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"I'll say enough. The 'City of Light' could take on a whole new meaning, Mon General."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean, General Moon, that if you and your little French pals don't watch your step, that town could light up like the Fourth of July."

  Harry saw the thermonuclear light bulb go off in Moon's mind. "You're not serious."

  "I'm not? Just try us, General. Keep pushing."

  Moon never saw the knife. Never saw a human being move as fast as the American spy. All the general felt was the searing pain in his thigh as the blade sliced down to the bone. Then Brock had his gun and he fired at Hu Xu, who was a blur moving sideways away from Moon and toward the door, trying to get a shot at the American without endangering the life of the second-most-powerful man in China. The little cretin fell back against the bulkhead, gouts of blood erupting from the side of his neck.

  Brock smashed him to the floor going out the door. A second later Moon heard a splash. He ran out to the rail and looked down at the surface of the water. He fired Hu Xu's pistol into Brock's rippling point of entry until it was empty.

  Moon smiled, pressing his knotted handkerchief against the wound in his thigh. He went back to Hu Xu and tightly wound the blood-soaked cloth around his neck wound. He would live. This American was good fun. Te-Wu reported that he was working alone. He was on the run. He would be caught again before he could escape China, and he would be killed before he could tell anyone what he knew. Even now there was an impenetrable ring around the city of Tianjin. He whipped out his cell phone and speed-dialed the port security commanding officer. The noose started to tighten even while Harry Brock was swimming through two miles of floating garbage.

  But Harry was a resourceful guy. He had slipped through the general's noose. And he had slipped through another one at the Mongolian border crossing into Kazakhstan when a guard ran out of the guardhouse with a faxed picture of his handsome mug. The AK-47s opened up and Harry dove into the back of a covered truck they'd just opened the gate for. The guy behind the wheel apparently decided the Red Guards were shooting at him, zigzagged, and floored it. So that worked out pretty good. They'd entered Kazakhstan on two wheels.

  After a little adventure on the stormy Caspian Sea, and a few other high and low points, Harry had finally made it to Morocco. And there he was, daydreaming of home under a date palm tree, when a waiter in a wine-red fez bent over to pour him a cup of tea and instead slammed a hypo into his neck. Boom, like that, Harry Brock had found himself back on a slow boat to China.

  Chapter One

  Le Cote d'Azur

  AN ILL WIND LAY SIEGE TO THE PORT. HARD OFF THE SEA IT blew, steady and relentless. For days the strange weather had spooked the ancient harbor town of Cannes, driving everyone indoors. You could hear the icy wind whistling up the narrow cobbled streets and round the old houses and shops that clung to the hills overlooking the bay; you could feel it stealing down chimneypots, seeping under window sashes, rattling doors and the inhabitants sealed behind them.

  All along this southern coast, dust devils and dried leaves, desiccated by the unseasonably cold wind, swirled around the grande dames standing shoulder to shoulder as they faced the sea. Le Majestic, Le Martinez, and the legendary Hotel Carlton. The nor'westerly worried, rattled, and shook acres of expensive hotel glass, the seaward windows of perhaps the most glamorous stretch of real estate in the world, the Cote d'Azur.

  Le mistral, the locals called this foul sea wind, wrinkling their noses in a Gallic gesture of disgust. There was no stench, not really, but still it seemed a frigid plague upon the land, and the man in the street, if you could find one about, kept his collar up and his head down. This wind carried the kind of relentless chill that worked its way deep into the marrow.

  Some seventy kilometers to the west of this meteorological malaise, however, the warm Mediterranean sun was smiling down upon a singularly happy Englishman.

  The cheerful fellow behind the wheel of the old green roadster was Alexander Hawke. Lord Hawke, to be completely accurate, though you'd best not be caught using that title. Only Pelham, an ancient family retainer, was allowed use of "m'lord" in Hawke's presence. And that was only because once, long ago, he'd threatened to resign over the matter.

  Hawke was a good-looking enough sort, something over six feet, trim and extraordinarily fit. He was still fairly young, in his early thirties, with a square, slightly cleft jaw, unruly black hair, and rather startling arctic-blue eyes. His overall appearance was one of determination and resolution. It was his smile that belied the tough exterior. It could be cruel when he was crossed or took offense, but it could also betray a casual amusement at what life threw his way, both the good and the bad.

  Women seemed attracted to, rather than put off by, Alex Hawke's rather bemused and detached views on romance, the war between the sexes, and life in general. Because he was quite wealthy, his liaisons with the fair sex were varied and well documented in the British tabloids. He had ventured down the matrimonial aisle just once. That had ended in horror and sorrow when his wife was murdered at the very outset of the marriage.

  A goodly number of men seemed to find him reasonably companionable as well. He was athletic enough to compete seriously when he cared to, and he enjoyed strong drink and a good story. However, most of the truly interesting Hawke stories were known only to a few. He never spoke of his childhood. Unspeakable tragedy had struck the boy at age seven. It didn't kill, or even cripple him. It made him strong.

  All in all, the sorrows of his past notwithstanding, Alexander Hawke remained an improbably cheery fellow.

  If you were to ask Hawke to describe what he did for a living, he'd be hard-pressed for an honest answer. He was the titular head of a large family business--a sizable conglomeration of banking and industrial entities--but that job required only a light hand on the tiller. He had carefully chosen able commanders to helm his various enterprises and he wisely let them command.

  As for himself, Hawke did the occasional deeply private favor for HM Government. When his particular skill set was required, he also did odd jobs for the United States government. Among his fellow Royal Navy aviators, it was said of him that he was good at war.

  There was never anything on paper. No buccaneer's letter of marque. He was simply called in whenever they needed someone who didn't mind getting his hands dirty. And someone who could keep his mouth shut afterward. He was, in fact, rather like one of those seafaring eighteenth-century scoundrels from whom he was directly descended, adventurers who plundered ship and shore in the name of the king. Hawke was, in short, nothing more nor less than a twenty-first-century privateer.

  Gunning his Jaguar eastward along the French coast toward the old city of Cannes, Hawke felt like a schoolboy sprung for Christmas. It was, after all, just another unexceptionally beautiful spring day on the Cote d'Azur. The wide-open road that hugged the shoreline, curving high above the blue Mediterranean, beckoned, and Hawke hungrily ate it up, one hundred miles of it every hour or so. Gibraltar had long since receded in his rearview mirror. And good riddance, too, he thought, to that monkey-infested rock.

  And, while he was at it, good riddance to the stuffed-shirt navy as well.

  Hawke was the kind of man to prefer bread, water, and solitary confinement to just about any kind of organized meeting. He had just suffered through two solid days of DNI briefings at British Naval Headquarters on the Rock. CIA Director Patrick Brickhouse Kelly, the guest of honor, had given a sobering presentation on the final day. He had identified another serious crisis brewing in the Gulf. The nub of it was, Red Chinese warships were headed into the Indian Ocean for a rendezvous with the French navy.

  China and France? An unlikely alliance on the surface. But one with grave implications for stability in the Gulf region. And thus, the world.

  No one in Washington was exactly sure when, or even if, this much-ballyhooed naval exercise would occur. But all of the blue-suit Royal Navy boys at Gibraltar were quite exercised about it. The very
concept stirred their blood. Not a few of them were fantasizing a replay of Nelson's great victory at Trafalgar, Hawke thought. And Blinker Godfrey had provided more than enough charts, facts, figures, sat photos, and mind-numbing reports to whet their brass whistles. Endless stuff.

  Why? Hawke had wondered, squirming in his chair. It was not a difficult concept to comprehend: France and Red China, sailing jointly into the Indian Ocean. You can actually express that notion in one sentence. Maybe ten words. Most situations Commander Hawke dealt with were like that. Straightforward and not irreducible. In Royal Navy parlance, however, that one sentence had translated into forty-eight hours of squirming around in a smoke-filled room trying to find comfort on a hard wooden chair.

  British Naval Intelligence, Gibraltar Station, had an especially nasty habit of providing far too much unnecessary detail. This tendency was personified in one Admiral Sir Alan "Blinker" Godfrey, a pompous chap who never should have been let anywhere near a PowerPoint computer presentation. Even back in the day, when the old walrus had his antiquated overhead slides to present, he simply didn't know how to sit down and shut up. More than once he'd caught Hawke at the back of the briefing room fingering his Black-Berry and made unpleasant remarks about it.

  So, overbriefed and underslept, Hawke finally escaped. He cleared the Spanish border checkpoint at the Rock and headed out along the sad and condo-ruined coast of Spain. As he wound up the C Type's rev counter, he found himself turning over the salient points of the prior evening's brief in his mind.

  The bloody French were at the heart of the matter. Their Foreign Trade minister, a corrupt and virulent anti-American somehow related to Bonaparte, was a constant worry. No surprises there; the man had been making relations with France increasingly difficult for some time. No, the truly worrisome mystery at this point was French involvement with the Red Chinese. Eyebrows were raised when Brick Kelly called them that; but "Red" was an adjective CIA Director Kelly had never stopped using, since, as he said in the briefing, "If that group of Mandarins in Beijing ain't red, then I don't know who the hell is."

  Kelly then put up a chart: in the preceding year, Red China had quadrupled her military budget to eighty billion U.S. dollars. She was buying carriers and subs from the Russians and building her own nuclear missile submarines as fast as she could. In the preceding months, Kelly said, hard American and British intelligence had shown France and China engaging in secret joint naval exercises in the Taiwan Strait on seven different occasions.

  Christ, what a stew.

  The Taiwan Strait, between the People's Republic of China on the mainland and that offshore thorn in her side, Taiwan, was as dangerous a stretch of water as there was; it, rather than the Gulf, got Hawke's vote as the place most likely to spark a world war in years to come. Not that anyone in the Admiralty was asking his opinion. He wasn't paid for his geopolitical savvy. He was in Gibraltar for the briefing solely at Kelly's request. There was, the director said, a new assignment. A matter of some urgency, he said.

  As his dear friend, Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard, had observed on numerous occasions, it was simply cloak-and-dagger time again. This notion, the prospect of his immediate assignment, a hostage rescue, soon had a salutary effect on his mood. Hawke had always found the classic covert snatch to be one of life's more rewarding endeavors. The former hostage's appreciative smiles upon rescue were priceless reminders of why one played the game.

  This particular hostage was exceptionally lucky. According to Kelly, only the actions of an alert station chief in Marrakech had alerted the Americans that one of their own was in trouble. He'd been stepping out of his car at La Mamounia just as a drunk was being loaded into the rear of a black sedan. The drunk looked American, the two men "helping" him were Chinese. Sensing something was amiss, the station chief jumped back into his car and followed the sedan for hours, all the way to the harbor at Casablanca.

  Armed guards at the foot of the gangway made intervention impossible, and he'd watched helplessly as the unconscious man was hauled up the gangplank of the Star of Shanghai. He'd called Langley immediately. His suspicions were confirmed. The drunk was likely one of their own all right, due out of China a week ago and presumed dead.

  Feeling much rejuvenated (driving at speed also worked wonders), Alex Hawke found himself grinning foolishly after only an hour or so behind the wheel. The sun was shining, his recently restored C Type was screaming along the Grand Corniche straightaway at 130 mph, and, for the moment, all was right with his world. His two hands firmly positioned at quarter to three, Hawke relished the notion that he was officially back in the game.

  A sign marker flashed by: Ste. Tropez. Only a few hours from his destination, the old resort at Cannes. Executing a racing change down into second gear, going quite quickly into a built-up S-bend, Hawke inhaled deeply.

  Provence was delightful in June. Glorious. Somewhere, bees were buzzing. He'd always felt a certain kinship with bees. After all, were they not similarly employed? Zipping around all day, doing the queen's work, ha?

  Indeed.

  Spring itself was in the air. Not to mention the scented vapors of hot Castrol motor oil wafting back from one's long, louvered bonnet. Good stuff. The feeling of raw power as one smashed one's shoe to the floorboard and, whilst exiting a descending-radius curve, hearing the throaty roar of the naturally aspirated 4.4-liter XK Straight-Six responding beautifully. He'd been listening to the newly rebuilt motor carefully all day and had yet to hear any expensive noises.

  Nor did he, until he arrived in Cannes and checked into the fabled Carlton and heard the chap at Reception say how much his bloody seaside suite would cost him per night.

  Chapter Two

  Hampstead Heath

  AMBROSE CONGREVE LAVISHED A DOLLOP OF TIPTREE'S LITTLE scarlet strawberry preserve onto his warm toast and held it up for closer inspection. Satisfied, he contemplated the two three-minute eggs in their Minton blue china cups with unbridled relish and a shudder of warm satisfaction. Songbirds trilled outside his sunny windows and the teapot was whistling merrily on the Aga. To say that Ambrose was enjoying his early breakfast in the sunny conservatory of his new house would be gross understatement.

  It was pure, unadulterated bliss.

  Moments precisely like this one, the legendary New Scotland Yard criminalist reflected, had been the stuff of keen anticipation for lo these many months.

  Just as there had been times, shivering with damp cold in his drear little Bayswater flat of many years, that he'd never dared dream these happy domestic circumstances might ever come to pass.

  His present situation, newly acquired, was a lovely brick-and-stone cottage in Hampstead Heath. The house proper, and some of the outbuildings, had been bombed almost into extinction by the Nazis during the Blitz. It had been the property of his late aunt, Augusta. The dear woman had spent the last half of the century in a loving restoration of house and gardens completed just a few short months before her sudden death at age ninety-seven. Augusta had died peacefully in her sleep. Ambrose, standing at the graveside, had hoped this exit method ran in the family.

  Attending the reading of the late Mrs. Bulling's last testament at her solicitor's drab offices in Kensington High Street, Ambrose's remorse had been tempered by the vain hope that he might inherit. There was, after all, a complete set of Minton china she'd promised him decades earlier, and he sat there feigning composure, hoping she'd not forgotten him.

  She had not.

  Rather, from the cold grave, Aunt Augusta had stunned all present by bequeathing Heart's Ease cottage and the entirety of its contents to her dear nephew, Ambrose Congreve, instead of to her sole issue, her son, Henry Bulling. A stupefied silence descended upon the lawyer's office. Henry Bulling, the assumed heir and a minor diplomat by trade, sat for some few moments in goggle-eyed shock, taking quick, shallow breaths. He shot Congreve a look that spoke volumes, all of which would have made for unpleasant reading, and then rose somewhat unsteadily on shaky pins and made for
the door.

  The solicitor, a Mr. Reading, coughed into his fist once or twice and shuffled documents atop his large desk. There was a lavatory down the corridor and the door could be heard to slam loudly several seconds later. There was a muffled gargling noise, a retching actually, and the lawyer quickly resumed his reading. All ears were turned in his direction. There was a calico cat, Reading continued, apparently not well, which would be solely entrusted to Mrs. Bulling's son, Henry. The cat, Felicity, and the princely sum of one thousand pounds.

  This current incident was just the latest in a long chain of disappointments for Henry. Ambrose had known him since birth. He was a boy who'd seemed positively doomed from the very beginning.

  Augusta's only son was plainly one of life's born unfortunates. A lackluster hank of orange hair lay atop his pate. He had not been blessed with the strong jawline and prominent chin that most Bulling men were known for leading with. He'd struggled in various public schools and been sent packing down from Cambridge for debauchery. Which is what they called in those days being discovered in a coat closet with a don's wife in a compromising (and difficult to achieve) position.

  Born to Augusta in Bruges, by one of her husbands, a no-account count, a Belgian noble of some kind, Henry was a notorious layabout as a young man. It had gotten so bad that, at one point, Ambrose simply gave up on finding the boy a job he could hold for more than a month. Ambrose took to referring to his wastrel cousin as the "Belgian Loafer" after a shoe of that name. Actually, Ambrose thought the nickname did the eponymous shoe a disservice. The comfortable handmade shoes (a favorite of Congreve's) were very stylish and wore quite well. Henry fit neither description.

  Migrating to Paris, Henry had spent a few years dabbling at the Sorbonne, and he had dabbled in the arts, too. Setting up his easel on the quay beside the storied and moody Seine, he had produced a series of dramatically large canvases that were, to Ambrose's practiced artist's eye, scenes of mindless violence.