“I’m not with you, sir.”
“Oil is a very hot topic these days, Sutherland. This is the famous Leuna oil refinery, built by the French and Germans in Eastern Germany. Operated by Elf Aquitaine, the largest corporation in France. Publicly owned. In reality, an extension of the French government. Leuna was at the center of a huge scandal involving the French Foreign Trade minister a few years ago. The infamous Monsieur Bonaparte.”
“Right. Budget irregularities. Kickbacks to African countries, as I recall,” Sutherland said, excitement starting to color his voice. He continued to scroll through the disc, which contained countless scenes of pipelines, tankers, and the like.
“That’s it. A tawdry romance involving Bonaparte and his German counterpart.”
“That German shipbuilder. Giving African politicians cash for every barrel extracted.”
“Ah, yes, our old friends, the French and the Germans.”
“The new Europe,” Sutherland said, looking up at his superior.
“Don’t forget the Iraqis,” Ambrose said. “Billions traded hands illegally. The oil-for-weapons transactions. France got oil. And cash, of course. Iraq got French Mirage fighter jets and restricted French nuclear technology and power plants. It was the biggest French scandal since the war. Now, what do you suppose our Henry is doing with pictures of French refineries in his freezer?”
Sutherland clicked through to another photo. “Good lord.”
“What?”
“Look at this thing, sir. A bloody big supertanker. Never seen one half this size. Certainly has a head of steam, though.”
“Yes, I was just noticing the size of that bow wave. Just leaving the Strait of Hormuz, it would appear. What’s her name there on the side? Can you make it out? Zoom in.”
“The Happy Dragon, sir. Sounds more Chinese than French. She’s not putting out any smoke, sir. No visible stack at all.”
“Nuclear? That’s an interesting notion. Let’s have a look at that second disc, shall we?” Ross said, ejecting the first and inserting the other. An image appeared, and this time he wasn’t disappointed. It was both salacious and intriguing.
“Good heavens,” Ambrose said, looking carefully at the image. “Henry, you naughty fellow, what have you been up to?”
Sutherland stared at the picture. It was a starkly lit amateur color photograph of some kind of fancy dress ball. Very grand, judging by the opulent interior design and a few famous faces from the tabloids. In the foreground, a very thin chap, all but naked, with shockingly bright orange hair. Plainly the infamous Cousin Henry. He was wearing some kind of choke collar. Not a few of the costumes seemed to involve leather and studded chokers.
The other end of the leash was in the hand of an extraordinarily beautiful Oriental woman, a peroxide blonde wearing nothing but a smile, high-heeled shoes, and a black leather bustier. He clicked to another image, then another. The woman smiled back from each photo.
“She is rather exquisite,” Sutherland said.
“Bianca Moon is her name,” Ambrose said, leaning forward to examine her more closely. “Not to be confused with her twin sister, Jet. A very senior Whitehall chap came a cropper in Bianca’s company. One of Her Majesty’s closest aides. He fell in love with her. The daughter of a high-ranking official in the Chinese PLA. A spy, in fact. Worked for something called the Te-Wu. Chinese secret police. The tabloids all called her the ‘China Doll.’ I’ve always wondered what became of her.”
“What on earth is the China Doll doing with your cousin Henry Bulling?”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Ambrose said, his keen blue eyes sparkling with satisfaction at his little joke. It wasn’t a joke at all. He knew very well what Henry and the beautiful Chinese woman were up to and it was certainly no good.
“Good one, sir,” Sutherland said.
“Hmm, yes, isn’t it? It would appear the chinless wonder has given us the Chinese connection at last. Do you see that bottom portion of a large painted picture portrait in the upper right of the photo? Mostly gilt frame, but you can make out the hem of a blue silk gown and one silk-slippered foot.”
Sutherland leaned forward, peering at the image. “Yes. You mean this section here.”
“Hmm. A rather famous portrait, Sutherland. John Singer Sargent’s study of the great beauty of her age, Lady Cecily Mars. It still hangs in the Great Hall at Brixden House. Lady Mars’s great-granddaughter, Diana, lives in the house now, I believe.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. A ‘stately,’ I believe. Just west of Heathrow, isn’t it? One of Britain’s more celebrated country houses, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Quite right. Bit more notorious than stately, from what I’ve heard, however. Brixden’s been the scene of many wild nights, orgies and the like, according to what one hears. Somehow, the current Lady Mars has managed to keep the whole unsightly mess out of the papers. She’s quite something, from all you hear.”
“Have a look at this one, Chief Inspector,” Sutherland said, looking at one of the seamier photos from Henry Bulling’s private collection.
“What is it?”
“What are they doing with that demitasse spoon?”
“Good heavens!”
Chapter Eleven
Cannes
“GET THIS MAN TO SICKBAY,” HAWKE SAID TO A YOUNG crewman, stepping from the bobbing Zodiac onto the floating dock extending from Blackhawke’s stern hangar bay. “His pulse is irregular. Malnourished. And he’s dehydrated. Check for fractures, left wrist specifically.”
Stokely stood on the gently rolling deck with what was left of Harry Brock cradled lightly in his arms. The broken man was out cold, his head lolling against Stoke’s broad chest. Stoke was broad all over. Hawke liked to say Stoke was as big as your average-sized French armoire. Maybe. Stoke had seen a couple of French armoires in his day and hadn’t been all that impressed.
“I think he’s sound asleep,” Stoke whispered, lowering Brock carefully to the waiting stretcher. “Probably had him down in the sleep-deprivation spa for a few days. Had the boy on that alfalfa diet. Shoots and leaves. You can’t help but lose weight, you on that program.”
Hawke looked at Stokely and shook his head at the big man. Ex–Navy SEAL, ex-NYPD, Hawke couldn’t remember how many scrapes the man had bailed him out of, but each one of them had been a special moment. Beginning with that very suspicious warehouse fire in Brooklyn, when New York Detective Sergeant Stokely Jones, Jr., had carried an unconscious Alex Hawke down six flights of burning stairs. Hawke had been the victim of a kidnap gone bad. After refusing to pay his own ransom, he’d been bound by his Colombian abductors and left to die on the top floor of the deserted warehouse.
“No worries, Skipper, we’ll take good care of him,” said one of a pair of young Aussie sickbay orderlies, stepping forward. “Ship’s surgeon is standing by, as ordered. How about yourself, sir? Nasty cut below that left eye.”
Hawke swiped at his face with the back of his hand and was surprised to see it come away bright red. No memory of the wound.
“Tell commo to put me through to Langley, please,” Hawke said to the nearest crewman. “The director. Secure line. Straightaway. Five minutes. I’m going to my quarters.”
“Aye, sir,” the man said and took off at a run.
“Tommy,” Hawke said, looking at his security chief who was now hoisting the Zodiac aboard. “Well done. If someone told me you could outrun a Harpoon missile in a rubber boat, I’d have suggested they seek psychiatric treatment.”
“Thanks, Skipper. Six hundred horsepower works wonders sometimes. Sorry about our surprise guest here. Mr. Jones, uh, seemed like a good idea at the time.”