Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (30 page)

Forty-two

London

A
typically wet evening in London. The ceaseless patter of rain on the streets of Mayfair gleaming black and silver. Outside the Dorchester, doormen tried to whistle taxis up out of the darkness. Traffic was crawling through the narrow streets like one long glistening centipede with countless haloed eyes. Stuck in the middle of all this was an old grey Bentley. In the rear, Alex Hawke and Nell Spooner gazed out the rain-streaked windows at the rushing passersby huddled beneath their big black umbrellas.

It was Friday night. Their first “date.”

They seemed to have run out of conversation.

Hawke was drumming his fingers impatiently upon his knee.

“Henry,” he said, leaning forward to speak to his new driver, “I think if you take a left here on Audley Street, it might be a bit quicker.”

“Of course, sir. Sorry about the traffic.”

“Not your fault. It’s the bloody rain; it brings everything to a screeching standstill. I’ve never understood the concept. I just don’t want to lose my reservation. Taboori only has about eight tables.”

“I’ll do my very best, sir.”

Nell said, “Alex, how many blocks is it from here? Taboori?”

“I’d say five or six. Why?”

“I’m game for walking, if you are.”

“Walking? You’re barely off your crutches, Nell.”

“I think it would be good for me. I’m desperate for strength and balance exercise. And, besides, I love walking in the rain.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Henry, sorry, could you pull over? We’re going to hop out and walk the rest of the way.”

“Of course, sir,” he said, and pulled over to the curb. “At what time should I collect you?”

“Tenish would be good, thanks. See you then.”

They started walking up Audley Street in the direction of Grosvenor Square. The rain was misty now, but blowing into their faces beneath the umbrella Hawke held above them. He took her hand, squeezing it.

“You’re trembling,” he said. “Are you cold?” He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer.

“If I’m trembling, it’s not weather related.”

“Sorry,” he said, quickly removing his arm.

“I did rather like the arm, though.”

He wrapped it once more around her shoulders and pulled her into him, the two of them cocooned beneath the big black umbrella.

“How do your legs feel?”

“Happy.”

“And you?”

“Happy, too.”

“Do you mind if we lose the umbrella? I think I might like walking in the rain, too. My mum used to say rain won’t hurt you unless you’re made of sugar.”

“Be brave. Go for it and see.”

Hawke paused on the sidewalk, collapsed the umbrella, and turned his face up into the gently falling rain.

“See? She was right, your mother. You’re not melting.”

They wandered on, blending into the Friday night crowd, hearing the music and laughter that wafted out of the opened pub doors. Hawke pulled her even closer to him.

“I—like you, you know,” he said.

“I know. It’s very nice.”

“Not far now. A few more blocks.”

“Tell me about your mum, Alex. Is she still alive?”

“No. She died when I was seven. My father as well.”

“How horrible. Accident?”

“Murder.”

“Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Nobody does. It’s not something you can explain. Things happen. She left me a gift. She made me strong.”

Nell’s eyes glistened as she said, “ ‘The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of those you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’ ”

“Ernest Hemingway.”

“Yes.
A Farewell to Arms
.”

A
small table for two in the back. A flickering candle cast a glow on Nell’s face, while at his elbow an unintelligible waiter poured from a bottle of sparkling wine. Hawke had so many words bottled up inside he was afraid to open his mouth. He stared at her until she lowered her eyes, and then he stared at her lashes. The smells from the tiny kitchen intruded, strong and pungent.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, immediately regretting the pitiable triteness of the remark. The waiter arrived back at the table with the menus and saved him. Nell smiled and raised her glass. She said, “What shall we drink to?”

Hawke considered a second.

“Liking.”

“Liking?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you mean
liking,
” she said with a smile of recognition, and Hawke felt somewhat redeemed. “Yes, here’s to liking, Alex Hawke. Two people so desperately in like, they can barely speak to each other.”

Hawke laughed out loud, feeling the dam burst at last, and he reached across the white linen for her warm hand. What was it about her? Incredibly confident, with a way of moving and speaking that quietly declared she had no need of being told she was beautiful or worthwhile. She knew those things for herself, and that kind of self-possession drew him inexorably toward her.

Dinner was a blur.

He went first, telling her everything, with all the honesty he could muster. His life in short, his emergence from childhood tragedy, his vow of revenge against those who had taken his parents, revenge a violent emotion that transformed itself into his boyhood desire to make some kind of hero out of himself: a small boy beating back the tide on the playing fields in the crisp autumnal twilight, bruised and weary, but hearing from afar the thunder of cheers . . . the war in the desert . . . women . . . his brutally short marriage . . . finding his son. All of it.

He sat back, his supply of words exhausted, content to listen to her now, falling into her wet green eyes, but hearing it all, every word, the brutishness of poverty and alcoholism, her determination to escape her violent father, her heart for life, her overwhelming desire to help others . . . to protect others from the harm she herself had no doubt experienced, her failed marriage, the fulfillment she’d found in her career at MI5, the sheer joy of finding her place in the world at last.

“Our circumstances are so very different, Alex,” she said finally, sipping the last of her wine. “It’s an old story, isn’t it? A cliché?”

“What do you mean, Nell?”

“The poor girl and the rich boy.”

“Funny. I was thinking just the opposite.”

“Really? What exactly were you thinking, my lord Hawke?”

He smiled. She’d had only three glasses of wine, but it was obvious it was an entirely new and exhilarating experience.

“I was thinking how very much alike we are.”

“Alike? Do you realize this is the first night in my life I’ve had a glass of champagne? The first time I’ve ever ridden in a Bentley, a chauffeur-driven Bentley, mind you. Why, I’ve never owned a dress with a hem that came anywhere near the floor, never waltzed across a ballroom with—”

“Nell, I was thinking how we both have this deep-seated need to protect others from harm.”

She sat back in her chair and regarded him for a long time, obviously making her mind up about something. Then, her eyes gleaming, she leaned forward again and reached for his hand.

“Yes. We do share that, don’t we, Alex?”

“We do. It’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

“Tell me, Alex.”

“You know what I do, not for a living, but to satisfy whatever personal demons I may have. I go out into this dangerous world and every time I go, climb on an airplane or set foot on a rolling deck, I have no idea whether or not I’ll come back. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I never gave it much thought, Nell, never. You can’t do this kind of thing, as you well know, and spend a lot of time worrying about your health. You worry about the guy next to you in the foxhole, or off your wingtip . . . but not about yourself. Some just go through the motions of war. But you have to get near enough to die. You have to be already dead in order to live and conquer. It’s in the blood, you know, a dark magnet pulling your body in that direction.”

“All that you need is all that you have.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“But now you have Alexei.”

“Now I have Alexei.”

“You’re worried what will happen to him if someday you don’t come back.”

“I am.”

“They’ve tried twice. And you sent them a strongly worded message. Perhaps they actually received it.”

“Yeah. Perhaps. Nell, these same Tsarists tried to kill Putin last night. They almost got him. They used nuclear weapons, Nell. Dirty bombs. These people will stop at nothing.”

“I’d gladly take a bullet for that little boy. You know that.”

“I know you would. But you’ll move on eventually, Nell. I expect you to. You can’t be a babysitter for the rest of your career.”

“What about his mother?”

Hawke’s eyes darted away.

“Not an option.”

“How do you stop them, then?”

“Cut off the head. That usually works.”

“You know the name?”

“Yes.”

“You’re on their list, too, aren’t you?”

“Near the top.”

“You need to go get him first.”

“I’m not worried about me, Nell. I can take care of myself. If and when I go for him, I’ll be bringing all hell with me. Look, I’ll stop beating about the bush. I’m having some legal documents drawn up. I’ve asked Ambrose Congreve to be the godfather to Alexei. In the event that something does happen to me, Ambrose and his soon-to-be wife, Lady Mars, will have guardianship of the child. He will live with them at Brixden House and in Bermuda.”

“Can they protect him? Eventually, Scotland Yard will have to pull its extended protection.”

“I know. But, yes, with some help, they can safeguard him. Alexei will also have Special Branch detectives, should anything happen . . . to me, I mean.”

“Special Branch? I thought they were solely responsible for members of the Royal Family.”

“An exception was granted. I performed a special service for the Queen some time ago, and—”

“Special service? You saved her life, Alex. All their lives.”

“I had a lot of help, believe me. At any rate, when Her Majesty learned of my situation, she summoned me to Buckingham Palace. And very generously offered Alexei the protection services of Special Branch in the event of my—my passing. He will enjoy the same level of protection as the Royals for as long as he needs it. She even said she would be happy to have Alexei stay with her at Buckingham Palace if I was to be away on ‘business’ for any considerable length of time. He’d be safe enough there, I’d imagine.”

“Safe as houses, not to put too fine a point on it.”

“Yes.”

“Her Royal Majesty is a wonder, isn’t she? A truly great and noble woman.”

“She is. There’ll never be another like her, unfortunately for England. She had a surprise for me while I was at Buck House. She intends to enlarge my tawdry wardrobe.”

“What do you mean?”

“She intends to add a few rather spiffy items. A dark blue velvet mantle, a black velvet bonnet with a plume of white ostrich and black heron feathers, a collar of gold, and a garter.”

“The Order of the Garter? Alex, how wonderful! The highest order of chivalry or knighthood in England, my God! I mean, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, yes. I was deeply moved by her generosity and kindness in thinking me worthy.”

They both sat in silence for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts. Nell finally spoke.

“Alex, forgive me. But is all this discussion about Alexei’s future your extraordinarily gentle and kind way of firing me on the spot?”

Hawke laughed.

“Good God, no. Nell, listen. It’s only my very roundabout way of asking you to be my son’s godmother.”

“Oh! Alex, how very dear. Godmother, me? So unexpected, I don’t—don’t know what to say . . .”

“A simple yes would be the preferred response.”

“Of course, yes! Yes, of course! I would be honored beyond words to be your son’s godmother. Thank you for even considering me.”

“After all you’ve done for us, Nell, I would never consider anyone else.”

S
tanding outside his bedroom door, she gave him a hug and then pulled away. It was late. Her room was one flight up.

“Good night, Alex. I thank you for the most wonderful night of my entire life. And I mean that with all my heart.”

“You actually enjoyed it?”

“I did.”

Hawke’s eyes were moist and full of questions.

“You might be the best girl there is, you know.”

“I wouldn’t mind being your best girl.”

“Then would you mind too terribly much if I gave you a good-night kiss?”

“Only if you swear not to frighten the servants.”

Hawke laughed and pulled her into his arms. The kiss, when it came, was full of real emotion and mutual animalistic need. When it was over, he took her by the hand and led her into his bedroom. Pelham had laid a fire against the chill rain outside and it was the only light.

“Can we sit by the fire?” she said, glancing nervously at the huge canopied bed lurking in the shadows.

“Of course,” Hawke said, pulling the feathery down quilt from his big four-poster. “We’ll sit by the fire and tell ghost stories.”

Hawke sat down first, looking up at her, finding her eyes in the flickering firelight.

“I want you so,” she said.

“And I you.”

She began to undress and he watched, taking in her beauty like a starving man, a man whose eyes were dying of hunger.

“Now you,” she said, dropping to her knees beside him. “I’ll help.”

When she was done, they lay down beside each other on the soft quilt and made love, their bodies coming together naturally and easily, no clumsy missteps, just wordlessly becoming each other’s favorite animal.

When Hawke awoke at dawn the next morning, she was gone.

He sat there before the hearth for a while, the quilt wrapped round him, thinking, staring into the dying embers.

One fire going out, one fire just starting,
he thought, and the thought brought a warm light of happiness into his normally cold blue eyes that had been missing for a very long time.