Assassin

Chapter Sixteen

London, December 1999

THREE MEN STOOD UP WHEN ALEX APPROACHED THE CORNER table, one of only ten tables in the Connaught’s celadon green Grill Room. The tall, lean, Jeffersonian figure of Patrick Kelly; a solidly built hardcore Army type Hawke recognized instantly as former First Lieutenant Sonny Pendleton, now with the American Defense Department; and a surprisingly handsome mustachioed gentleman, tall, athletically built, and ruggedly resplendent in a three-piece chalk-stripe that could only have come from Huntsman’s.

This bin Wazir was good-looking enough, with a vulpine aspect to his ready grin, and, beneath luxuriant black eyebrows, a startling manic energy in his black eyes that fairly crackled with intensity.

“Why, you must be Lord Hawke,” the fellow boomed, sticking out his hand. Heads swiveled. The Connaught’s smaller dining room was filled with patrons accustomed to quiet civility and hushed decorum, although, since it had gone nonsmoking, it tended to attract a fair number of Americans. One of the reasons Hawke much preferred it to the stuffier main dining room. He was one of those somewhat rare Englishmen who’d always found the casual bonhomie of Americans refreshing rather than tedious.

Hawke shook hands with all three men. Snay bin Wazir’s handshake was surprisingly warm and dry. In Hawke’s experience, people in interview situations, which is what this evening basically was about, had very clammy handshakes. “An honor, your lordship,” he said.

“Alex Hawke will do,” Hawke said, smiling. “Don’t use the title, never have. I’m descended from pirates and peasants, you see. A rather churlish lot, but I’m proud of them.”

“I see. Well, then.” The man seemed at a loss and Hawke covered his obvious embarrassment by making a show of sitting down.

There was the usual small talk as drinks were served. Bin Wazir again surprised Hawke. The man was a brute, there was no disguising it, but someone had sanded off his rough edges. There was keen intelligence in those obsidian eyes, and a ready smile to go with it. Whatever his reputation, here was someone who clearly enjoyed life to the fullest. He was also, by reputation, utterly fearless.

Hawke leaned back and studied bin Wazir while the Arab, Brick Kelly, and the DoD man Pendleton engaged in a discussion in which the name of the arms dealer al-Nassar featured prominently. Here was a chap, this self-styled Pasha, who had just taken a bastion of London society and utterly destroyed it. And subsequently been soundly pilloried for it. If there was even an ounce of remorse over what he’d done to London’s most revered hotel, or any sense of social humiliation in the fellow, Hawke couldn’t see it.

Fascinating.

Dinner came and went uneventfully, with Pendleton pressing his case against al-Nassar’s imminent sale of more fighter jets to Iran and bin Wazir alternating between demurral and assent with Washington’s position. It wasn’t until coffee and brandy were being served that Brick brought up the subject at hand.

“Alex,” Brick said, putting a match to the end of a Griffin cigar, “Mr. bin Wazir here had a most unfortunate experience at Nell’s last Thursday evening.”

“Really?” Hawke said, looking over at the man, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. bin Wazir. Please tell me what happened.”

Bin Wazir laughed and rubbed his big beefy hands together as if relishing the memory. He gave Hawke a look as if to say they were old friends and that this little tale was just idle club gossip amongst gentlemen.

“It was most amusing, actually,” Bin Wazir then said, his smile revealing a set of gleaming white teeth beneath the thick black moustache.

“Amusing,” Hawke said, giving him a smile of encouragement.

“Quite. You see, I was dining in the neighborhood with a lovely young woman of my acquaintance. After dinner, she asked if I would take her to Nell’s for a dance and a drink. Yes, I said, why not, it’s right around the corner. We descended the stairway and were met by two gentlemen at the door.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, “Thursday evening, that would be Mr. Bamford and Mr. Lycett.”

“Exactly. Well, they asked if they could help me and I said yes, I’d like to buy the young lady a drink at the bar. Was there a problem? Well, yes, they said, this is a private club. Members only. Not a problem at all, I said, getting out my checkbook. I’ll join. How much?”

Bin Wazir laughed again as if at himself, and looked round the table, gathering approval.

“Most amusing,” Hawke said, finally.

“I thought so, too,” bin Wazir said, now warming to the tale.

“Ah, but Mr. bin Wazir, they said, this is unfortunately not how the club functions. They said I must be proposed by a member, seconded, and have a number of supporting letters. Well, it was a little embarrassing, but, thankfully, my dear friend Sonny here agreed to help me smooth things over.”

Smooth things over? Well, Hawke thought, casting a glance at Brick, well, this certainly could get interesting.

“Mr. bin Wazir,” Brick said, “You certainly took the direct approach, but I’m afraid Mr. Bamford and Mr. Lycett were accurate. You will need to go through the process.”

“Surely, you’re not serious, Mr. Ambassador,” bin Wazir said. “A simple phone call from you would—”

“He is serious, I’m afraid, Mr. bin Wazir,” Hawke said, coming to Brick’s aid. “I, as it happens, am the current chairman of the admissions committee. I approve all applications and no one is accepted unless they have met all the requirements. Proposer, seconder, and a minimum of five supporting letters. All from members.”

“That’s right, Mr. bin Wazir,” Brick said. “Sorry, but there you have it.”

Bin Wazir looked at the two of them as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Finally, he smiled and said, “Fine, you two gentlemen are members. You can propose and second me.”

“Unfortunately, we cannot,” Hawke said, sipping his brandy. “Membership committee members are not permitted to do that.”

“Who says that?” bin Wazir said, the color rising in his cheeks now.

“The club rules say that,” Hawke said coolly. “There’s actually a whole book of them. Rather thick, to be quite honest.”

“I’ve sent you a book listing the names of the entire membership,” Brick said. “It’s just a matter of your going through it, calling the members you know, and getting the process started.”

“I didn’t know any of the fucking members in the book,” bin Wazir said, his voice rising. More than a few heads swiveled in his direction at that point and Alex realized he’d have to calm the fellow down and quickly.

“Please,” Alex said. “You’re taking this personally. It isn’t. Everyone at Nell’s has gone through the exact same process. Including Ambassador Kelly and myself. You’ll just have to be patient and get to know a sufficient number of members, that’s all.”

The man turned on Alex then and literally snarled. “And, Lord Hawke, how do I get to know the fucking members if I’m not allowed inside the fucking club? Let’s cut this bullshit, all right? How much? Give me a goddamn number. I’ll write you a fucking check and—”

Barnham, the maître d’, had appeared by bin Wazir’s side. He bent and looked the man in the eye and said quietly but firmly, “Sir, your behavior is inappropriate in this establishment. Either lower your voice and clean up your language or you will be asked to leave.”

“Fuck you,” bin Wazir barked at Barnham, and turned away from him. His eyes were blazing and looked back and forth to Hawke and Kelly, who stared back at him implacably.

“You guys think you can fuck with me? Nobody fucks with me. The arrogance of you Americans and Brits! My people were inventing mathematics when you people were still rubbing fucking sticks together. I’ll make you bastards pay for this, that I can guarantee you! I will—”

“Mr. bin Wazir,” Barnham said, “You are no longer welcome in this establishment. These two gentlemen will escort you to the door.” Two burly waiters had arrived and by now all conversation in the room had ceased and all eyes were riveted on the scene at the corner table.

Bin Wazir got to his feet, furiously wiping his mouth with his napkin, which he then threw to the floor. “If they touch me, they’re dead,” he said, flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth. And with that he gripped the edge of the table and upended it, sending all the china and silverware flying, and a large snifter full of brandy into Alex Hawke’s lap.

Hawke looked at the enraged man evenly and, trying to keep his voice down, said, “I would say the odds of your getting past the Nell’s admissions committee at this point are decidedly slim, Mr. bin Wazir.”

This brought forth a great deal of chuckling from the surrounding tables. For a moment, Hawke thought the man might actually go for his jugular but he wisely decided to simply turn on his heel and storm out of the Grill Room, pushing and shoving all and sundry out of his path.

The waiters already had the table back in place and were bringing a fresh coffee service and liqueurs. After apologizing profusely to the staff and the other diners, Brick turned to Alex and said, “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this nightmare, Alex. Really, I am.”

“Good God,” Pendleton said, “I’m the one who should be apologizing. The whole mess is on me. I’ll go find the hotel manager and see if I can’t clean it up somehow.”

“I’m the one who invited Hawke, remember?” Kelly said, as Pendleton got up from the table.

“Don’t be ridiculous, old Brick. You either, Sonny. Most fun I’ve had in months.”

Half an hour later, having laughed the whole thing off over a few stiff whiskies courtesy of Duckworth at the bar, Hawke and Kelly went outside, looking for the ambassador’s driver. A few taxis stood waiting in Carlos Place, but the embassy car was not there.

“Where in the world’s my car?” Brick asked one of the doormen.

“Gentleman came flying out about half hour ago, sir. Quite upset he was, too. Before I could stop him, he climbed into the back of your car, said something to your driver, and off they went. Thought it was a bit odd, but—”

“Unbelievable,” Brick said. “Lunacy.”

“He pulled a gun on him, Brick,” Hawke whispered. “It’s the only answer.”

“Shall I call a cab for you gentlemen?”

“We’ll find one, thank you,” Hawke said. It was still spitting rain but he needed a little fresh air.

“I’ve got to call my DSS guys, Alex,” Kelly said as the two men turned into Mount Street. “I think this guy is seriously dangerous.”

“Here. Use my mobile.”

They hadn’t traveled more than halfway up the empty block when a giant black man leaped out of the shadows from behind them. He grabbed a stunned Kelly by the collar of his jacket and ripped the cell phone out of his hand. Brick whirled, his fist already cocked, and threw a vicious roundhouse punch. It was deflected and a head-butt from the giant sent a stunned Kelly sprawling to the pavement. Then the monstrous fellow turned his brutal attentions on Hawke.

“I would say we could go somewhere and discuss this like gentlemen,” Hawke said, “But you’ve made the stupid mistake of attacking a friend of mine.”

The thug grunted and made a move towards Hawke. Alex was set, and he stepped inside it. He chopped the flat edge of his right hand across the man’s throat and drove the compressed fingers of his left hand up under the sternum. A shockwave rippled up both of Hawke’s arms. He might as well have attacked the statue of Roosevelt in nearby Grosvenor Square.

There was iron in the man’s bones.

His efforts earned him no more than a grunt from the great box-like man and suddenly he was in a deathly embrace, the huge black arms enfolding him, lifting him. He could feel a hot pain as his ribs were compressed by the two human bands of iron encircling him. His arms pinioned and on fire, his entire upper body useless, Hawke’s racing mind surveyed his enemy’s anatomy, ticking off the possible vulnerabilities in milliseconds.

Kidneys? Groin? No. He was locked in a death vise which gave his own knees and feet no good angle. He felt the air going out of him. A familiar blackness laced with red was encroaching upon his conscious mind. He’d been in this place many times and knew automatically that he was out of time. It would be a near thing. He felt hot snorts from the giant’s nostrils as the man added crushing pressure, preparatory to killing him. Very hot breath against his face? Where? On his forehead. Yes. In a single, violent motion, Hawke whipped his head back, then forward, smashing the top of his skull against the man’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch of small bones and Hawke’s face was instantly drenched in a spray of the man’s hot blood.

The iron grip eased momentarily, and Alex collapsed to the pavement. Shaking his head, panting through clenched teeth, and trying to clear out the black veil, Hawke got to his hands and knees. He was nothing but a furious animal now, unthinking and bent on terrible vengeance. He was getting to his feet, eyeing his adversary through mists of pain, when the vicious blow of steel-capped shoe caught his ribcage, splintering three ribs and propelling Alex Hawke into the gutter.

“Ar kill you,” the giant said, speaking for the first time, his own voice garbled with blood and pain. Alex lifted his head and looked up at the towering figure with the blood pouring from his smashed nose. He struggled to rise, breathing deeply, summoning reserves of strength he knew had to be there. Kelly still wasn’t moving. He lay against a lamppost at a grotesque angle. Unconscious, one could only hope.

“On the contrary,” Hawke said through gritted teeth, “I read my horoscope this morning. Today’s going to be the best day of my life.”

Hawke staggered to his feet, ignoring the searing fire in his right side, and charged from a low crouch. He stayed low, feinting left and right before diving, and, then, lunging to his full extent, he hurled himself with all the force left in him directly at the man’s knees. Ligaments tore, cartilage ripped, and the giant bellowed in rage. But he did not go down. His face a mask of bloody fury, his coal eyes suffused with a red glow, he stooped and swung a great looping blow at Hawke’s head.

But Alex managed to scramble and roll away and was on his feet again, dodging and feinting, lunging forward to deliver slashing body blows with the edges of his hands, then springing back desperate for another opening. That’s when he saw the giant reach into the folds of his robe and withdraw a heavy flat blade from his waistband. Holding the hilt in two hands, the enraged monster advanced towards Alex, swinging his whistling sword like a scythe.

The first thrust flicked Hawke’s ribs, drawing blood. The next one Alex almost dodged, but he was a second late. The flat of the blade caught his left temple squarely. He staggered, willing himself to stay on his feet despite the roaring sound of blood pounding inside his head. The giant advanced, the blade poised above him, clearly meaning to split Hawke in half. Alex had other ideas. He managed to get his right hand up just as the stubby machete descended.

Six long weeks worth of recuperation later, Tippu Tip was released from St. Thomas’s Hospital. He had suffered a broken nose, a crushed sternum, a splintered clavicle, three fractured fingers, and two broken legs. In addition, his right ear had been torn off, but had been, somewhat successfully, reattached.

And Alex Hawke never did get round to sending him a get-well card.