Warriors (27 page)

Trulove nodded absentmindedly. Hawke was not at all sure he’d been listening.

“Cover story. Chase and his family—wife, Kathleen, and their two children—were all abducted from a street corner in Georgetown one foggy night and disappeared without a trace. They were on their way home from a birthday dinner for Chase’s wife at a local restaurant three or four blocks from their home. According to the live-in housekeeper, they never made it home.”

“Vanished into thin air? No witnesses?”

“Indeed. Imagine, Alex. A man and his entire family. A wife and two small children. Gone. My God. For reasons apparent only to themselves, the CIA and the White House immediately suspected the Chinese of the abduction. Although no mention of this incident was ever made public, of course. For delicate political reasons at the time, Washington could not go public with the administration’s suspicions.”

“And now?”

“Well. The Americans’ investigation is still ongoing, unofficially of course. The Chinese admit nothing, offended at the mere suggestion, et cetera, et cetera. But now, Alex, here’s the nub of it. The fighter you flew home to England has now been torn apart and examined from nut to bolt.”

C paused to refire his cigar.

“Yes, sir?”

“And what we found belies Washington’s nonsensical illness cover story. Chase holed up somewhere dying and all that bollocks.”

“Hmm.”

“Have a look at this.”

C pulled a shiny steel object from his pocket and handed it to Hawke.

“What’s this?”

“Part from your stolen jet engine. That bit was removed from the nozzle and delivered to me by courier this morning.”

“Why?”

“Have a look at it through this magnifying glass, Alex.”

Hawke took the glass and studied the object, turning it over in his hand.

“Ah. I see something . . . W . . . L . . . C . . . Carved by hand into the steel.”

“His initials. William Lincoln Chase.”

“My God. Proud of his work?”

“No. He was trying to get a message out. We knew instantly that only one man on earth was capable of designing that fighter you managed to nick from a carrier deck, Alex. Chase’s fingerprints are all over that bloody airplane. As the Yanks will find, I’m sure, all over that high-altitude drone you discovered in the hangar.”

“That fighter of theirs is an almost exact replica of our Euro F-35C Lightning. Only vastly more advanced avionics and weapons, defensive and offensive. That damn fighter can fly circles around anything we’ve got. I think I see where you’re going with this, sir.”

“Listen carefully. It could be argued that a single Chinese carrier, its battle group, and its fighter wing of stolen F-35s, with their attendant advanced weaponry and technology is, all by itself, more powerful than most nations. And there is another . . . threat.”

“I don’t like the way you said that.”

“I have no direct knowledge. But the Americans have uncovered evidence of something very, very troublesome. CIA has its lips sewn shut. No one is talking. But it’s bad.”

“How bad?”

“Some new undersea weapon capable of shifting the balance of power in the Pacific. Immediately. Hell, capable of shifting the balance of power around the world. Chinese money, but built in some secret location in North Korea, perhaps.”

“The NKs are involved in all this?”

“Up to their bloody eyeballs. As you well know, North Korea is officially China’s bitch. If China is the Dragon of the twenty-first century, which it clearly is, then North Korea? They are the Teeth of the Dragon. As you well know from your past visits to Pyongyang.”

“Vastly sharper teeth, it would appear, sir, since my last midnight dental examination in Kim’s workers’ paradise prison.”

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V
ery busy boys lately, our friends the North Koreans,” C said. “A high-level leak inside the White House claims it was a North Korean–built drone used in the horrific attack at McCloskey’s funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. Most likely a variant of the one you saw aboard the carrier.”

“We’ve been running down the Chinese for that one, night and day. Haven’t gotten any bloody where, I’ll grant you. But it smacks of China, sir, I must tell you. The sheer brutal arrogance of that attack has knocked us all back on our heels, Sir David. I don’t know how the White House manages to keep a lid on that simmering pot. I can tell you the Pentagon is not at all happy about the lack of progress. That’s why I’m bringing you aboard.”

“North Korean origin, Alex, trust me. Who knows who designed it? China? Bill Chase? Forget it. You never heard about this. President Rosow also has this one screwed down so tight it only squeaks. But North Korea is only part of this Chinese checkers puzzle. Just get yourself up to speed on the Sino-Korean alliance with all the alacrity you are capable of. I’ll have the head of section provide you with all relevant dossiers. Understood?”

“Aye, sir. You really think the Pacific balance of power is in jeopardy? The Yanks alone have ten carrier battle groups. Not to mention what the Aussies and the Royal Navy bring to the party.”

“Alex, from what I’ve been able to piece together, we are talking about enemy war-fighting technology taken to an entirely new level, pure and simple. Immense advances, giant leaps forward by the Chinese. A heretofore unthinkable weapons system. Some damn thing barely even germinating on the books here in the West. And the technology? Stolen from under our damn noses.”

“Ah. The infamous Chinese hackers. Pentagon, Whitehall.”

“No, no, no, Alex. I wish it were that simple. But no, no hackers involved, not the Pentagon, not Whitehall, not Number 10 Downing, not the NSA, CIA, and not MI6, either.”

“Where on earth was the intel stolen from, sir?”

“It appears they have hacked a human brain, Alex.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“You heard me. They’ve hacked the brain of Dr. William Lincoln Chase. According to the CIA, his is the only mind on the planet capable of these near miraculous quantum leaps forward in military technology. It’s now crystal clear, Alex. Bill Chase is China’s latest secret weapon.”

“So Chase is somewhere in China?”

“Yes. And they’ve obviously got some kind of hold over him. Threatening the captive family members, torture, that sort of thing, unless he performs. Dr. William Lincoln Chase is the brain trust behind the new and vastly improved Chinese war machine.”

“Good God. So that’s it.”

“And, thus, Operation Lightstorm. A joint CIA/MI6 op. CIA wants to find and neutralize Chase. Now. Before the poor chap can do further damage to the West. Before this Centurion Project, whatever the hell it is, gives China an irreparable war-fighting lead over the West in the next confrontation. Before, may I say, China acquires the ability to win the next world war.”

“You think they want war, sir? I mean, today?”

“Perhaps. Until recently, I would have said, hell, no. They’re vastly outnuked by the Yanks and the Russkies . . .”

“But?”

“This weapon our CIA friends are so closemouthed about. The so-called Centurion Project apparently changes all the dynamics. Look. All China wants is the world. And Beijing is smart enough to know that these days you don’t have to actually go to war to get it.”

“That’s certainly food for thought, sir.”

“Win their kind of war. And, thus, the world, Alex. That is China’s sole objective. I am deadly serious about this. Everything hangs in the balance.”

“But neutralize Chase, sir? Surely we don’t have to do that.”

“We don’t?”

“No, sir. We do not. We take him out of there. Hostage rescue.”

“Can’t be done.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a five-hour conversation. Trust me. It cannot humanly be done. We don’t even know where the hell they’re keeping him, for God’s sake. Or his family for that matter.”

“Let me try, Sir David. I know I can do it. I know China. And I’ve certainly got a personal score to settle with them after what they did to me aboard that carrier.”

“We don’t settle personal scores at MI6, Alex.”

“Figure of speech. In addition to my treatment aboard that carrier, I’ve a good deal of unpleasant prior experience with the Mandarins in Beijing and other scenic spots. Hard lessons. But I know how they think versus how they act. I want to go back inside China. I’ll find him for you, sir. And his family. And I will bring every last one of them out of there alive.”

“Good. Well said. The precise words I was hoping I’d hear you utter.”

“It’s what I do. I’ll need a team. I’ll need resources.”

“Goes without saying. You’ll have whoever and whatever you require. This will not be one of your traditional snatch-and-grab ops, Alex. Chase is at this moment perhaps China’s greatest natural resource. They will hide him well and protect him to the death.”

“Remarkable statement.”

“And no overstatement. They know what we know. Thanks in part, no doubt, to the deep infiltration of Chinese spies at Cambridge. Knowledge that we know all about their new aircraft carrier. Their new fighter’s performance parameters. Perhaps even the existence of a new generation of high-altitude attack drones. God help us, they may even know we’re aware of the Centurion Project.”

“In which case, they may be thinking preemptive strikes?”

“Who knows, Alex? That may be why the Yanks are so desperate to neutralize Chase. I’ll have a chat with Langley, make your case. But it’s a new world. You need to lock on to this, Alex. I anticipate diligent preparation and keen focus on your part this time. None of your occasional lapses. No shooting from the hip this time. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“I’m going to run this op personally, keeping the director at Langley in the loop. I alone will decide when and if you’re ready to go. And you’ll be reporting directly to me throughout this operation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You tell me who and what you need to get this hostage rescue done and they will be yours. Logistics, infil, exfil, weapons, air and sea, all the services, any and all personnel will be placed at your disposal. Understood?”

“Understood. There is one chap I would like to have along for the ride.”

“Name him.”

“Stokely Jones. American spec-ops veteran. Navy SEAL, three combat tours, highly decorated. And a very good friend. I was best man at his wedding a couple of years ago. But I don’t think you’ve ever met him.”

“No. He’s the fellow, I believe, that went into Balmoral Castle with you, correct? Operation ‘God Save the Queen’? Possibly your finest hour, Lord Hawke.”

“Could not possibly have done it without him, sir. Believe me.”

“I do believe you. Team effort. I understand he’s being honored here in England in some fashion?”

“Yes, sir. Arriving Heathrow via BA 147 tomorrow from his home in Miami. With your permission, I’ll approach him with this mission.”

“Consider it done. Like to meet this superhuman fellow someday, actually.”

“You should. I’ll arrange it, sir. About time you two met. A lunch at my club in St. James? Say, noon at Black’s, perhaps? Day after tomorrow?”

“I’ve something on, but I’ll move it. I look forward to it. Rather a large chap, from what I’ve been told.”

“Roughly the size of your average armoire.”

“I’m glad you recognize the enormity of this mission, Alex.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And now you know precisely why they say that there is no free lunch, don’t you, Lord Hawke?”

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W
hen Hawke, Halter, and Congreve had arrived at Cambridge four days earlier, after their meeting at Hawkesmoor, they crossed the narrow bridge spanning the river Cam and parked in Halter’s reserved space at Magdalene College. Space for automobiles was severely limited in narrow lanes of the old market town and only the highest of the high rated such a perk as Halter had. Ambrose was suitably impressed and said so.

Congreve and Hawke bade good-bye to the good professor and made their way across a snowy Jesus Green, and so to the labyrinthine maze of gardens, dead ends, and circuitous alleyways leading to the nineteenth-century building that housed the Cambridge morgue. Congreve, who had had reason to visit on numerous occasions, led the way.

The mortuary was to be found in the basement of an old military hospital built in 1879. It had been erected as part of the initiative of Florence Nightingale after the Crimean War to improve medical facilities for the army, Ambrose informed Hawke as they made their way.

“Really?” Hawke said. “Fascinating.”

“Listen and learn,” Congreve replied, not willing to rise to the flick of sarcasm he knew so well. “Look, there it is. Quite fabulous, isn’t it?”

Hawke lifted his eyes from the gravel path and saw a somber black van drawn up in the building’s courtyard. The place was massive and foreboding, dominated by a large clock tower. He didn’t care much for hospitals, and morgues even less. But he was intensely curious about the corpse waiting for them in the basement. One is naturally beset with morbid feelings upon visiting such places, but Congreve seemed to relish the whole idea.

“Impressive,” Hawke said as they entered the dingy grey foyer, and meant it.

The hospital had been built on a grand, traditionally solid Victorian scale, with malevolent green corridors that seemed to go on for a quarter of a mile if not longer. Hawke began to think they would never arrive at their destination. Finally, they entered a creaky musty old lift and began their descent. Hawke felt ever more uneasy in the grim confines.

Hawke, seeing the detective who’d agreed to meet them emerge from a swinging door, strode forward to meet him.

“I’m Detective Inspector Cummings, how do you do, sir?” the fellow said, extending his hand first to Hawke and then to the world-famous criminalist Ambrose Congreve.

“Thank you for taking the time,” Hawke said, shaking the man’s hand. “You’ve met Chief Inspector Congreve, I believe?”

“Indeed. We worked a difficult chase together some years ago. Nice to see you again, Chief Inspector.”

“And you as well, Archie. I understand we’re in for a treat this evening.”