Assassin (23 page)

Twelve feet above the waterline on the yacht’s port side, individual hatch covers slid open simultaneously and a long row of gleaming surface-to-air and short-range missiles protruded, the vessel presenting a very modern version of an English man-’o-war.

But no shots were fired, and no missiles were launched.

Someone had recognized him on
Tide
’s aft swim platform, and told the crew to held their fire. He could only guess what Tommy Quick must be thinking.

Complete insanity.

He’d opened up almost three hundred yards of choppy water between himself and
Blackhawke
now. Eyes glued to the sweep secondhand, he could see there wasn’t nearly enough time. He needed at least a thousand yards distance between the two vessels. And an additional thirty seconds swimming to have any hope of not getting killed by the concussion—he looked for Kerim and didn’t see him. He’d either gotten safely away, or he’d gone down with the weight of his heavy belt.

The second hand on his watch was relentlessly spinning towards oblivion. In desperation, he twisted the throttle grip harder, trying to get even a fraction more out of the ridiculously underpowered electric motor. He felt a click and realized the throttle was now locked wide open. Nice time to discover this handy feature, he thought; and then he arched backwards, executing a back-flip off the platform and into the cold sea.

Hawke swam desperately towards
Blackhawke,
ticking off the remaining seconds in his head. He looked back.
Running Tide
was maybe a thousand yards away now, maybe just enough, still moving off at about three knots. But, she’d begun a hard turn to starboard! Without his hand on the tiller to counteract the natural torque of the motor, she was automatically veering around. And now, she was once more on a course directly towards
Blackhawke.

Christ. He was out of options. He could hardly swim into
Tide’s
path, hope to reboard her and correct her heading. No time. Nor could he continue to tread water where he was and allow the boat to get close enough to take him out when she blew.

He strained his eyes, looking for any sight of Kerim on the surface. Nothing. Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on the Hinckley. He’d seen movement at the edge of his vision. Something moving at the stern. At this distance it was hard to make out quite what—there! A black figure rising on the platform, climbing up out of the sea. Kerim. What was he doing! It was only a matter of seconds until—wait.

He saw the bow of
Tide
swing to port, beginning a turn away from him and the big yacht behind him. Kerim had realized what was happening and was manning the electric motor. Yes, that was it. He had her back on a course for open water!

Hawke cupped his hands round his mouth and screamed. “Kerim! Jump! Now!” But the boy either did not hear or did not respond and Alex had no choice but to start clawing the water, swimming furiously away from certain death.

A second later, the massive, blinding explosion of TNT rent the fabric of the air, cratered the ocean, and lit up the night sky. A fountain of fiery debris and burning fuel shot up hundreds of feet into the heavens. Hawke opened his mouth wide in anticipation of the concussion. It was the only way his lungs would survive it.

The outer perimeter of the shock wave hit him hard, blowing him backwards through the water and taking his breath away; burning sections of wood and fiberglass were raining down all around him and a sea of flaming fuel was racing rapidly across the surface. He could feel the intense temperatures of the fireball on his face, feel his eyebrows starting to singe, the surfaces of his eyeballs aching with the heat.

He spun around and took one long look at
Blackhawke.
He was deeply relieved to see she’d already got three launches lowered away, started her massive engines, and was even now underway, steaming rapidly away from the explosion and the spread of flaming fuel.

He gulped air and dove deep, angling down and away from the burning gas and flaming debris. Two minutes later, he broke the surface and saw the figure of Tommy Quick, illuminated a brilliant orange in the light of the flames, standing in the bow of the first launch, heaving a life-saving ring in his direction. Hawke cast a final glance over his shoulder at what had once been the handsome yacht
Running Tide.

She was gone.

Along with Kerim, the reluctant martyr. Blown to Paradise.

A bloody good cop after all.

T
HE
B
LACK
L
INCOLN TURNED OUT OF THE INEXORABLE RIVER
of heavy evening traffic along Collins Avenue and into the long sweeping drive of the fifties-era Miami Beach hotel. Colored landscape lights hidden amidst the flowering shrubbery on the Fountainbleau Hotel grounds and at the tops of the royal palms along the tree-lined drive, cast a greenish underwater glow on a line of bumper-to-bumper limos snaking towards the entrance.

To Stoke, the neon-lit scene had all the boyhood glitz of a Technicolor Frank Sinatra movie. Those were the days. Frankie and his Rat Pack were lucky enough to live in a time when even the baddest of the bad didn’t murder brides in wedding dresses on the steps of no church. That, at least, is what Stoke was thinking as he and Ross climbed out of the back of the Lincoln. Heat hit him like a wall.

He rapped the driver’s side window, and Trevor lowered it, expelling a blast of icy air. Outside, the air was thick, heavy, hot. Just the right conditions for an explosive storm. The electric charge in the air made the hair on his forearms stand up.

“Okay, Preacher, listen up. Here’s the program. Me and Ross, we going inside the Grand Ballroom for a coupla hours and rub elbows with the rich and semifamous. Eat us some gourmet rubber chicken. Maybe even find us a murder suspect doing the cha-cha-cha out on the dance floor, who knows? Can you wait somewhere ’round here?”

“I be right here, don’t you worry,” Trevor said. “De head doorman, Cholo, he is from my hometown of Port Antonio. Member to my congregation. He already knows about you, Tiki-mon. I told him we were coming.”

“Listen. You got to stop calling me that,” Stoke said, bending down to look Trevor in the eye. “Tiki, okay, he’s good, I’ll grant you that, but he plays for the Giants. Candy-ass. Stoke was a Jet, awright? Bad-ass. Get this shit straight, now, you want to stay on the A-team.”

“Yes, mon, no more Tiki.”

“Good. Listen, I don’t think this is going to happen. But you tell your homeboy, Cholo, he sees me and Ross come out that main entrance behind some guy with his hands in the air? That tells Cholo something. Tells him to call your cell, get you up to the front door in hurry. We collar one of these fat cats, there’s likely to be some pissed off people around. Need to cut and run.”

The very idea caused Trevor to slam his fist against the steering wheel in excitement.

“Yes, mon! I love it! You ever see
True Lies? Bad Boys Two? CSI Miami
on the TV? Same ting as dis, mon! Exact same ting!”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Preacher,” Stoke said. “Me and Ross here, we badass lawmen of the hop and pop, snatch and grab variety. We find this pencil-dicked shithead killed our lady friend, he only going to be
wishing
his ass was still grass.”

There was a deep rumble of thunder above, brilliant lightning blooming in the towering clouds, and the wind gusting up, bending the crowns of the royal palms. No rain yet, but Stoke could smell the sharp ozone in the air as they made their way up the drive to the hotel’s entrance. A big doorman smiled at Stoke, holding the door open for them. The homeboy Cholo, who looked like some four-star general in Rasta National Guard.

“Most cordial welcome to de Fountainbleau, Tiki-mon,” Cholo said.

Stoke shook his head, didn’t say anything, just followed Ross inside.

“When’s the last time you see a hotel lobby like this, Ross?” Stoke asked rhetorically.
Ocean’s Eleven,
1960, that’s when. Damn, that was a good movie. Shit!”

As they made their way through the vast sea of candlelit tables filling the Grand Ballroom, a lot of heads swiveled in Stokely’s direction. They were headed towards Table 27, the designated location inscribed neatly on the invitations waiting for them at the entrance where all the little old red-, white-, and blue-haired Latino ladies sat. Patriotic, you had to say that.

“Hell they all looking at, Ross?” Stoke whispered.

“Stoke, if you could see yourself right now, you wouldn’t be asking that question,” Ross said, smiling.

Unable to find black formal wear large enough to fit him, Stoke had been forced to rent a white tuxedo with wide white satin lapels and white satin stripes down each pants-leg. Normally, he would have been embarrassed, but, earlier, when he’d met Ross for a drink down in the lobby bar at the Delano, the Scotland Yard detective had told him he looked resplendent. Resplendent sounded pretty damn good to Stoke, and, he had to admit, it wasn’t a half-bad look. Be honest about it, way all these Cuban folks looking at him now, he must look pretty damn resplendent.

You got it, you strut it,
Stoke thought, strutting through the endless maze of rich folk. Ring-a-ding-ding, and call me a cab, Calloway.

They took the last two empty gold bamboo chairs at the round table for ten and smiled all around at their dinner companions. The handsome black-tied men all looked like Don Ameche or Fernando Lamas and all the pretty ladies had low-cut dresses and more diamonds than the whole damn Tiffany store on Fifth Avenue. The appearance of this strange duet at the last minute was met with obvious surprise.

“No society like high society, am I right?” Stoke asked his dinner companions, a big smile on his face. “I’m Stokely Jones Jr. One of the Joneses of the West 138th Street Joneses of New York City. How you doing?” He stuck out his huge hand, and shook hands with a beautiful white-haired woman seated next to him. No one seemed to know quite what to do.

“Dolores Velasqueno,” the lovely woman said. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Jones.”

“Charmed,” Stoke said. “I’m sure.”

Then Ross said something that sounded like “ahem” that diverted everyone’s attention from the giant black man dressed all in glittering white.

“Good evening, everyone. How do you do,” Ross said to the startled table, bowing slightly from the waist. “I’m Detective Inspector Ross Sutherland, New Scotland Yard. My colleague and I are last-minute invitees, actually. Sorry we’re a bit late. Traffic, you know.”

Ross breathed a sigh of relief as Cesar de Santos took the podium. Everyone became silent, eyes on the elegant silver-haired chairman. Ross looked out over the crowd, pleased with the location of their table. They were near the front and on the edge of the ballroom, two or three steps higher than the main floor. He could get a pretty good look at the entire crowd from this vantage point. White-jacketed waiters were already circulating among the tables serving the first course. There had to be a thousand people in the room.

It was going to be fiendishly difficult to pick out a chap just by looking at his eyes, even if they’d gotten outrageously lucky and the man was in this very room. But Ross’s investigative instincts were all telling him this was a good place to start, no matter what transpired.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and
bienvenidos,
” de Santos said, his voice filling the huge room over the p.a. system. He launched into his remarks in beautifully accented English, thanking everyone for their generosity over the past year, highlighting individual achievements.

Stokely was far more interested when the lady seated to his right,
Senora
Velasqueno, opened her small white sequined evening bag and withdrew a tiny pair of pearl and gold binoculars. She put them to her eyes and focused on the podium. After a moment, she set them on the tablecloth.

“What power are those things, Dolores?” he asked, pointing at the jeweled binoculars.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How strong are they?”

“Strong as I could get them,
señor,
” she said. “I’m blind as a bat.”

“Can I take a look?” Stoke asked.

She smiled and handed them to him. “Please, be my guest. I’ve been to this dinner every year since 1975. It doesn’t change much except for the surgery sisters over there at Table 25. They all have brand-new faces every year.”

She giggled and put her hand over her mouth and Stoke slapped his knee and laughed.

She was right about the binocs, though. They were small, but powerful. While de Santos continued with his remarks, Stokely used them to scan the faces of the men in the crowd. “Ross,” he said suddenly, handing the instrument to Sutherland. “Check out glamour boy over there sitting at the table by the exit sign.”

“He’s wearing sunglasses.”

“Damn right. And these candles ain’t all that bright either. So, who’s that hiding behind them mirrored Foster Grants?”

“…and now we come to the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” de Santos was saying. “It is time to bestow our cherished
Ca d’Oro
award to that individual who has most thoroughly distinguished himself in the eyes of not only our judges, but our great Cuban community…will you bring the house lights down, please?”

As the lights went down, the music of the orchestra swelled. There was a collective gasp from the audience as a single spotlight picked out an object descending from out of the darkness above. Stokely put his glasses on the thing. It was a model of some kind of futuristic building, all towering glass wings with gold and silver beams inside. Suspended on a huge platform, it stopped just above the heads of a crowd who instantly burst into loud and sustained applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” de Santos said, “may I present the new Quixote Fox Center for Special Surgery at Sisters of Mercy Hospital! It is my very great honor to announce the man who made this magnificent addition possible. Although new to our cause, already his great humanity and generosity have made him a revered figure in the community. The winner of
Ca d’Oro
is
Señor
Quixote Fox!
Señor
Fox, unfortunately, was called away to an emergency this evening. Please be so kind as to welcome his representative at the podium to receive the award.”

All eyes turned towards the table of honor in the center of the room. A single spotlight swept the table. No one stood up. Stokely trained his binoculars on the table. It was where the guy with the mirrored sunglasses had been sitting. Now, his chair was empty. No man made a move to rise, but a woman did. Stokely never took his eyes off her as she made her shimmering way to the podium. She was maybe the best looking woman Stoke had ever laid eyes on in his life.

“Dolores,” Stoke whispered to his new friend, “Who is that?”

“Her name is Fancha. She is a famous recording star from the Cape Verde Islands off the west coast of Africa. Very beautiful. She is the…friend…of Don Quixote Fox.”

“This Don Quixote’s a pretty lucky fella,” Stokely said, watching through the glasses as de Santos tried to get the blue ribbon with the medal around Fancha’s lovely neck without rearranging her hair-style.

“They say he is very handsome, but I wouldn’t know. I am not surprised he is not here this evening. He rarely appears in public.”

“Really?” Stoke asked. “That’s interesting. Why is that?”

“He’s going blind. Apparently he suffers some very rare form of eye disease. He cannot bear exposure to any kind of light, natural or artificial.”

“Eye disease, huh?” Stoke said, thinking about the mirrored sunglasses guy. “Tell me something, Dolores. This Don Quixote, he been down here in Miami a long time?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Two years perhaps. He’s quite young for such a very wealthy man. No one is quite sure where he made his fortune. Or, even where he came from. Very generous. And very mysterious.”

“Mysterious. Like, what kind of mysterious?”

“Well, there are a number of things. All very curious.”

“Tell me one.”

“Ah. Well, someone proposed him for membership at the Dinner Key Yacht Club. He was unanimously rejected by the membership committee. No one will say why. These things are strictly confidential. Then, a month later, the president of the club overturned the board’s decision and extended him an invitation to join. Some people said that some kind of pressure was involved in the president’s decision to…admit him.”

“Yeah, well, country club politics can be a can of worms all right, and Lord knows I’ve seen no end of that stuff myself, but—”

“There was something, hmm, else…”

“Talk to me, Dolores. Quixote Fox sounds fascinating.”

“This is all beauty parlor gossip,
señor,
but…somebody apparently tried to kill him. Unsuccessfully, yes. But, I hear there have been other attempts on his life. He rides in an armored Rolls-Royce motorcar and his home has many guards.”

“Is that right?” he looked from Dolores to Ross.

Stokely suddenly got up from the table, motioning to Ross to do the same.

“You got to excuse me a while, Dolores. I got to talk to my man Ross outside for a couple a minutes.”