“I think the bloody French have finally lost their minds completely,” Ambrose said. “It’s outrageous!”
Kelly stared at Congreve for a few long moments before he spoke. There was a softness in his eyes that was remarkable.
“We Americans have a long and complicated relationship with France,” Kelly said with his trademark diplomacy, lowering his voice even further. “The secretary of state has likened it to two hundred years of marriage counseling.”
“It hasn’t worked,” Hawke said, sipping his water. “Somebody better call Raoul Felder.”
“Who?” said Ambrose.
“Famous American divorce lawyer,” Hawke said, smiling at Brick.
“First things first, Alex,” Brick said. “Bonaparte has disappeared the sultan. And his family. We need to find him and get the truth out of him. End this charade before France invades. Save them from themselves, if we can.”
“You want me to find out where the sultan is.”
“Exactly. We think Boney has stashed him somewhere. Someplace remote, I imagine. Your job is to find him and get the truth out of him. America has its hands full in the Gulf right now. Iraq, Iran, Syria. We can’t be seen as having any involvement with this. So, you can’t—”
“I’ve been down this road, Brick. I know how it works.”
Kelly nodded and said, “I assume—do you two know about the submarine disaster off Sri Lanka?”
“What happened, Brick?” Hawke asked, suddenly grave.
“It happened last evening. The USS Jimmy Carter. One of our Sea-wolf class of attack subs. The most heavily armed sub ever built and our premier spy sub. Designed for Naval Special Warfare and as a test platform for some radical new submarine espionage technology. She had the ability to tap undersea cables and eavesdrop on the communications passing through them.”
“And?” Hawke said.
“Down with all hands.”
“Good lord. Accidental?” Congreve said.
“God knows at this point. There were a few garbled transmissions from the sub and then we lost all radio and sonar contact. But right before she disappeared, she was being tracked by an Agosta-B, that new-generation French sub France is trying to peddle to Pakistan.”
“So what happened down there, Brick?” Alex asked.
“Typical cat-and-mouse stuff. Happens all the time. No weapons were fired. And to their credit, the French are actually aiding in the search. It’s possible it was a tragic accident. But, with the mood in Washington right now—it’s tense.”
The drinks arrived and the director stopped talking while the waiter served them. After taking a sip of his cocktail, Congreve resumed the conversation.
“Those poor lads,” he said, raising his glass. “And they’ve all got mothers. I must say that what simply astounds me is the unmitigated chutzpah of these sodding French. Here they are, throwing their weight around like a superpower, taking potshots at Alex here—somebody should smack them good, I say.”
“I’ll volunteer for that assignment,” Hawke said, not smiling.
“You already have, Alex,” Kelly said. “Finding out where the sultan is and getting the truth out of him is a good start.”
Kelly was silent for a moment, looking at both of them and collecting his thoughts. “You’ve nailed the issue. France needs a wake-up call. And fast. But, we can’t smack them, as you say, without putting the whole damned world at risk.”
“Why not?” Congreve asked.
“Very simple, actually. In a word, China.”
“I’ve been thinking about this, Brick,” Hawke said.
“Please,” Brick said, and motioned for him to continue.
“The French abandoned the EU because they were sick and tired of being lumped in with the ‘old Europe.’ They’re psychically tortured by decades of political impotency—so they’re using the Chinese to reassert themselves. Provide some nuclear and economic muscle, you might say. That is pretty much it, at least as I see it.”
Brick nodded. “Exactly. Fifty years of America and the Soviets hogging the limelight has been extremely tough on France’s national ego. But this new relationship with China, it’s more complicated, more—symbiotic than that, Alex. These two feed off of each other. But China is in the driver’s seat. A surging China is using a resurgent France to further the global interests of each.”
“It’s simple, isn’t it?” Congreve said. “China wants oil, France wants power. Voilà!”
Brick said, “Yes, Ambrose, and if they succeed at this game, America will have to go to war to protect her vital interests in the Gulf.”
“France is riding the tiger,” Hawke said. “And tigers bite.”
“Yes,” Brick said. “France, however, may be just an unwitting pawn in this game. Ready to be sacrificed by China at the earliest opportunity. But, meanwhile, just as you say, Alex, France has gotten tired of sitting on the sidelines. They’ve got the spotlight now and that’s just where they want to be.”
“And China stays in the shadows, right where she wants to be,” Hawke agreed.
“Yes. There’s a desperate power struggle going on in Paris right now. The attempt on Bonaparte’s life two days ago, the assassination of the French prime minister yesterday. I think it all leads back to Beijing. Right back to the top of the Chinese Communist Party. To the Forbidden City and to the premier’s powerful Hong Kong stooge, General Sun-yat Moon.”
Congreve was startled. “The CCP took out Honfleur? Good lord, man, why?”
“To pave the way for their enfant terrible, Bonaparte.”
“What are the details, Brick?” Hawke asked.
“We can’t prove anything yet,” Kelly said. “But we think a Chinese agent, working for Moon, murdered the director of Sotheby’s in his office overlooking the Elysée Palace. Then she shot Honfleur with a sniper rifle from the dead director’s office windows. The sultan of Oman, luckily, was not wounded in the attack.”
“You said ‘she’ murdered the director. The assassin was a woman?”
“Yes. A woman carrying Chinese diplomatic credentials, as a matter of fact. She slipped away in the confusion.”
“Well, hell,” Hawke said, looking directly at Congreve. “Chinese female assassins seem to have arrived on our shores in droves. Brick, do you have a witness who can identify her?”
“Yes. A man working Sotheby’s Paris reception desk survived the bomb blast in the street seconds before the assassination. He provided a detailed description of the killer. The woman was in her seventies, well-dressed in French couture, shopping for very expensive jewelry. She was escorted up to the director’s office for a private viewing, where she killed him with some kind of poison-tipped weapon. Drove it into his groin, I might add.”
“Lovely,” Congreve said, wincing. “Was she carrying an umbrella, by any chance?”
“Good point,” Kelly said, smiling at Ambrose.
“Weapon of mass deduction,” Hawke said, patting Ambrose on the shoulder.
“Too kind,” Ambrose said, and took a sip of his drink.
Hawke massaged the slight stubble on his chin. “Where was Luca Bonaparte during all this bloody excitement?”
“You mean the brand spanking new prime minister of France? In his brand spanking new office at the Elysée. Handling the press furor over France’s imminent incursion into Oman.”
“The French press is furious?” Congreve asked, a wry smile on his face.
“Are you joking? The French press is ecstatic. Paris Soir ran a headline saying ‘France Is on the March!’ It’s the rest of the world who take a dim view of this invasion. France says they were ‘invited’ in by the sultan. To suppress a radical insurgency. My guys think Bonaparte leaned on the sultan. A physical threat to him or his family, or perhaps some kind of blackmail. Nothing else makes any sense.”