Hawke (3 page)

There was another sound coming from the compartment, different from the sickening buzz of the countless black flies. It was the sound of short, sucking breaths. Human. Somehow, there was a living being in that room.

McKay filled his lungs with air and stepped once more through the door to the horror inside. It seemed impossible, but the sound of breathing seemed to be coming from the man impaled on the wall.

He went up to the hanging corpse. There was no possibility that this man was alive. Still, he could hear it. Fast, shallow breathing.

It was coming from behind the body.

Captain McKay gritted his teeth and placed the injured parrot carefully on the floor behind him. He reached up and pulled both stilettos from the palms of the dead man. He had to step back as the body fell toward him and collapsed at his feet.

On the bloody wall where the man had died was a small door. It had three small vents. There was a gaping crack down the middle, as if the man had been hurled against it with great force. The sounds were coming from behind that door. He turned the knob. Locked from the inside.

Looking around desperately, he spied the blood-caked machete propped up against the back wall. He grabbed it and quickly pried the small door open with the blade’s edge. He bent and peered inside, his eyes adjusting rapidly to the darkness. The breathing was replaced by a low, keening whimper.

There was a figure, a small child, curled into the V-shaped sides of the bow. Not moving, but breathing. Small, shallow breaths. The captain climbed up inside the locker and gathered the child to his chest. It was a young boy, plainly delirious, and he was whispering something rapidly and repeatedly. Captain McKay put his ear to the boy’s lips.

Lifting him out, the captain was amazed the boy was still alive. It must have been days since he’d eaten, and the child was obviously dehydrated. In an instant, the captain realized that this child must surely have witnessed the murder of his parents through the three ventilation slits.

He covered the boy’s eyes with his free hand, shielding him from the sight of the two bodies, and stepped out into the companionway.

In his mind the captain could see it now. How it might have been. The crucified man had hidden the boy in the locker. And died shielding the little door, and behind it, his son.

The captain went quickly to the stern of the yacht and gently handed the boy up to a crewman aboard the fishing vessel. Then he quickly returned for the wounded bird, gathered it up, and closed the main hatch on the horror below. Once the boy was safely aboard their vessel, they left the mutilated yacht untouched. Rigging a line to her bow, they took her in tow, and Captain McKay in the pilothouse got on the radio to the Nassau Constabulary.

The poor fishermen were shocked at what the child must have witnessed and endured. He was barely alive. They prayed for him all the way back to Nassau Harbor. The captain relinquished his berth and the three men tended the boy round the clock. The black parrot, who recovered quickly, never left the boy’s side. The only thing the child could keep down was some weak tea. He didn’t speak at all, other than to whisper a strange phrase over and over during his few brief spells of consciousness.

The fishing boat,
Misty II,
towed the big yacht all the way into the main dock at Nassau Harbor, where a waiting police ambulance took little Alex Hawke, along with his parents’ bodies, to the Royal St. George’s Hospital. His grandfather was contacted in England, and immediately began making arrangements with the naval secretary to bring them all home.

He then flew to Nassau and spent every day at Alex’s bedside, holding his hand, telling him stories about his dog Scoundrel’s latest adventures at home on Greybeard Island.

It would be several weeks before Alex was well enough to travel. During that period, the Nassau police investigating the crime visited the hospital, hoping to learn something, anything, about what had happened aboard the
Seahawke
. They quickly realized the boy, mercifully, had no memory whatsoever of the terrible events.

One nice policeman continued to come every afternoon. He was a kind man with a big smile, and he never asked any questions. Every day he’d appear in the doorway, and he always brought some new toy along. A small bird he’d whittled or something from the straw market.

When Alex was about to be discharged from the hospital, the navy secretary at the admiralty in London sent two senior staff officers to the Bahamas to accompany the elderly Admiral Hawke and his grandson home.

The big Royal Navy plane flew from Nassau to Heathrow, refueling at Bermuda and Madeira. Alex sat with his grandfather, sleeping or holding his hand most of the way. His parents were somewhere in the back of the plane, he knew. Something bad had happened to them, he knew. Something terrible. He couldn’t remember.

They finally landed in England. A thick fog blanketed everything. They took his parents, who were in narrow metal boxes covered with flags, and put them into the back of a long black car.

The next day, more black cars took them all to a naval cemetery. It rained hard. It was very cold. Sailors fired rifles into the air. As his mother and father finally disappeared into the ground, he saw his grandfather salute. He did, too.

He couldn’t cry anymore, so he didn’t. He wanted to go home with his grandfather.

Home was on the smallest of four small islands in the English Channel, just off the coast of France. The Channel Islands, they were called. Alex’s island was named after the dense fogs that often swirled around its peaks and valleys.

Greybeard Island.

*   *   *

The pirate dreams finally stopped when little Alexander Hawke was about nine.

So the nights were better, and, as Alex grew, the days were never long enough. The sun always stopped before he was ready for it to disappear. He rose each morning at first light and ran down the twisting steps to the sea. Scoundrel was always right on his heels. He loved diving from the rocks into the cold water of the channel with his dog leaping in right behind him. Later, he would sit for long hours on the craggy hillside, looking out to sea, listening to the crispy sound of late-afternoon breezes in the canopy of trees above his head.

There were long weeks at sea with his grandfather aboard the
Rambler
. They often sailed the schooner north, off the coast of England, sometimes as far as Portsmouth before turning for home. The boy learned to hand, reef, and steer by the stars. He learned to keep one eye aloft, looking for the telltale luff of lost wind in the mainsail.

On endless sunlit days, when Alex had the helm, he would sail the boat through vast floating fields of red krill, cheering the leaping dolphins and whales as they feasted there. Minkies and Humpies, the whales were called, and he came to recognize and love them.

He was learning something new every day. His grandfather taught him the names of the stars and shells, birds and fish. How to tie a bosun’s knot. How to knot a bow tie. How to gut a fish. How to write a poem. How to cook fresh clams and mussels in seawater. How to sew a sail. How to spell Mississippi.

He even tried to learn the art of falconry, using his pet parrot, Sniper. Sniper was not interested in becoming a falcon, however, and little Alex soon gave this up. He’d learned the bird’s genealogy from his grandfather.

The bird and its descendants had been in the family for generations. Sniper’s ancestor had belonged to Alex Hawke’s ancestor, the famous pirate Blackhawke, who always kept the bird perched on his shoulder. Pirates, Alex learned, had for centuries taught the wily birds to warn them of unseen attackers. Each generation of Hawke parrots had been taught these old pirate ways and Sniper was no exception.

Alex Hawke said his prayers every night, kneeling beside his bed and always blessing his grandfather and also his mother and father in heaven. Then he climbed up into the big four-poster bed. Through the open window beyond his bed, he could see the stars shining over the black surface of the English Channel. And hear the waves crashing against the rocks far below his grandfather’s house.

He would let his sleepy eyes drift, floating over the familiar toy boats and soldiers and pictures arranged about his room.

Over his bed hung a large painting of Nelson’s flagship,
Victory,
her towering masts flying acres of billowing white sail. Bright pennants fluttering from the mastheads. Next to his grandfather, of course, Admiral Lord Nelson was Alex Hawke’s great boyhood hero. It was Nelson who was struck down at the moment of his greatest triumph, when the British soundly thrashed the French fleet at Trafalgar.

Hanging from a nail beneath that painting was a very old brass spyglass that had belonged to one of his ancestors who’d sailed under Nelson. A Captain Alexander Hawke himself. Alex spent long hours sitting in his open bedroom window with that battered telescope, tracking birds and ships, imagining his famous namesake doing the very same thing.

When he was twelve, he acquired his first sailing boat. A little dory his grandfather had found, moldering away in a nearby boat yard. He kept the name, even though he had no idea what it meant. He just liked the sound of it.
Gin Fizz
.

As he grew bigger, the island grew smaller. He dreamed of flying, he dreamed of sailing away. He dreamed of joining the Navy one day as his father had done at his very age.

As it happened, his grandfather had attended Dartmouth, and Alex was admitted there as well. He loved books, and his grades were very good. He developed a great longing to go to sea, and his grandfather made a few discreet introductions for him at the very top echelons of the Royal Navy.

He was accepted into the naval officer air corps. Soon after he won his wings, he was flying Harrier jets off aircraft carriers. Then he moved on to fighter jets. He was decorated for valor many times. He was simply good at war.

When peacetime flying no longer thrilled him, Alex joined the special forces branch of the military known as the SBS, the British equivalent of the U.S. Navy SEALs. He gradually became an expert in the art of blowing things up and killing people silently with a knife or one’s bare hands. These were all skills he knew he would need.

Because Alex was dreaming of pirates again. He had pirate blood in him, after all. And, as the old expression has it, it takes one to know one.

The Englishman looked at his unsmiling reflection in the smoky mirror behind the bar and drained the last of his pint. He’d lost count of how many he’d downed since entering the tattered old pub. It was called The Grapes, and it was one of the more respectable establishments in a rather bawdy little quarter of Mayfair known as Shepherd’s Market.

Pink and rose lights were glowing softly in many of the small windows of the narrow buildings that lined the winding lanes. Hand-lettered names could be found beside the illuminated buttons inside each of the darkened doorways. Fanny. Cecily. Vera and Bea. Their pale faces could often be seen at the window for just a moment before the shade was drawn.

He had drifted aimlessly through the narrow streets of Mayfair, having decided to walk home from dinner at the German ambassador’s residence. He’d left rather early when, after he’d downed yet another flute of champagne, it occurred to him that every single thing he’d said all evening had bored him to tears.

He’d meant to go straight home, but the miserable weather so perfectly matched the texture and color of his current state of mind that he’d decided to embrace it, dismissing his driver for the evening and electing to hoof it to Belgrave Square.

Damp. Cold. Foggy. Lowering clouds threatening rain or snow or both. Miserable. Perfect.

There was an electric fire in the coal grate of the smoky pub, and now, brooding upon his perch at the end of the bar, he looked at the thin gold Patek on his wrist. Bloody hell. It was considerably further past his bedtime than he’d imagined. Not that it mattered much. He could sleep in next morning. Had nothing on until lunch at his club at one. He tried to recall whom he was lunching with and was damned if he could.

The days had become an endless blur and, except for the constant dull ache in his heart, he would have sworn that he’d died some time ago and no one had bothered to inform him of his own passing.

The pub had thinned out quite a bit, only one or two chaps remaining at the bar and a few young foreign backpackers necking in the curves of the dark banquettes. At least there were fewer patrons to stare at him and the ones remaining had finally left him bloody well alone.

He was aware, of course, that he stood out.

He was, after all, wearing white tie and tails, and his feet were shod with black patent leather pumps. His long black opera cloak, sealskin topper, and gold-headed cane lay atop the bar. He knew he must cut quite an amusing figure at The Grapes, but he was long past caring. He signaled the barman for a check and ordered what would definitely be his last pint before heading home. Sticking twenty quid under the ashtray, he returned to his stormy thoughts.

Part of it was sheer boredom, of course, what the cursed French called
ennui
. He was rotting away so rapidly that it would hardly surprise him if he awoke one morning to find mildew growing on his—

“Got a match, guv?” someone suddenly said at his side. He turned to regard the newcomer and saw that there were three of them. Leather jackets, shaved heads, black jeans shoved into heavy black boots. All staring at him, sneers on their pallid faces. They looked, what was the word, itchy.

He hadn’t even seen them come in.

“Matter of fact I do,” he said, and fished his old gold Dunhill out of his waistcoat pocket. He flicked it open and lit the cigarette dangling from the lips of the grinning skinhead who was staring at him with glittering eyes.

Whatever drugs he was taking had definitely kicked in.

“Ta,” the youth said. He’d had blond hair once, but the stubby new growth was some sort of acid green.

“Pleasure,” he replied and, pocketing his lighter, returned to his pint.

“Me mates and I,” the lout continued, “we was wonderin’ about you.”

“Really? I’m not at all interesting, I assure you.”

“Yeah? Well, what we was wonderin’, me mates and me, was whether or not you were a, you know, a poofter.”

“A
poofter?”
he asked, putting down his pint and turning his cold blue eyes toward the sallow face and wide grin full of bad teeth.

“Yeah. A fooking flamer,” the man said, though something in the older man’s eyes made him take a step backwards.

Two well-manicured hands shot out and pinched the skinhead’s ringed earlobes cruelly.

“Poofter?” the elegant man said, smiling, twisting his fingers. “You don’t mean the sort of chap who wears earrings and dyes his hair, do you?”

This drew a laugh from the two sullen mates and brought an angry flush of color into the cheeks of the green-haired fellow.

“Nice meeting you lads,” the Englishman said, releasing the chap’s bright red ears. He stood, picked up his cloak, and shouldered into it. Then he donned his top hat, picked up the ebony cane, and turned to go.

“Wot’s at?” the green-haired boy said, blocking his way.

“Wot’s wot?” the gentleman replied in a perfect mimicry of the fellow’s accent.

“Wot you said. Wot you called me—”

“Get out of my way,” he said. “Now.”

“Make me, guv. C’mon. Give ’er a go.”

“Pleasure,” he said, and he brought the flat hard edge of his hand down on the fellow’s right shoulder with such blinding speed that the youth felt the sharp stab of pain before he even saw the hand coming.

“Christ!” he screamed in pain, staggering backwards, his shoulder blade sagging at an odd angle. “You broke me bloody—me bloody—”

“Clavicle,” the Englishman said as the fellow stumbled backwards over a barstool and collapsed to the floor.

He then stepped over the chap on his way out the door. “Good evening,” he said, tipping his hat as he strolled out the open door and onto the empty street. No one about. It was a good deal later than he’d imagined.

He walked to the next corner and paused beside a lamppost to draw out his gunmetal cigar case. He lit his cigar, listening carefully for their approach. It didn’t take long. He let them get within six feet, then whirled about to face the three thugs. The green-haired one was holding his broken collarbone, his face contorted with rage.

“Ah, my new friends,” the Englishman said, a pleasant smile on his face. “I’ve been expecting you. Now. Who wants to go first? You? You? Perhaps all of you at once?”

He waited for one of them to move and when it happened he attacked. His senses were surging back to him, and, like an animal, he rejoiced in the feeling.

He broke two noses first, then lashed out at the third chap, his right foot the blur of a scalded piston. He connected, first hearing the snap of the fibula and then the deeper crack of the tibia, the inner and larger of the two bones of the lower leg. Sadly, it was enough to take all the fight out of them, and so he turned away and headed for home. It had started to rain, a raw, cold rain, and he removed his hat and turned his face up into it, enjoying the sting of the icy drops. He reached the house in Belgrave Square, and Pelham swung the door open for him, taking his hat and cane.

“Good heavens!” the old fellow exclaimed when the man removed his cloak to reveal his blood-spattered shirtfront. “What happened, m’lord?”

“Bloody nose, I’m afraid,” he replied, mounting the broad stairs. “Two of them, in fact.”

Ten minutes later, he was in his bed, yearning for sleep and the American woman he seemed to have fallen deeply in love with, Victoria Sweet.

A few hours on, the Englishman was staring at the ringing bedside telephone and the clock with equal disbelief. “Bloody hell,” he said to himself. He picked up the phone.

“Yes?” he said, with no intention of being polite. Christ, it was barely a quarter to five in the morning.

“Hi,” said the throaty female voice at the other end, altogether too cheery for the ungodly hour.

“Good God,” he said, yawning. He’d been in a deep sleep. Having quite a pleasant dream as he remembered. Vicky was undoing her—he’d lost it.

“No, not Him. But close. It’s the brand-new secretary. First day on the job!”

“Do you have even the faintest idea what time it is over here?”

“You sound put out.”

“May I be frank?”

“Oh, don’t be mad. I’ve had the most amazing day. I’m not calling to flirt, either. It’s strictly business.”

The Englishman, fully awake now, propped himself up against the many large pillows at the head of his bed. A hard rain, now mixed with sleet, was thrashing against his tall bedroom windows. The fire, which had been casting shadows on the vaulted ceiling when he’d at last fallen asleep, was now reduced to a few glowing coals, and a damp chill pervaded the lofty chamber.

He pulled the blanket up under his chin, cradling the phone against his cheek. Another soggy January day in London was about to dawn. He was sluggish. He was bored. His limbs, his mind, his very cells, had gone soft and flaccid.

The little scuffle in the street had been a pleasant distraction, but nothing more. The Englishman was in fact a restless warrior who, for far too long now, had been “between assignments,” as the euphemism has it.

Which is why the single word
business
had crackled like lightning around his languishing synapses and stirred his lazy blood.

“You mentioned something about business,” he said.

“Are you disappointed? Tell the truth. You were hoping it was phone sex. I could hear it in your voice.”

“Your voice does sound rather—never mind. Smoky. I thought you’d stopped smoking.”

“I’m trying to quit. I’m going hot turkey.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the opposite of cold turkey. You fire up your first one the second you wake up and then smoke as many as you possibly can before you go to sleep at night.”

“Sounds brilliant. Well. You said business. Tell me.”

“First, you have to know something. This is not my idea. Your pal the president asked for you specifically. I’m telling you that just in case you’ve got too much on your plate already.”

“All right.”

“It’s not me who’s asking. It’s him.”

“Doesn’t matter to me who it is. My plate, dear girl, is as clean as your proverbial American whistle.”

“You have no idea how glad they’ll be to hear that over at
Casa Blanca.”

“All right. I’m no longer annoyed. I’m awake. Razor sharp. Tell me.”

“Your MI6 picked this up, tossed the ball to us. CIA has checked it out and it’s serious. Confirmed through the captured Al Qaeda commander, Abu Subeida.”

‘The Gatekeeper.”

“Yes. Ever heard of something called Project Boomerang?”

“Hmm. I do seem to remember that. Some kind of wildly experimental submarine program. The Soviets were building a prototype at the Komsomolsk yard. Tail end of the Cold War. Never got it operational as I recall. Is that it?”

“Exactly. The Russians called it the Borzoi. They’d gotten their hands on a lot of our stealth technology. And they’d also developed some of their own. Plus a three-foot-thick coating of sonar- and radar-absorptive material, advanced fuel-cell technology, and a virtually silent propulsion system. The sub carries forty of their SS-N-20 SLBMs. Long-range Sturgeon ballistic missiles.”

“Carries?
As in present tense?”

“Yes.”

“Christ.”

“The thing is huge. Shaped like a boomerang, hence the name. Two airfoil-shaped hulls join at the bow to form a V shape, twenty missile silos on each hull. Virtually invisible to detection. When she’s running submerged at speed, a single conning tower at the bow is retracted entirely within the hull.”

“An underwater flying wing.”

“Yes. An invisible underwater flying wing. At least three times faster than anything either of us has got.”

“Bloody hell. They actually got one up and running?”

“They built two.”

“Yes?”

“We can only account for one.”

“What do our new best friends have to say about that?”

“Moscow says it was stolen.”

“Security never being their strong point.”

“Exactly. They say they have no idea where it is. The theory both at Defense and here at State is that one sub has probably been sold. The president would like you to find out who sold it. And more importantly, who bought it. And when.”

“Consider it done,” the Englishman said, springing from his bed and grabbing his robe from the back of a chair.

“We could have phone sex now if you’d like,” the woman said.

“I wouldn’t even dream of taking advantage of you at a moment like this, darling.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Go back to sleep. Good night, baby.”

“Good night.”

“I love you, Alex,” the woman said.

But the Englishman’s heart was in another place entirely, and he had no reply to that.

“Good night,” he repeated softly, and replaced the receiver. He had told her that their relationship was over. And that he was very much in love with another woman. No matter what he said, or how frequently, however, it didn’t seem to take.

He stood up, stretched, and pushed the bell that would alert Pelham down in the kitchen that he’d be having an early breakfast. Then he dropped to the floor by his bed, did his customary thirty push-ups and fifty sit-ups, followed by the rest of his exercise program. Muscles aflame, he then headed for the shower.