empty.
At the near end of the deserted street, just below on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a cordon of uniformed tactical police. The far end of the street, which led in the direction of the Champs Elysées, disappeared into the trees of the palace gardens. He found it fascinating that the French president and his guests took walks along such a route. Luca Bonaparte, buying some bauble for his current mistress, had stood not long ago at this very window, and had seen Queen Elizabeth strolling her spaniels unaccompanied by security. And it had given him a very good idea.
Madame Li pulled a cell phone from his red bag and turned it on. The signal bars came right up to strength.
At half past ten, two men, one large and jovial, one hunched over and apprehensive, appeared at a side door to the palace. They paused and acknowledged the police and a small crowd of citizens who’d gathered to gawk at all the hubbub. Even without the scope, Madame Li could see the Sultan of Oman’s terrified expression. And the confident glow of the prime minister of France, Honfleur. The tall, sleek Frenchman, who towered over the sheik, then put his left hand on the Arab’s shoulder and steered him up the empty street. Half of the police on the line watched their progress intently.
The other half now turned in place to face the street, their faces swiveling side to side. Periodically, their eyes would rise to check the windows of the storefronts opposite. Madame Li stayed far enough away from the window so as to be in shadow. From his vantage point, he could see an ice cream truck, its bell chiming, rolling slowly up the street. The truck rolled to a stop in the street just below the director’s window. The driver got out and vanished into the crowd.
It was time.
He punched the number that Bonaparte had given into the phone. Star-one-seven-eight-nine. Just before he hit “send,” the significance of the number 1789 dawned on him. Of course! The year of France’s great Revolution. He smiled and thumbed the green send button.
Boom, he said softly, just before the explosion rocked the street and the nearby buildings.
The walls of Mr. Sotheby’s building shook and the windows on the ground floor exploded inward. Everyone in Reception was probably dead. Madame Li, raising his rifle, stepped to the window. On the street below, chaos. Flames erupted from the black and twisted hulk of the ice cream truck and thick black smoke smelling of burned fuel, plastic, and other less pleasant things rose upward. The small crowd and the cordon of police were down, dead or wounded in the street, but Madame Li had his right eye pressed to the rubber eyepiece of the scope and he had eyes only for Honfleur.
The prime minister was frozen in place. Through the scope you could see the fear and panic in his eyes. The sultan, surely sensing what was actually happening here, dove to the pavement.
Madame Li squeezed the Steyr’s trigger and fired. The round literally blew the Frenchman’s head off. And opened the floodgates of what some French historians would later term the Second Terror.