“Polizei,” he said.
“Yeah. You want to save yourself a whole lot of trouble? Show me what’s in your keel. Tell me how to get at it.”
The German froze in place. His small eyes took on a ball-bearing hardness.
“Arnold,” von Draxis said quietly, “Bitte, please ask George if he’s carrying a weapon. If he is, relieve him of it. If he refuses to cooperate, kill him.”
“Little late for this kind of drama, Baron,” Hawke said.
“Do it, Arnold!”
Hawke pulled the Walther out of the holster in the small of his back, reversed the muzzle, and handed it to the German thug.
“Are you armed, Captain Mariucci?” von Draxis asked.
“Nope. Clean.”
“Sehr gut. I want you both to go over there and sit down. You and your charming driver. Sit side by side on that sofa where Arnold can keep an eye on you. All right? Please?”
“Whatever you say,” Mariucci said, looking at Hawke. “Hey, Moran? Pick a seat.”
“Moran?”
“His last name, Baron. His first name is George.”
“Ah.” There was an ornate French desk by the window, bare except for an Apple G5 laptop and two telephones, one white and one black. Von Draxis sat in the gilded desk chair and lit up his computer. He punched in a series of commands, staring at the screen. Hawke leaned forward, attempting to see the display. There was a low growl from the Doberman, staring at him with big black eyes.
“Nice dog, Baron,” Hawke said, reaching out to it. “Come here, Blondi, kommen Sie hier.”
Von Draxis swiveled on his chair, staring at Hawke in utter disbelief. “Blondi, did he say?”
“That’s what he said.” Mariucci smiled.
“But this is the dog’s actual name!” von Draxis said, a look of incredulity on his face. “How does George—”
“He’s a dog psychic,” Mariucci said. “What can I tell you?” Mariucci got up and walked back over to the windows. Chief Tynan had heard the magic word, all right. The six Moran tugs were moving into position just off the pier. His own guys, Marine Unit officers, were running fore and aft readying the lines that would secure Leviathan to the tugboats.
The white phone rang.
Von Draxis picked it up.
“General Moon, thank you for responding so promptly to my e-mail. I’m here in New York aboard the vessel with a Captain Mariucci from the New York Police Department. Yes, yes. Here at the dock. Everything is fine. Don’t worry. Your ship is not going anywhere. You may initiate the sequence whenever you wish. Good-bye, General, and may I say what an honor it’s—I’m sorry, sir? Yes, you may. Please hold the line.”
“Initiate the sequence?” Mariucci said. “What the hell does that mean?”
Von Draxis looked at Mariucci. “He wants to talk to you, Captain.”
Mariucci stood up and took the phone from von Draxis.
“This is Captain Mariucci,” he said. “Who is this?”
He listened intently for roughly sixty seconds, all the color draining from his face.
“Wait a second, General,” he said, picking up a pen, “I think I better write that last part down.”
Mariucci scribbled a line on the pad. “Okay, repeat that for me one more time, please? Yeah. Okay. I’ve got it. Good-bye, General. I’ll convey your message.” He tore the top page from the pad and stared at it for a second.
There was a noticeable tremor in his hand as he replaced the receiver. He drew himself up and turned to Alex Hawke.
“That was General Sun-yat Moon of the People’s Republic of China,” Mariucci said, his voice devoid of emotion. “He wants us to call the president and deliver a message for him.”
“A message.”
“Yeah. I think you should do it, Alex. He knows you.”
“Mind if I use your phone, Baron?” Hawke said, getting to his feet.
“Please,” the Baron said, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
“What’s the message?” Hawke asked, punching in the president’s direct line.
“Here. I wrote it down.”
Hawke heard the president say, “Jack McAtee.”
“Mr. President. Alex Hawke.”
“Alex. Where are you now?”
“Aboard Leviathan at Pier 93 in New York, sir. I have an urgent message for you, sir. Just received directly from General Sun-yat Moon in Hong Kong. You may wish to have others hear this, sir.”
“I’m putting you on the Sit Room speaker. Go ahead, Alex.”
“Mr. President, the general has issued the following demand—I am quoting him now, sir. ‘The United States must rescind her order to initiate Operation Wild Card immediately. Failure to do so will have disastrous consequences.’”
“All right. We’ve got that. Did he give you a time frame?”
“Yes, sir, he did. He just initiated the sequence. The device will detonate at 4:00 A.M., Eastern Standard Time. Once initiated, the detonation sequence is immutable and irreversible without his code. Can’t change it. Can’t stop it.”
“What time is it now? Damn it. Two-oh-nine.”
“Yes, sir. We have less than two hours.”
“Christ. We’re already working on something here. You need to get that boat into deep water in a hurry. Can you manage that, Alex?”
“I think we have to, Mr. President.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. He said unless he receives certifiable confirmation that Wild Card has been neutralized, you can kiss New York City good-bye.”
Chapter Sixty-two
New York Harbor
2:16 A.M., EST
HAWKE, STANDING AT THE STERN RAIL ON THE LINER’S uppermost deck, watched the tugboat operation with mounting dread. If ever he’d had a time-critical mission, this one was it. The tug Karen Moran, one of six tugs assigned by the U.S. Coast Guard, had moved into position off the great liner’s stern. The hawser, a thick towing cable, looped down from a bollard on Leviathan’s stern out to the tug’s bow. Suddenly, the slack snapped out; the tug began to pull mightily. Against her will, Leviathan was about to back out of the berth. It was a painfully slow process.
Every passing minute darkened his thoughts.
Still, New York City slept, ten million dreamers blissfully unaware of the deadly drama unfolding in her harbor. Imagining the lives behind every dark window along the river, Hawke had a sudden, stinging thought. Ambrose Congreve across town in his hospital bed. Perhaps the bedside lamp was lit. And Diana Mars was sitting quietly by his bedside reading Yeats to him.
As for himself? He’d always felt he’d been born with one foot in the grave. He’d lost his wife to a sniper’s bullet. The bullet that found her heart had been meant for him. Living on borrowed time has a numbing effect; any thoughts of death Hawke had now were centered on others. Ambrose and Diana, at this late date, had finally found love. Mariucci was a true New York hero. That Coast Guard kid, Tynan, who’d won a gold medal for America in Athens. None of these people deserved this. To vanish like—
He looked at the radio in his hand.
He had an open line to the president. But calling him again so quickly with such sketchy information would serve no good purpose. There were a lot of anxious people holding their breath in the Sit Room, dealing simultaneously with two potential catastrophes. The U.S. Pacific Fleet and the Chinese fleet were now eyeball to eyeball in the Straits. Here, the clock was ticking relentlessly. Over the next few minutes, Hawke would have to parse out unfolding information carefully. Avoid false hopes or unrealistic expectations.
To be honest, he dreaded telling them what he was thinking at this very moment.
Another tug, the Diane Moran, was positioned amidships on the starboard side. The swiftly running tidal current complicated her mission. The tug skipper’s job was to keep the ship backing straight out. Once the liner’s stern had cleared the berth, the pier itself would be used as a pivot. A tug pushing against the side would shove the stern upriver. That would swing the bow out into open water so that she was headed south toward the Statue of Liberty and the Ambrose Channel.