Assassin (20 page)

The man, dressed in yellow foul-weather gear, slumped backward, and his head suddenly fell back upon the seat cushion with a soft thunk. His mouth gaped in a rictus of death, his eyes were a faint dull gleam under the lowered lids, and the skin of his collapsed cheeks was bluish-white. There was a neat black hole in the middle of his forehead, powder burns around the entrance wound; the coagulated blood puddled in his sunken eyesockets was black in the moonlight.

There was a gun lying on the seat beside him.

He saw that it was a Browning nine, the sidearm favored by the U.S. Army and also a number of American police forces. He patted him down, felt a bulge in a breast pocket under the slicker, reached inside and pulled out an alligator wallet. The man was Alan Outer-bridge, age fifty-five, according to his Maine driver’s license. Lived at some place called The Pines on Seal Point, Maine. This was, had been, his Hinckley Talaria 44. And Mr. Outer-bridge was now very dead.

Roughly a thousand dollars cash was in the wallet, credit cards, a picture of a young girl. He put the back of his hand against the man’s cheek. Guessing, he placed the time of death about two hours earlier.

Hawke turned toward the companionway. The man down below with the flashlight had hijacked this yacht at gunpoint, then murdered the owner and not for his money. Whatever brought the killer to Nantucket, it wasn’t robbery. And it wasn’t tourism. There was a strong possibility that the blood of Deirdre Slade and her two children was on his hands.

Alex ducked out through the pilothouse door and quickly retraced his steps back to the transom. He ejected the mag in the grip of the Browning, saw that it was full of hollow-points, reinserted it, and jacked a fresh cartridge into the chamber. He was counting on the wind to carry the sounds away, still, he kept his eye on the pilothouse. If someone should suddenly appear there, Hawke now had a rough idea who it might be, and he would shoot that man without a moment’s hesitation.

He slipped inside once again and had almost reached the companionway leading below when the flashlight went on. Hawke froze, crouched down beside the dead man, the gun extended at the end of his right arm, waiting for the silhouetted figure in the opening. He heard a door slam and a muttered curse. All quiet, he moved forward again, feeling his way down the companionway.

The main cabin was dark, with shadowy outlines of furniture and a banquette to port. He padded silently down the four steps leading to the salon, ready to shoot anything that moved, and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a man lying on the floor, face down. The upper half of his body disappeared through an engine room hatch in the cabin sole.

There was the sound and flash of sparks and more cursing from the prone man. A MAC-10 machine gun lay on the floor beside him. Hawke eased himself down to a sitting position on the top step, a good ten feet from the prone figure, and gave the thing a few moments. No noise coming from the forward cabin or the closed head to starboard. One still alive down below anyway, Mr. Outer-bridge having departed this mortal coil.

“Jara!”
the man halfway into the hold said, Arabic for
shit,
Hawke thought.

“Deputy Savalas, I presume,” Hawke said, by way of breaking the ice. “Good shooting.”

“What? Who—”

“Engine trouble, old boy? Boats are a bloody bitch, aren’t they? If it’s not one damn thing, it’s another.”

“Shit!”

The startled young man’s head came up too quickly and he banged it smartly on the underside of the metal deck. He craned around, eyes wide.

“You!” he said, eyeing Hawke and rolling towards the MAC-10.

Hawke pulled the Browning’s trigger and a bullet tore into the expensive cherry woodwork inches above the man’s head. The crack of the nine was deafening inside the small cabin. The man flattened once again on the deck.

“Itchy trigger finger, Nikos,” Hawke said, “Sorry. Lifelong problem. Slide that machine gun over here. Easy. Now, then, you can sit up and toss me that flashlight like a good little scout.”

Deputy Nikos Savalas shoved the automatic weapon in Hawke’s direction, then sat up, sullenly rubbing the back of his head. He pitched the flashlight. Hawke caught the torch and set it beside him on the top step, aimed at Savalas.

“I see you’ve shaved off your moustache, Deputy,” he said.

The deputy was out of uniform, wearing torn blue jeans and a loose-fitting black rubber slicker. He glared at Hawke who was sitting quietly at the top of the steps, elbow on one knee, chin propped in the upraised palm of his left hand, smiling. He held the gun in his other hand, loosely, but ready.

“How did you know—” he said.

“It was you? Saw the DHYC burgee up on the bow. Dark Harbor Yacht Club. Wasn’t completely sure until I saw the ‘DHPD’ on the butt of your service Browning. I caught a whiff of you when it took you three times to toss me that line at the Slade’s dock. A kid from the Maine coast who doesn’t
coil
a line prior to tossing it? And who else had access to my airplane all night? You cut those aileron cables all by yourself, did you?”

“I told my father it wouldn’t work. We should have just—”

“Credit where it’s due, it was a close thing,” Hawke said. “We almost bought it. Lucky for me, I had a splendid copilot aboard. Look here, I don’t have time for this rubbish. You hijacked this boat up in Maine, got the owner to bring you down here and then your gun went off in his face. Why?”

The boy suddenly reached inside his slicker and Hawke put another round approximately one inch from his left ear. Maybe less.

“On your feet. Get your bloody hands up,” Hawke said. When the youth did as he was told, Hawke added, “Now, both hands at the collar. Easy. Rip open the Velcro. One smooth motion, all the way open, thank you.”

Savalas did as he was told and Hawke saw it wasn’t a gun he was going for. He was wearing a heavy webbed vest strapped about his middle, pouches stuffed with thin flat bricks of Semtex.
Suicide bombers in every little village and vale,
Hawke thought.

“Your idea is quite good, really.” Hawke said. “Your darkened and disabled vessel drifts into
Blackhawke
’s vicinity. An SOS comes over our radio. We respond. Take you aboard, trusting souls that we are. Boom. We all go to Paradise.”

“It gets even better,” a second man said, standing in the now open doorway of the forward cabin. Tall and dark, wearing greasy coveralls, he was an older, greying version of the deputy. This was the father. The mechanic who worked out at the airfield. The man had a second MAC-10 aimed at Hawke’s head. “Please to drop your weapon,” he said, with a lightly inflected American accent. “Kick both guns over here.”

Hawke complied.

“Kerim, take the guns.”

“Kerim is it, Nikos? Well, Kerim, ask Daddy how could it get any better than this?” Hawke said, kicking the Browning away. He was already calculating the angles, whether to roll right or left, go low or high, which one to take out first, which of them might possess the better reaction time, how many seconds it would take to—

“Kerim! Show this impious Englishman the little surprise we have planned for him tonight! We were just putting the final touches on it, yes? Now, he’s a member of his own surprise party. Enough talk! Hands on your head!”

Kerim tossed the stubby machine gun to his father, keeping the Browning auto on Hawke. The younger man then stepped back beyond the square hole in the floor, motioning Alex forward with his free hand. Alex got to his feet and advanced three of four steps to the open hatchway. The father was moving around behind him, had the flashlight on him. The kick, when it came, hard and into the small of Hawke’s back, was not unexpected. Hawke pitched forward, headfirst into the hatch.

What was not expected was the blur of Hawke’s extended right hand, locking around Kerim’s wrist, his gun hand, and pulling the would-be suicide bomber down through the hatch with him, the two of them landing arms and legs akimbo, Kerim’s body atop his own, shielding Hawke, for the moment, from the machine gun the man standing above him had aimed at his heart.

“Looks like your son’s going to beat me to Paradise,” Hawke said. “If you decide to shoot me, I mean.”

“Say your prayers,” the older man shouted into the hold.

“The devil I will!” Hawke replied.

S
TOKELY
J
ONES AND
R
OSS
S
UTHERLAND ARRIVED AT
M
IAMI
International on American 170 from Boston at three-thirty on a hot, humid Saturday afternoon, the fifteenth of June. There were enormous purple clouds stacking up to the southwest, first heralds of the big tropical storm coming up from the Caribbean.

Alex Hawke had dropped them off earlier that morning at Logan. The boss was going to refuel and fly his seaplane back to Nantucket for a big powwow with some State Department honchos. He didn’t look good, and Stoke had told him to get some sleep. “You don’t want to drink whiskey, fine,” Stoke called to him as he walked back across the tarmac toward
Kittyhawke.
“Take sleeping pills. You can’t stay awake forever.”

The two men had been in Miami for maybe ten minutes and both of them, standing on the curb outside in the sun, waiting for the driver, were drenched in sweat.

“See, Ross,” Stoke said, “you forget all about this tropical shit.” A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up beside them. The driver, in pearl grey livery, white shirt, black tie, and heavy dreadlocks, jumped out, popped the trunk, and opened both rear doors.

“Forget about what?”

“All this damn humidity,” Stoke said, as they climbed into the back seat of the limo. “Feel like you walking around underwater. Like you some kind of damn
merman
or something. Merman, that’s the opposite of mermaid, case you didn’t know.”

“I was aware of that, actually.”

“Good. ’Cause they lot a people walking around that don’t know that,” Stoke said. The driver got behind the wheel and nosed out into the heavy airport traffic. “How you doin’, brother?” Stoke asked.

“Good, mon,” the driver said, his smile matching his lilting Jamaican accent. “Jah has blessed us with another golden day in paradise, yes, mon!”

“Jah must like it hot,” Stoke said, gazing out at the sun-blanched palm trees and tropical vegetation. “Miami. Jamaica. Bahamas. You don’t hear too much about Jah, you get up in places like Iceland and Alaska, places like that.”

“Jah is everywhere, mon, some people too blind to see is all. My name is Trevor, by de way.”

“Stokely Jones, pleased to meet you, Trevor.”

“Detective Inspector Ross Sutherland, Trevor,” Ross said, “New Scotland Yard.”

Stoke gave Ross a knowing smile, guessing why he’d added his occupation.

“Yeah, Trevor,” Stoke said. “We cops, just so you know. Don’t be selling us no ganja weed, ’less we have to bust your ass.”

“Don’t smoke de herb, don’t drink de rum. I’m a preacher,” the driver said, smiling in the rearview. “Preach de word of Jah. Ras Tafari. De Lion of Judah. De King of Kings. De Emperor of—”

“Okay, okay, Preacher, I know the cat. Ethiopian. Question is, do you know where the Delano Hotel is?”

“Mon! Everybody know de Delano! Famous! Movie stars, football players! You sure you not a famous football player, Stokely, mon? I recognize you. You Tiki Barber.”

“Tiki Barber,” Stoke laughed, elbowing Sutherland. “Cat ain’t half as tall, half as big, half as good-looking as me.”

“You look famous, mon, is all I sayin’.”

“I was famous for about nine minutes,” Stoke said, laughing. “Shortest career in NFL history. Badass linebacker for the Jets. You blink, though, you missed my ass. Missed my whole career. Got hurt bad first quarter, first game. First game was my last game.”

“Intercepted two passes and ran both back for touchdowns before he got hurt, however,” Ross said. “I’m quite sure he’s got the videotape of the two picks with him if you’d care to see it.”

Half an hour later, having taken the Venetian Causeway across Biscayne Bay to 17th Street, the Lincoln hooked a right on Collins and pulled into the circular drive of South Beach’s most famous white Art Deco hotel. Sure enough, Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, both wearing white Bermuda shorts and matching knee socks, opened the rear doors simultaneously and welcomed Ross and Stokely to the Delano.
Hell,
Stoke thought,
even the damn valet parking guys looked like movie stars.

“Preacher,” Stoke said, slipping the Jamaican a twenty, “Me and Ross going to be looking into some stuff around this town. You remember hearing about some SWAT guy getting whacked here in South Beach few weeks ago?”

“Yes, Tiki, mon. All over de papers. Ain’t found de guy did it, but I know where dey should be looking, mon.”

“Yeah? Where’s that, Preacher?”

“De Crazy House, mon! Who else but a stone crazy going to break into a SWAT guy’s apartment middle of de night, mon!”

Stoke laughed. “You right, Preacher. Anyway, we be sniffing around a few days. You seem like a kid knows his way around town. How ’bout you stick with us? Say, till Friday?”

“Got to check with de boss, mon, but I clear far as I know.”

“That’s good, my brother,” Stoke said, “Here’s my card with my cell number. You call me soon as you know.”

J-Lo, looked like, or some other damn movie star checked them in at the movie set reception desk in the movie set lobby. Big sheets of white linen hung from somewhere high above, and they moved with the breezes off the Atlantic that blew through the lobby. Beautiful, like flags from nowhere.

“Good afternoon and welcome to the Delano, gentlemen,” J-Lo said, “May I have your names please?”

“We just plain old Mr. Jones and Mr. Sutherland—ain’t even in show business—hope you don’t hold that against us.”

“Yes, I have you right here,” she said, handing them two cards to fill in. No smile, no nothing. Too good looking for her own good, that’s what.

Stoke scratched her off the list of women he currently considered to have a shot at the title. The title being the next Mrs. Stokely Jones, Jr. The ex-Mrs. Jones had taken his NYPD pension and moved to a split-level in New Jersey with her podiatrist. Stoke had told the female divorce court judge in Newark that his wife, Tawania, she left him for the podiatrist ’cause she was the kind of woman who liked to have men at her feet.

He was telling that one to Ross when J-Lo handed them the plastic key cards to the rooms.

“Come on, Ross, that was good,” Stoke said. “Men at her feet. Admit it. You thought it was funny, right? Always laughing on the inside, that’s my man Ross.”

Now Ross and Stoke were sitting by a long rectangular aquamarine pool that stretched down to the palm-fringed beach and the ocean beyond, looking at all the suntans and bathing suits. Stokely had just embarked on a philosophical contemplation of women’s swimwear while Ross talked on his cell to a captain at Miami Dade PD, making arrangements.

“Ain’t a whole lot of things you can count on in this world,” Stoke observed to no one in particular, “But the female bathing suit is what they call a constant. Constantly getting smaller every year, is what I’m saying. Ever see ’em getting bigger? No. And, I’m talking about ever since I was damn
born.
”

Stoke took a pull on the straw in his cherry Diet Coke, surveying the whole Delano pool scene. Women floating in the pool talking secret female stuff to each other, worried about getting their hair wet; shiny, oiled-down white guys lying on the pool chairs talking to their cell phones, everybody wearing trendoid little cat-eyed sunglasses from
The Matrix Reloaded
Part 9. A killer blonde music video star emerged from the pool and Stoke was amazed to see she was topless. Tits way out to here. Topless? Was that legal?

He looked over at Sutherland, trying to figure out what was on the boy’s mind. The sun was hot and the Scotsman had finished his call and put his phone away, then put his white linen handkerchief on top of his head kinda like a do-rag.

“Ross, what you thinking? I
know
what you looking at, boy, but tell me what the hell you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking two hours at a stone cold crime scene this afternoon is an utter waste of time.”

“See? That’s professional teamwork. Scotland Yard meets NYPD. I was thinking the same damn thing, exactly! Ain’t likely there’s anything there we don’t already know about the dead SWAT guy, right?”

“Right.”

Stoke’s cell phone vibrated and he pulled it out of the inside coat pocket of his new lightweight sports coat, flipped it open and said, “Jones.” He fingered the lapel of the sports jacket, looked over at Ross and mouthed the word, “Seersucker.”

Preacher was on the phone saying he’d gotten the okay from the limo service to stick with them. Stoke told him, cool, to keep the engine warm and the inside chilly. They’d be out front in five minutes.

“Two choices, way I see it, Ross,” Stoke said, snapping the phone shut. “We head over to Little Havana and start asking folks up and down
Calle Oche
questions. Or, we go see that Cuban Resistance guy Conch put us on to, her uncle, Cesar de Santos.”

“Aye, the latter,” Ross said, putting down his half-finished Bud Light and getting to his feet. “Let’s go. We’ll call him from the car and tell him we’re on our way. One thing, Stokely. We absolutely cannot discuss Hawke’s involvement during that Cuban insurrection. With anybody. Ever. Strictly black ops, off the radar.”

Stoke looked at him like he was crazy.

“Sorry, mate,” Ross said.

“Damn right you are, Flyboy. All this time together, you still see me as some football-playing, ex-SEAL badass. I was a gold shield–carrying NYPD detective when your mama was still rubbing Johnson’s baby oil on your skinny white Scottish ass. And take that do-rag off your head. Look ridiculous, you trying to look street.”

The architectural firm of de Santos & Mendoza occupied the entire top floor of a jet-black glass tower situated on an island just over a bridge from the heart of downtown Miami. Called Brickell Key, its office towers, hotels, and apartment complexes all boasted panoramic views of Biscayne Bay. The Port of Miami, with giant cruise ships parallel parked along the pier, was to the north; Rickenbacker Causeway and Key Biscayne lay to the south. Ross and Stokely stood in reception, waiting for
Señor
de Santos, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at all the activity on the sparkling blue bay.

“Mr. Jones? Mr. Sutherland?” the pretty, Prada-clad receptionist said. “
Señor
de Santos will see you now. I’ll buzz you in.”

They pushed through heavy double black lacquered doors into a room they were totally unprepared for. The four walls were draped in heavy black velvet, and the only light in the room came from countless tiny windows and miniature streetlamps. Spread out before them was an exquisite scale model of the entire city of Havana, at least thirty feet square, on a raised platform. The architectural detail was astounding. Every statue in every plaza, every fountain, every shrub, tree, and tiny climbing bougainvillea was perfect.

“Bienvenidos,”
said the elegant white-haired man dressed completely in black who was coming towards them with his hand extended. “Welcome to
la Habana.
”

“Inspector Ross Sutherland,” Ross said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”

“A pleasure,” he said, smiling. “You’ve probably guessed I am Cesar de Santos. You must be Stokely Jones.”

“Thank you for seeing us,
Señor
de Santos,” Stoke said, looking at the twinkling lights of the miniature city. “I got to tell you, this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

“
Muchas gracias, señor.
I chair an organization called the New Foundation For Old Havana,” de Santos said. “One day, my precious
Habana
will look just like this. See, the many ancient and beautiful buildings with the blue flags are to be completely restored to former glory. Red flags are the hideous monstrosities built by the Russians. Dynamite. White flags are much-needed new buildings that Cuban-American architects are designing for us even now. But, please, this is not why you’re here. My niece, Consuelo de los Reyes, has told me much about you. How may I be of service?”

“
Señor
de Santos,” Ross said, “I’m a senior inspector with Scotland Yard. Mr. Jones and I are investigating a murder that took place in England little more than one month ago. We have reason to suspect the murderer may be a Cuban national. Possibly living somewhere here in the Miami area. Or down in the islands. The American secretary of state was kind enough to suggest you might be of help.”

“Yes, my niece Consuelo told me about this horrific murder. A bride on the steps of a church! Despicable! Unfortunately, there are many—how shall I say it, low-lifes, living in Miami’s Cuban community.
Las cucarachas.
Such a cockroach will be hard to find, I’m afraid.”

“I understand precisely,” said Ross, “But this particular low-life is likely to be living the high life. Our suspect was high in Castro’s government, feeding at the trough of Fidel. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he hadn’t siphoned tens of millions offshore.”

“Ah, a rich low-life. We have those, too.”

“Señor
de Santos,” Stoke said, “those three generals who tried to overthrow Fidel a few years ago?” He got a look from Ross but ignored it.