The sultry China Sea breeze that had been coming from the hotel window had been cooking them for the past hour, but this meant nothing to Fred "Bluey" MacAllister as he felt a cold shiver run down his spine. What he felt was that 'someone's walked over my grave' feeling that you get when you know something uncanny or life-changing has happened.
The most dangerous woman in the world had walked into the room.
He'd never met her before today, but he'd met his share of beautiful women and they were all trouble in one form or another. Some were just an annoyance, some were innocent and trouble just seemed to follow them. Others created trouble like a cyclone that swept though your life leaving you a crumpled wreck behind them.
This one, she was in a class all of her own! She might not create it, nor want it, but he knew, without being able to say why, that trouble followed this woman as closely as the faint haze of perfume that announced her presence. Certainly, there was no outward sign of threat that he could see - willowy slim and a shade over five-six in her bare feet – but suddenly the large, ornately furnished room seemed to have faded into nothing and the world was now focused on her.
Was it her physical beauty? She was a stunner, that was for sure. From her fashionably bobbed, jet black hair to the high-heeled shoes that set off the shapely leg that showed through the split in her tight dress all the way to her… Damn! Bluey forcefully dragged his thoughts away from the legs that seemed to draw his eyes like magnets.
You'd think after two wives he'd have learned his lesson but women were his weakness.
Yes, he'd met or seen women who were just as beautiful but there were none who had her presence. She was not just the centre of attention for every man in the room, she owned the room! She possessed it, she lit it up like a beacon with an air of total confidence, of calm, cool control of the situation around her.
Bluey had no doubt that this was true of every situation that she found herself in.
The smartly dressed young man who had met them, and had been grilling them over their qualifications for the past hour, gave her a short bow before turning back to the room. “Gentlemen, may I present Mademoiselle Jacqueline Destin, the principal in this venture.”
Monsieur Martelle, as he had introduced himself, was young and athletic looking. His light, chocolate coloured skin and curiously accented French, flagged him as coming from one of the international Socialist Republic's African colonies. He was polite but unsmiling, his penetrating questioning, dragging up details of their past and present, had showed he had been doing some serious background checking on them.
Bluey and his boss and best friend, Captain Charles Wentworth Wetherall – 'Changa' to his mates - had been in Hong Kong for three months now, looking for a way of surviving as a mercenary air support wing in the volatile Sino-Japanese war. Three months of meetings with greasy Provincial Governors and their offers of fame and (possible) fortune, straight-laced agents of the Emperor with an offer of honour and station, even a clandestine meeting with a piratical warlord and his leather-clad ruffians pretending to be swashbuckling ne'er-do-well's.
This offer, from out of the blue, had come just in time, as their 'golden handshake' from the Australian Republican Air Force was nearly spent and their men, battle-hardened pilots and engineers, had started to surreptitiously check out bush pilot jobs for themselves. They couldn't afford to keep being so choosey.
Even so, it seemed a bit too good to be true. French money floating a business venture in South East Asia? It made sense in a twisted sort of way. The French civil war had seen a lot of big business money disappear overseas rather than be liberated by the communists, and where better to hide a fortune than in the anarchy that was raging over the remains of French Indo-China? Hong-Kong and Macau had thrived as a safe portal into the war that was raging through the region between the indigenous people who were seeking self-determination and the western-back national governments who were trying to keep them in line. European influence was heavy here, with different imperial powers vying to gain a foothold in the far east, so French entrepreneurs with a crackpot joy-ride for thrill-seekers wanting to see the new Asian frontier? Why not?
“Monsieur MacAllister, Captain Wetherall?” Unsurprisingly, the young French woman's vibrant, deeply accented voice matched her sultry beauty. She nodded, acknowledging Bluey's inclined head and Changa's stiff attempt at a gentlemanly bow, before turning to Martelle. “Christian? Are you happy with your negotiations?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Captain Wetherall and his men seem to fit your requirements.”
“We shall see.”
Gliding into the room she placed her jeweled purse on a side table and sat in a high-backed rattan chair facing them.
“Captain, if I may be so bold, I have some personal questions to ask and I would appreciate your candor in answering them. You must understand, I need to be confident of the caliber of you and your men before I trust myself and my clientèle to you.”
“Certainly, miss.”
“Mademoiselle, s'il vous plaît.” She smiled thinly. “Why did you desert your country when it needs experienced men such as yours to free itself from British influence?”
Struth! Don't mess about girl! She's all business, this one, thought Bluey! He eyed his boss from the corner of his eye and saw that he was bristling visibly at the implied rebuke that no man could have got away with.
“Lady, I resigned my commission and every one of us has honourable discharge papers. We ran from nothing.”
Her voice was cold and formal as she stood her ground. “I must insist on a little more information, Captain. I need to know that you will defend my ship with your lives and not run when it suits you.”
Come on Changa! Think of the money!
“Miss, I ...”
“Captain!” she said, sharply. “Mad – moi – selle! Try it!” She leaned forward, and took a cigarette from her purse, clipping it into one of those impossibly long holders.
“Of course Mad-ma-selle.” The interruption had taken the wind out of his sails and Bluey smiled at how easily she had manipulated him. Martelle had now appeared at her side with a lighter.
“I love my country as much as the next bloke but the price we were paying just to change one set of politicians for another was horrendous!”
Knowing the truth of what Changa had been through, Bluey could only nod sadly as his friend went on.
“The war is over. The republic can gain no more by rattling it's sabre at the federal government in exile, especially with the Pommie fleet blockading us. They don't need soldiers like us to drive a bigger wedge between each other. They need to wake up to themselves and realise that they have more things in common than things that set them apart.”
“So you are now a Federalist?”
“I'm an Australian.”
Destin already knew of the real reason behind their departure from Australia. They had disobeyed orders to relieve a besieged infantry division, saving thousands of lives but in the process paying a terrible cost, losing half their number. Faced with the prospect of court-martialing a whole squadron, The Thylacines, who were being hailed as heroes, the top brass had offered each man an honourable discharge, a plane and enough fuel for a one-way trip out of Australia. She needed such men as these, who judged honour above any cost to themselves but she had to be sure.
“If you've had enough of fighting, you are applying for the wrong job, monsieur.”
“Ma'am, the war has made us what we are, a fighting unit without parallel. Individually and as a group we have honed the skills needed to fight and win in battle. We can't change that and, quite frankly, most of my men are larrikins who thrive on that sort of mayhem and now have no place in a peaceful society. If they weren't following my lead now, they'd probably be either dead or on the run from the law. I'm looking for a way for us to put our skills to good use, to protect those in need of it and I can think of no one who needs us more right now than you.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”
Now, Changa was the most capable man that Bluey had ever known in the cockpit of just about anything that flew, from a Britannia class zep to a gyrocopter. He'd seen him brow-beat senior staff and cannibal chiefs into following him, but put a collar and tie on him and he was lost. In one of these wing collared straight-jackets that were fashionable in the nightclubs of Kowloon, and up against a beautiful woman with more class in her little finger than the both of them put together, he was as nervous as a bull at a barbecue!
It was his fatal flaw. Put him amongst people who knew which fork to use at a posh dinner and he got nervous. Really, really, nervous. Blushing, mumbling, just-let-me-die nervous! And women? Oh God, no! He was the most inept galah imaginable! Bluey almost sniggered as he remembered how Changa had literally run away from that woman reporter at the hotel this morning when she started asking him about his love life!
So it was no wonder that the poor bloke was making one gaff after the other just when he had to be at his sharpest. Bluey's dreams of high paid flying came crashing down as Changa deftly placed his foot in his mouth.
“Because, miss Destin, what you are proposing is, to say the least, quite foolhardy.”
Destin's businesslike demeanor was unfazed at his estimation of her plan, if anything her voice became sweeter as she gave him more rope to hang himself with. “Please continue, Captain. Enlighten me.”
Wetherall put down the glass of scotch he had been pretending to drink ... and to Bluey's surprise put his other foot right next to his first! The guy was doomed to die a bachelor!
“You propose putting a casino into an airship, bank and all, filling it to the gun'alls with the cream of society, dripping with gold and diamonds, then floating this prize past every seaboard nation of South-East Asia? You'll not only have every pirate band from Vladivostok to Colombo chasing you, but your French Indo-China registry will get you little sympathy from most of the governments you will be sailing past. They're just as likely to send out their military as a retaliation for past slights. I wish you luck Mam'zelle."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jacqueline Destin wrinkled her nose slightly at the way that this crass Australian was butchering the French language. She leaned back and drew lingeringly on the cigarette holder she held elegantly in her left hand. She did not brook opposition kindly and when she replied, her deep, feline voice dripped with icy danger.
“Do not insult me, Monsieur. I am a professional gambler - there is no such thing as luck. There is only probability which can be bent one way or the other by those who know the odds.”
She tapped the end of her cigarette into the crystal ashtray beside her. With her free hand she waved his objections away as if they were a wisp of nothing.
“The Pascal will carry no money. All transactions will be made by gambling chips which will be purchased before boarding and exchanged for cash on disembarkation. Our clients will pay a bond on boarding to pay for their personal security, when they land they will get 75% of their bond back, the other quarter will go as a bounty to you and the other members of security. If they are captured and held to ransom, you will not be able to claim the bounty because you will have given your life in their defense and the casino will use all our resources to rescue them or ransom them.”
“As regards to government intervention, we will be negotiating extensively with each nation for clearances and military aid, making them our partners in security. In addition we will have on board a number of specially invited 'guests' from each nation we are passing, including government and social figures, leading entertainment and sporting celebrities. I doubt if a country will make a military strike against a ship with its' own cultural leaders on board? One of your jobs, captain, will be to liaise with their militias.”
Wetherall brushed his pencil-thin moustache, his eyes seeing into the distance, his mind raced over the possibilities. It wouldn't be easy but it could work. Dammit! He would make it work! Acknowledging her point in this stage of the negotiations, he inclined his head towards the seated beauty before him.
“My apologies, mam'zelle, for my presumption. I assume you have a similar plan to keep the pirates at bay?” The political turmoil had created dozens of private armies that survived by feeding off each other and any strangers who wandered into their territory without the proper protection.
She brightened slightly, perhaps giving up hope of him ever pronouncing her name right. “As they say captain, 'set a thief to catch a thief'. Meet your second in command and the head of shipboard security.”
With a touch of theatrics, the curtains at the far end of the room swung to one side to admit a tall powerfully built Latino, dressed from head to boots in tooled leather and brocaded suit.
“Gentlemen, I give you El Corazón Negro – The Black Heart!”
Both Wetherall and MacAllister immediately leapt to their feet, instinctively reaching inside their jackets for the automatics that they had handed to the casinos' security goons at the door. The notorious Spanish American gangster, on the other hand, did not bat an eyelid but moved smoothly forward to gallantly kiss the hand that his host offered him.
“Senorita Destin – Jacqueline - as always, it is a pleasure to be with you.”
“Rolando, the pleasure ...” she looked up at him through impossibly long eyelashes. ”...it is all mine.”
Bluey didn't need to be a rocket scientist to see that there was a history between these two, it fairly crackled between them! After a long moment, she pulled her hand from his and coquettishly laughed, “But we cannot allow that to interfere with our 'employee relations' can we? I'm afraid for the duration of this job, Rolando, you must remember ...” and at this point her eyes narrowed and the steel came back into her voice, “I am the boss.”
“But of course!” El Corazón threw his head back and cut loose with a carefree laugh. “So, cara mia, what should I call you then? El jefe? Madame director?”
She rose and walked to the balcony overlooking the street. “Just boss will do, Rolando.” Was there a hint of concern in her voice? “Don't test the boundaries between us, my friend, because you stand to lose everything if you do"
She spun around, her coolness gone, she now played the elegant, smiling host. "But gentlemen, there are more players in this game!" Nodding to a guard, she continued smoothly as he slipped out of the door. "What does every evil-doer crave above all else, once they have committed their crime, whether they call it piracy or privatisation? Rolando, you above all should know!"
Stroking his perfectly manicured goatee, the pirate hesitated only a moment. "Most - but not all - want anonymity, they don't want the world to know that it was they who committed the crime."
“Exactement! So... we carry with us the means of reporting the good or bad deeds that befall us, our own news service with us! Gentlemen, meet Mr Theodore L. Anderson, the production editor of Radio Liberty.”
Turning, the assembled men saw in the doorway an unkempt, beefy man in his late thirties, holding a hat and coat on his arm, who looked rather surprised to be the centre of attention.
“My sincere apologies, Mademoiselle Destin, the traffic ...” His gruff, booming voice trailed off as he caught the look of disbelief in Destin's face. She looked questioningly to the guard who had come in with him.
“Mr Anderson was in the bar.” He rumbled as he moved to his position in the opposite corner of the room to his comrade.
“Uh, purely to interview a contact, Mademoiselle!” He blustered.
Waving her hand in dismissal she moved on smoothly saying, "It is of no matter monsieur. All that is important is that you attend to our council. Sit, everyone, please"
Without waiting for the others, in a gesture that implied that she was in charge and that she knew they would follow, she glided elegantly to a large conference table in one corner of the room and seated herself at its head. Once everyone had found themselves seats – Bluey and Wetherall sat on opposite sides at the end of the table – she spread her right hand before her as if she were dealing the assembled men a hand of cards.
“Gentlemen, what we are about to do could define society for the coming decade!”
There was a spark of excitement in her eyes that seemed to charge the air like electricity.
“Coming out of years of economic depression and political turmoil, people are finding that what their old masters used to call anarchy is actually freedom! All over the world people have thrown off the yokes of the empire-builders, the British and French. They are rebelling against the American and Russian capitalists who would further their own dreams by using idealism as their yoke.”
A quick glance of surprise flicked between the two Aussies, they had picked her as a front for big business, not the spreading tide of communism!
“They are fighting for liberty. They are taking a stand for true freedom in government, the freedom to base their government on their personal ideals, whether they are religious, racial, economic or philosophical. They are are taking a stand for personal liberty, the freedom to determine their destiny as they see fit.”
Her other hand swept the green baize of the table as if casting dice before her.
“The empires on the other hand represent control! They have hundreds of years of heritage in fighting for and keeping what they have and they plan to survive. They represent societies that have experienced the best and the worst that people can do and in all sincerity they believe that peace can only come from knowing their place in society, and that personal liberty can only come from discharging the responsibilities which their position entails.”
“The Pascal will be a flagship of that ideal of personal liberty. We will be a floating haven for that pursuit of happiness that the American forefathers fought for, whether happiness comes in the form of a thousand dollar poker chip, a bottle of Pom Perron Champagne or the arms of a lover.”
“It will also be the cultural benchmark for sophistication in this decade. She will be bigger, faster and more secure than anything else in the sky. We will have the social elites of the world clamouring to get a berth and the news media will have us plastered over their front pages. The Queen Mary and the Normandy will pale in comparison.”
“Our ballroom will be as big as the Palomar Lounge in Hollywood and Christian here will book the big name stars. Our radio station will broadcast their performances across the pacific courtesy of Theodore and Mr MacKinney, our engineer, along with news without any political bias whatsoever because our hallmark will be freedom of speech, freedom of thought and freedom of opportunity.”
“Gentlemen, I give you the Pascal, the new queen of the airways!”
She sat back and clicked her fingers and, on this prearranged signal, one of the guards drew back the drapes behind her.
TO BE CONTINUED!
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