Warriors (23 page)

Pelham had, as he liked to say, been through it all: the thick, the thin, and the unthinkable with their young charge, Lord Alexander Hawke.

After the horror, when Hawke’s parents had been brutally murdered by drug pirates aboard their yacht in the Caribbean, Pelham and Congreve had assumed responsibility for raising the devastated seven-year-old boy. The child had been strong-willed from the outset. A boy, as his father had remarked, born with a heart for any fate.

At the age of nine, for example, young Alex had insisted on moving from his great rooms high in Hawkesmoor’s west wing to take up permanent residence in the stables down the hill. Moved all his books, toy soldiers, stamps, coins, whatever he could carry. There, in a tiny room above the stalls among the rowdy stableboys, he’d installed himself. And there he’d remained until he’d been sent off to his boarding school, Fettes, in Edinburgh.

To his credit, he’d lived the life of the boys. He’d mucked out the boxes with the best of them, cared for a sick foal long after the other boys had given in to sleep, and earned the respect and love of all and sundry. He was an odd boy, full of an ingrained fighting spirit; but he was the soul of kindness when it came to the less fortunate, the weak, the downhearted or downtrodden.

For the two doting caretakers, Congreve and Pelham, intent on raising a young gentleman, it was all uphill from there.

It had been a challenge, certainly, but, safe to say, the pair of them had been more than up to it. From Pelham, Hawke had learned civility, gracious manners, and the nobility of service to others, the kindliness bestowed on the less fortunate, the organizational skills required to run a complex enterprise, and the power of humility over arrogance. From Congreve came a love of military history, literature, and language as well as the nature of deductive reasoning and the ability to see clearly limned trees where others saw only forests. He had learned to shoot, mastered weaponry of every description, and learned how to use his bare hands to defend himself against any who would do him harm.

It wasn’t until later in his life that he made a profound discovery: the murder of his parents had not killed him; no, it had made him strong.

Lord Alexander Hawke, the man, had emerged as a surprisingly formidable bulwark against the forces of anarchy and evil around the world. And two men, Ambrose and Pelham, had formed an unbreakable bond with each other as a result of their shared experiences during little Alex’s upbringing.

Congreve reached out to press the bell and heard the familiar toll of the deep gong echo from within.

“Morning, Chief Inspector,” Pelham said moments later.

He eyed the new arrival’s high-volume motoring attire without comment. Pelham well knew his comrade in arms was somewhat of a dandy, but it was a lifelong trait he found endearing rather than annoying. Taking the visitor’s ice-stiff woolen tartan cap and equally stiff overcoat (a subtle grey check), he said, “Please come in and defrost. They’re chatting in the library. I assume you’ll want your tea rather than the coffee?”

“I would, please. I’m sorry. Did you say ‘they’ are in the library?”

“I did use that word, sir. Another gentleman, you see. Arrived last evening barely in time for supper. Down from Cambridge, his lordship says. Delivering an update into the drone attack on President McCloskey’s funeral. I fear the news is not good, judging by the mood in the room.”

“Ah. And does this mysterious stranger have a name, by chance?”

“Indeed.”

“Anyone I know?”

“That I couldn’t really say, sir.”

“Oh, please, Pelham, you irascible old party. Do not even begin to attempt this soul-of-discretion charade with me. It’s not in the least becoming, if you must know.”

“His lordship gave strict instructions, sir. The visiting gentleman’s name is to be kept under a strict cone of silence. Those were his exact words. ‘Cone of silence.’”

“You refuse to divulge his identity? To me? Don’t be absurd. For heaven’s sake, man, I’m going in there now!”

“That would be most injudicious of you.”

“To go in there?”

“I don’t advise it.”

“Pelham, get out of my way.”

“As you say, sir.”

“I’m going in.”

“Then all will be revealed. Right this way, sir,” the tall but stooped old soul said and led the way from the entrance hall down a long corridor to an ornate set of tall doors on the left.

He rapped twice, opened one door a wide crack, and announced, “Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve to see you, m’lord.”

“Ambrose!” he heard Hawke bellow from deep within. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

Pelham turned to Congreve and smiled as he swung the door inward for admittance.

“He would seem to be expecting you, sir.”

“He doesn’t
seem
to be expecting me, you old relic, he is expecting me,” Congreve sniffed, and, buttoning his tweed jacket, pushed inside.

“Oh, bugger off,” Ambrose thought he heard his old friend mutter as he pottered off toward his pantry.

C
H A P T E R
  2 9

S
toke caught the crest of a wave and shoved the heavy-duty chromed outboard throttles in opposite directions. The Contender 34 spun off the top of the curl in a perfect . . . pirouette. He cranked the wheel over hard to port, dipping her into the trough, and, finally, nudged the helm and swung his bow up;
Miss Maria
nestled up alongside
Jade
’s nearly vertical emerald green hull. The big yacht was riding dead in the water, her powerful engines at a deep idle. But the wind out of the south had freshened, and when Stoke felt a shudder, he saw he was banging his starboard rail against
Jade
’s beautifully awl-gripped green hull pretty hard.

High above the
Miss Maria,
two burly, bald-headed crewmen were leaning out over the rail, peering down at them. Stoke stepped aft, raised the Zeiss lenses to his eyes, and scoped them out. They didn’t appear to be armed. Which meant absolutely nothing, of course. At least they weren’t giving him the finger.

Boardings were always tricky business. Sometimes, when the inspected vessel had nothing to hide, they were routine. You did a thorough search, thanked the skipper, and got out of Dodge. Routine. Other times, they were anything but. You just never knew, was Stoke’s experience.

Until, of course, you knew.

Stoke radioed the CG cutter his position and situation, stepped once more out from under the Contender’s custom Kevlar-mesh escape T-top, and signaled up to the two at the rail. Immediately, they lowered a ladder and dropped two mooring lines, one fore and one aft. Harry, standing next to the .50 caliber he’d mounted on the bow as they’d left the dock, grabbed one line, cleated off the bow, and started upward on the dangling ladder.

Stoke kept the binocs and the spotlight trained on him all the way up the steep side. He didn’t relax until he saw Brock over the gunwales and safely aboard, assisted by the two crew.

Then Stoke rigged fenders on the boarding side and secured the stern line to an aft cleat.
Miss Maria
wasn’t going anywhere now. He remained standing with his legs apart in the center of the cockpit, swiveling his head back and forth continuously. He kept his eye on the crew above, his weapon at the ready, on full auto. Waiting for Harry’s sit rep, he had a clear field of fire from stem to stern.

He wasn’t going by the book and he knew it.

Normally, the standard Coast Guard boarding team of two never separates during an op like this. But Stoke didn’t want his team to present a single target up there tonight. Not just yet, anyway. Just didn’t feel right. He liked having his weapon trained on any
Jade
crew up topside for the moment.

They didn’t look hostile, but then, they never did until the real shit hit the fan. If CIA and Brock were right, and the Chinese were running guns illegally, things wouldn’t get spicy until he’d actually located the alleged smuggled weapons cache somewhere deep in the hull. That’s what he figured anyway.

Brock finally leaned over the rail and looked down at him, adjusting his radio’s lip-mike in front of his mouth.

“Looks clear, Skipper.”

“How many?”

“Only the two we saw on the main deck so far. Unarmed. Cooperative.”

“Stand by.”

Stoke went to the helm and shut the three big outboards down. He tuned the VHF radio to monitor 22 on cockpit speakers. This was the channel the Coast Guard cutter
Vigorous
was standing by on. The Coasties were sitting out there just out of visual contact, OTH, over the horizon, but they had a heavily armed helicopter with a spec-ops team aboard that could be hovering over this scene in two minutes if it all went to shit in a hurry.

Stoke slung his weapon on his back and began his ascent up the side of the emerald hull. He swung up and over the rail like a goddamn gymnast and planted his boots on the pristine teak decks.

“GOOD EVENING. I’M LIEUTENANT SHELDON LEVY
, United States Coast Guard,” Stoke said to the two crewmen. “This is USCG Ensign Brock. We’d like to speak to your captain. I believe we’re expected.”

The two guys seemed all right, deepwater suntanned, bleached-blond crew-cut boys in starched white uniforms. Unless they were wearing ankle-biter holsters, Harry was right, they didn’t appear armed. Or, for the moment, dangerous.

One false move and Harry would have them both facedown on the deck, hands cuffed behind with plastic ligatures.

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” the older one said. “Captain’s expecting you. Please follow me up to the bridge, gentlemen.”

They climbed three sets of exterior steps, the second crewman bringing up the rear. This was a vulnerable moment, and Stoke was glad when it was over.

A SOLID WALL OF FRIGID
air greeted them as a hidden door in the stainless steel bulkhead slid back to reveal every wannabe megayachtsman’s wet dream. The yacht’s darkened bridge looked like the control room of the damn
Starship Enterprise
. A huge crescent-shaped console beneath the wraparound windows, cutting-edge electronics up the wazoo, all of it lit up like rows of Vegas slots in a personal home theater.

They stepped up and inside, Stoke already freezing his ass off in the frigid AC air.

“Captain?” the mate said, almost loud enough to be heard anywhere aboard.

No answer.

“Cap’n,” the mate said it again, ushering them forward, “I have Lieutenant Sheldon Levy from the U.S. Coast Guard cutter
Vigorous
aboard, sir.”

No response.

Stoke registered alarm, and his finger found the inside of the trigger guard. He didn’t see anyone in the room looking or acting remotely like the skipper. Nor did anyone at the controls say anything. The crew, all Chinese from what he could make out in the smoky red darkness, were staring at the two of them like they’d just landed from Mars. The whole thing? Starting to look like a first-class goatfuck.

“Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” Stoke said quietly into his helmet mike.

“What. The. Fuck,” Harry agreed.

A giant captain’s chair in black leather was mounted on a gleaming steel hydraulic piston. Higher than all the other seats at the console by a few feet. The chair was so damn big you couldn’t tell whether or not there was anybody sitting in it. Suddenly, it began descending slowly toward the deck.

A disembodied voice from out of the deepest heart of the southland came from the chair.

“Hey! How y’all doing, Lieutenant . . . Levy, is it?”

“Correct,” Stoke said to no one. “Sheldon Levy.”

“Captain Randy Wade Wong, Lieutenant Levy, how can we help y’all?”

The powered chair swiveled on its axis. And Stoke and Harry got their first good look at this modern-day Ahab. He was wider than he was tall.
A hybrid,
Stoke thought. Half Chinese, half American. The combo didn’t really work. A wide flat jigsaw of a face, where the individual pieces didn’t seem to have come from the same box. He was wearing huge gold Elvis Presley mirrored sunglasses, which didn’t help his look.

Captain Wong said, “Damn, Lieutenant, I gotta say, you don’t look like any Sheldon Levy I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, funny, right? But then, like I always say, look at Sammy Davis Jr.”

Wong laughed out loud.

“You, sir, I will vouchsafe, are the largest man I have ever seen,” Wong said.

“And the thing is, Cap? What you see here? Man, this is just the facade,” Stoke said, edging ever closer to him.

What a piece of work was this Randy Wong character. A short, stocky guy, all gussied up in crisp whites, who managed to fill the big black chair. His small lace-up white shoes still quite didn’t reach the deck, and he was swinging his feet back and forth like a toddler.

Wong said, “If the man mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad comes to the man mountain,” he said, still swinging his legs back and forth as he neared the deck.

Harry whispered in Stoke’s earpiece, “Seriously, Skipper, this ship of fools is deranged.”

The captain’s feet touched the deck, where he pushed out of his chair and said, “Well, well, well, and what can we do for y’all on this whole lovely South Florida evening?”

He had his tiny fists on his hips like a miniature dictator might do.

“We have orders to search your vessel, Captain Wong,” Stoke said.

“Is that right?”

“Is the owner aboard?”

“She is not.”

“She?”

“The owner is a woman.”

“Interesting. And who exactly is the owner of this vessel?”

“That would be my employer.”

“Her name?”

“Moon.”

“First name?”

“Madame.”

“Madame?”

“Madame Moon?”

“Yep.”

“Aboard?”

“No, Lieutenant. As it happens, she’s in England. We were proceeding there to pick her up. Until you interrupted our voyage.”

“Miami is not your final port of call?”

“No, Lieutenant Levy. Philadelphia, New York, and then Southampton. The one in England.”

“That’s it?”