Assassin

Chapter Eleven

Dark Harbor, Maine

THE PACKARD-MERLIN 266 ENGINE SPUTTERED AT FIRST, then roared to life. It was the very same engine, circa 1942, that had powered the much-vaunted Supermarine Spitfire Mark XVI, workhorse of the powerful fighter command squadrons that rose up and ultimately triumphed over the Luftwaffe in the skies over Britain. The highly modified Spitfire engine was mounted in the long nose of Hawke’s sleek silver seaplane.

It was an aircraft clearly out of her time, and the truth was Alex had designed the plane himself. Completely lacking in any formal aeronautical design skills, he had simply modeled her after one of his favorite boyhood toys. His theory about both airplane and boat design was simple. If it looked good and it looked fast, it probably was both. In a cavernous hold at the stern of Blackhawke were many racing machines Alex had collected over the years. There was not one vintage racing car or speedboat that did not look both good and fast.

Especially this little seaplane. She was named Kittyhawke in honor of Alex’s mother, an American film star before she’d married. One of his mother’s more glamourous publicity poses was painted on the port side of the fuselage. Catherine Caldwell had taken the stage name Kitty Hawke when she’d married Alex’s father, Lord Alexander Hawke. Kitty Hawke had been a hard-working actress, ultimately nominated for an Academy Award for her performance in the classic Civil War saga, Southern Belle. It was to be the last picture she would make.

In the late seventies, Lord and Lady Hawke were murdered in the Exuma Islands. Cuban drug runners boarded their yacht, Seahawke, in the middle of the night. There was one eyewitness. Their seven-year-old son, Alex. Hidden by his father in a secret compartment in the yacht’s bow, the boy saw the horrific crime. Ultimately, on the island of Cuba, Alex Hawke the man would track down the killers and avenge his parents’ deaths; but the boyhood memory of that horrifying night would haunt the man forever.

“All buckled in, Constable?” Hawke asked, putting on his headphones and adjusting his lipmike. He was delighted to be back aboard Kittyhawke and was wearing one of his old Royal Navy flying suits, an outfit he favored whenever he took the little plane aloft. The Packard-Merlin Spitfire engine, all fifteen hundred horses, spat fire as he shoved the throttle forward and nosed his plane into the wind.

“No aerial aerobatics on the voyage up, if you don’t mind, Captain,” Congreve barked in his headset. “I know how you delight in torturing captive passengers.”

“Ah. Do I detect a wee touch of the Irish Flu this morning, Ambrose? I did think that third Drambuie at the bar last night was ill-advised. Especially after the vast quantities of Château La Tour. Frankly, I thought you’d sworn off les vins de France. Patriotic reasons, and all that.”

“Please,” Congreve replied, a thick frost coating the word. “Just because you have been the very model of abstemiousness for an entire twenty-four hours, I don’t see why I should be subjected to—”

“Sorry, old thing. It is your liver, after all. Not mine.”

“God save us,” Ambrose sighed and collapsed back in his seat, struggling with the wretched harness which barely accommodated his circumference. He wouldn’t admit it, to be sure, but he was actually battling a bit of a morning after. Alex eased the throttle forward, and the seaplane surged across the blue waters of Nantucket Sound and lifted off into the rosy New England dawn.

Over nightcaps in the bar at 21 Federal, Alex Hawke and Ambrose Congreve had decided to fly up to Dark Harbor, Maine, at first light.

“It’s bad, Alex,” Jack Patterson had said to him on the phone at the restaurant. “I’m on my way up to Dark Harbor right now. Evan Slade’s wife and two kids were murdered last night. Butchered. We’ve got to stop this thing. Fast, before panic sets in. Otherwise, I’m looking at a complete paralysis of America’s diplomatic corps. Meltdown, at the worst possible time.”

“That’s what they want,” Alex said. “Panic.”

“Yep. That’s why we’ve got to stop it fast.”

“I’ll be there, Tex. First thing.”

“Didn’t have the heart to ask. Thanks, Hawkeye. Sorry to interrupt your supper. I know this is a difficult time for you and—”

“See you around eight? I’ll fly the seaplane up. What’s the mooring situation up there? Any idea?”

“House has a long dock into deep water. Check your charts, buddy. You’ll see big old Wood Island just southwest of Dark Harbor. Pine Island lies just east of Wood. Slade family bought the whole rock back in the fifties. Only house on the island. Dock on the south end, according to the local chief of police, woman by the name of Ainslie.”

“Cheated death once again, eh, Constable?” Hawke said as they taxied toward the Slade dock. Congreve ignored him.

“I see the local constabulary has turned out to welcome us,” Congreve said. A young uniformed officer stood at the end of the dock, a coiled rope in his hand, looking uncertain about precisely what he was supposed to do with it.

“Patterson sent this fellow out to give us a hand, I imagine.”

Alex shut down the engine, unbuckled his harness, then opened the cockpit door and climbed down onto the port side pontoon. He waited a few seconds for the chap to toss him the line. “Ahoy,” he finally shouted to the young policeman, some twenty feet across the water, “Toss me that line please! She’s drifting off! I can’t get her in any closer because of the current.”

It took Officer Nikos Savalas three tries to finally toss the line within Alex’s reach.

“Third time’s the charm,” Alex shouted at the clearly embarrassed man as he bent and cleated the line off on the pontoon. Once Kittyhawke was secure, the two Englishmen climbed a winding staircase carved into the rocks. It led up to the rambling old grey-shingled house, a weathered and many-gabled structure, with a myriad of rooflines dotted with brick chimneys.

“Imagine that,” Hawke said, looking back at the Maine cop, still bent over the cleat, tying and retying the line.

“What?”

“Boy grows up in Maine, yet he has no earthly idea how to toss someone a line.”

“I noticed that,” Congreve said.

“And?”

“He obviously did not grow up in Maine.”

“Ah, logic will out,” Hawke said, smiling.

They gained the top of the steps and made their way through a thicket of fragrant spruce to open lawn. Hawke saw his old friend Patterson sprawled on the steps of a wide covered verandah. He was smoking a cigarette cupped in his hand against the fresh breeze, talking to a young blonde woman wearing the same uniform as the young salt down on the dock. The badge pinned to her blue blouse told Alex this was Chief Ainslie of the Dark Harbor PD.

“How ’bout that, old Hawkeye himself,” Patterson said, getting to his feet and grinning at the tall Englishman. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, son.”

Ten years earlier, Patterson had been flying a single-engine Cessna that had gone down deep in the Peruvian jungle. Shining Path guerillas had shot everyone who’d survived the crash except Patterson. Alex Hawke and Stokely Jones had finally found him, delirious and barely alive. The guerillas never knew what hit them. Hawke had somehow found a way into the impenetrable rainforest, rescued Patterson, and found a way out.

The grateful Texan had given Alex the nickname Hawkeye, not after the famous television series character as many would later assume, but after the great Indian scout of the same name, the man immortalized as the last of the Mohicans.

Tex Patterson was a big man, a shock of grey hair on his head, but with a youthful linebacker’s build under a perfectly tailored navy blue suit. Crisp white shirt, and dark tie knotted at the throat. The standard DSS uniform, slightly modified by the big white Stetson on his head and the shiny black Tony Lama cowboy boots on his feet. And, the small enamelled pin on his lapel.

Under his left arm, in a custom leather holster, hung the “Peacemaker,” a long-barreled Colt .45 six-shooter, circa 1870. Never without his “shootin’ iron,” because, as Patterson was fond of reminding you, “God made man; Sam Colt made ’em equal.”

“Hi, Tex,” Hawke said.

“Howdy, Alex. Awful good to see you again,” Patterson said, squeezing his hand. “Can’t tell you how much I ’preciate you jumping in on this thing, partner. ’Course, I know Conch leaned on you a bit. She’s good at that. This pretty lady right over here is Chief Ellen Ainslie. First officer on the scene. Done a helluva good job keeping a lid on this, so far.”

Hawke smiled at the police chief. “Chief Ainslie, how do you do, I’m Alexander Hawke.”

Alex shook hands with her and introduced both Patterson and Ainslie to Congreve. The attractive blonde chief of police shook Ambrose’s hand, sizing him up, clearly surprised to find the legendary Scotland Yard man up in this remote corner of Maine. There had been any number of surprises in Dark Harbor recently. Alex could see dark blue Suburbans parked along the road, and the house was already crawling with DSS agents.

Patterson placed his hand on Hawke’s shoulder.

“There are four big old rocking chairs at the other end of the verandah, overlooking the sound,” Patterson said. “Why don’t we just let my guys get on with business uninterrupted for awhile, then we’ll mosey inside. Chief Ainslie was kind enough to bring along a big thermos of hot coffee. Let’s jes’ go around to those rockers, and she’ll fill you in on what we know so far?”

“Sounds good,” Alex said.

Once they were settled, the local chief of police did most of the talking. Alex sat back in his rocker, listening to the chief, and admiring the pretty little cove filled with sturdy-looking lobster boats, and small gaff-rigged sloops, and catboats riding at their moorings. The fresh tang of pine and spruce and the iodine smack of salt air filled his nostrils. Most of the early morning fog had burned off, and it occurred to Alex that this beautiful spot was about as unlikely a setting for a grisly murder as one could ask for.

No place is safe anymore. That was his thought when the pretty police chief interrupted his unsettling reverie.

“Should I give them the long version or the short version?” Chief Ainslie asked, looking at Patterson.

“Short,” he replied. “You’ll find these two gentlemen very adept at asking pertinent questions.” She nodded.

“Cause of all three deaths was exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds. The babysitter did it,” Ainslie said, in the most matter-of-fact way she could manage. “Fifteen years old, this kid. She used a butcher knife from the Slades’ own kitchen. Killed the two children in their beds, then waited for Mrs. Slade to return from a dinner over to the Yacht Club. Got her on the stairs. Left it, the knife, right under Mrs. Slade’s body, didn’t even bother to wipe it down.”

“Same number of stab wounds to each body?” Congreve asked.

“Yes,” Ainslie replied, a look of surprise in her eyes. “How did you know…there were fourteen. Does that mean anything?”

“It might, Chief Ainslie. Or, it might not. But everything means something, as you know. Now, Mrs. Slade knew this particular babysitter, did she?” Congreve asked, lighting up his pipe. “Local girl?”

“No. Siri, that is her name, she was substituting for the usual babysitter, who is my niece. A junior at the high school here named Millie. Millicent McCullough.”

Ambrose said, “Your niece, the sick girl? What does she have to say about all this?”

“I haven’t been able to speak with her, unfortunately. Missing. Last seen in the high school gymnasium. She was injected with a tainted vaccine and was last seen heading for home, ill. High fever, nausea, vomiting. Two children have already died from that vaccine, Inspector Congreve. Many are in the hospital.”

“Horrible. Your niece is missing?”

“We have every man we can spare looking for her.”

“I see. Who administered this vaccine, Chief?” Alex asked.

“A woman who moved here about six months ago. Enis Adjelis. She was posing as a nurse from our hospital, Mr. Hawke. The principal immediately called the hospital when the children became ill. Hospital had no record of her. We’ve learned she was the mother of the girl who murdered the Slade family.”

“You have anyone in custody?” asked Ambrose. “Any apprehensions?”

“I wish. They all vanished. The whole Adjelis family. Siri, the babysitter, the mother, and the father, who was a flight mechanic over to the airport. I dispatched Deputy Savalas and two squad cars directly to their apartment after the bodies were discovered. Not a trace of them.”

“Who found the bodies?

“Millie’s grandfather, my dad, Amos McCullough. Millie’s parents were killed in an automobile accident and she lives with Amos. Most nights Millie babysat the Slade children. Dad would bring her out here to the island in his lobster boat. Then come pick her up at the designated time. He arrived a few minutes after midnight to pick up Millie’s friend, Siri. Mrs. Slade’s Boston Whaler wasn’t tied up at the dock like it normally would be. Which was strange since she was never late.”

“She was early,” Hawke said. “I would imagine.”

Congreve nodded and said, “A nurse injecting school children with tainted flu shots would have certainly been a topic of conversation at the supper table. She’s got her usual babysitter out of commission and someone completely unknown out there on the island watching her children…”

Chief Ainslie nodded and continued. “You’re both right, gentlemen. I interviewed all the dinner partners. A Mrs. Gilchrist said she brought up the tainted injections and Deirdre just bolted. Made a pay-phone call, clearly distressed. Hung up, jumped in her Whaler and sped away. Anyway, my dad called me at home at five-thirty yesterday morning and—”

“So Siri used the Slade’s Whaler to get off the island after killing Mrs. Slade,” Congreve said. “That would have been around ten p.m. Long gone when your father’s lobster boat arrived just after midnight.”

“Yes. What did your father do between midnight and five-thirty?” Hawke asked.

“Slept. Dad is pushing ninety and not quite with it some of the time. He went down below on his boat to warm up while he waited for Dee-Dee, sorry, Mrs. Slade, to return from the club. Drank a cup of tea laced with rum and fell sound asleep on his bunk. When the sunlight came through the porthole he woke up.”

“So they had a good six hours at least to clear out,” Patterson said. “Damn. DSS bureau in New York ran down their last known address in New York. Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. Talked to all the neighbors, shopkeepers, et cetera. Totally clean. A model family. Immigrated from Athens four years ago.”

“Citizens?” Hawke asked.

“Yep. Newly minted. Red-blooded illegal aliens with phony driver’s licenses and Costco cards who’d pledged their goddamn allegiance to our flag.”

“Sleepers, Tex,” Hawke said, reaching over and laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Patterson said. “Van Winkles we call ’em at State. And they’ve already gone back to bed by now.”

“So, your father, Mr. McCullough, found the bodies and called you, is that right, Chief?” Congreve asked.

“Yes,” Ainslie said. “He couldn’t talk really. He was crying and mixing everything up. I knew something horrible had happened at the Slade house. My deputy, Nikos Savalas, and I came right out here. You’ve never seen such savagery, Inspector. Children, for God’s sakes!”

“Anything else you think we should know, Chief?” asked Congreve.

“Yes,” she said. “There were flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Lying atop each of the bodies. One flower. A single stem iris.”

“An iris, you say?” Congreve said. He’d gotten to his feet and was standing at the railing, looking down over the little harbor, puffing on his pipe.

“Yes, an iris,” Ainslie replied. “Mean anything to you, Chief Inspector?”

“Doesn’t mean anything yet, perhaps,” Congreve said thoughtfully, “But perhaps it will. Hmm. Iris is Siri spelled backwards, as you are well aware.”

Patterson looked carefully at Ambrose Congreve, then at Hawke, shaking his head.

“I’ll be damned,” Tex said. Hawke smiled.

“Ambrose is usually roughly three thoughts ahead of the rest of the planet,” Alex replied.

After a few moments had passed, each man deep in his own thoughts, Alex spoke. “How’s Evan Slade holding up, Texas?”

“Aw, shoot, Hawkeye,” Patterson said and just shook his head.

“On his way here now. Lands in Portland at three. I’m going down to meet the plane. What the heck do I say to the guy?”

A short time later, Patterson and Alex followed an eager Congreve into the house. As they went though it, starting in the basement, both men were aware of Congreve’s photographic mind at work. In the stillness of the dead house, you could almost hear the shutter click of his eyelids as he moved from room to room.

“Never seen this much physical evidence at a crime scene in my life,” Patterson said as they mounted the blood-spattered stairway. “Heck, the girl’s prints are everywhere. The murder weapon, the bathroom mirror, a Coke can in the library. We even found her blood-matted hair in Deirdre Slade’s hairbrush. She brushed her hair, Alex. Afterwards.”

“She didn’t care, Tex,” Alex said, “She’s been taught since infancy not to bloody care.” He turned away and walked into the children’s room. Congreve followed him in. Patterson remained out in the hall. He just could not bring himself to go into that godforsaken room again. Ten minutes later, the two Englishmen emerged, ashen-faced and visibly shaken.

“I’m so sorry, Tex,” Alex said. “We’ll do all we can to help you stop these bloody bastards.”

“I found this,” Congreve said, showing them a small fragment of cellophane in the palm of his latex-gloved hand.

“What is it?” Patterson asked.

“Easy for your chaps to have missed it first time round,” Ambrose said, eyeing the thing more closely. “It was stuck on the underside of the toilet seat in the children’s bath. There’s printing on it. The letters ‘S’, ‘O’, ‘N’, and below that ‘V’ and ‘H’. She possibly sat on the john, unwrapping a fresh Sony videocassette. Then, when she flushed, she threw the cellophane wrapper in. Static electricity caught this fragment on the underside. So it hasn’t been there long.”

“Jesus,” Jack Patterson whispered as they descended the stairs and returned to the living room. “Where’s this going?”

“Videotape is common enough, but not in this house,” Ambrose said. “Had to come from the girl, I’m quite sure of it.”

“I don’t follow you,” Patterson said. “From the girl?”

Congreve said, “She videotaped the whole thing. Went in the loo, stuck a new tape in her camera, and then went in and did the children. Telescoping tripod that would hide in her bag, I imagine.”

“But, how do you know it was the girl who—”

“Trust him, Tex,” Alex said, smiling at Ambrose. “His brain’s just getting warmed up. Hell, he’s almost tepid.”

“Talk to me, Hawkeye.”

“I think maybe he’s got it, Texas,” Alex said, “Videotape? A video camera? In this house? It’s the girl. Doesn’t make sense otherwise.”

“Why not?”

“There’s not a single VCR in the entire house,” Congreve said. “I looked.”

“No VCRs, no televisions,” Hawke added.

“Holy God,” Patterson said, collapsing into an armchair, pressing his fingertips into his eyesockets.

“What is it?” Alex asked.

“The thing in Venice? The miniature smart bomb? Pieces we scooped up sifting through the mud? One of our top forensic guys told me he thought he’d found a piece of a lens from the nose of the thing. Said there had been a nose camera. Chasing Stanfield through Venice and filming the whole damn thing.”

“So there you have it,” Ambrose Congreve said. “Our killer, whoever he or she may be, has it in for America and likes to watch his victims die. I say, Alex, we know anyone like that?”

Patterson sat back and regarded the two men for a moment. Then he said, “I believe I do know someone who fits both halves of that equation perfectly.”

“Who, Tex?” Alex asked.

“They call him the Dog,” Patterson said. “He’s got a dozen aliases, but ‘Dog’ describes him perfectly. He’s been Number One on the DSS terrorist hit parade for more than a decade. We’ve come close a couple of times, missed him by minutes.”

“Country of origin?” Congreve asked.

“Thin air, far as I can tell,” Patterson replied.