Assassin

Chapter Twenty

Nantucket Island

SOME FOUR HOURS AFTER THEIR BRUSH WITH DEATH, HAWKE and Ambrose were joined by Stokely and Sutherland in Blackhawke’s library, a fire going against the late June chill. Hawke was sitting cross-legged on the floor before the fire, his parrot Sniper perched on his shoulder. Feeding the feisty bird pistachio nuts from a bowl he held in his lap, he seemed lost in his thoughts.

Oh nuts! Damright! Sniper shrieked, and Hawke gave the old girl a few more. Congreve was regaling everyone with the tale of the perilous flight, delighted to recount the chilling death spiral, how they’d been near as dammit to crashing into the sea when Ambrose himself had jammed down the left rudder pedal and put the plane into a left-handed nose dive that stabilized the aircraft.

“Quite remarkable, Chief,” Sutherland said, “Considering your complete lack of flying experience.”

“How did Holmes himself put it?” Ambrose asked, puffing away. “ ‘I am the most incurably lazy devil who ever stood in shoe leather, but when the fit is on me, I can be spry enough at times.’ ” The man was clearly still flying high, even after his near-disastrous flying lesson. Alex smiled at this, but his mind was elsewhere.

His plane had been moored at the end of the Slades’ dock in Dark Harbor all night. It had never occurred to Alex to post a guard, so somebody had all the time in the world to hack away at the aileron cable. And there was something else nagging at his memory. He remembered what Chief Ellen Ainslie had said about the murderous babysitter: “Father’s a mechanic…over to the airport.”

Texas Patterson needed to know that at least one member of the Adjelis family had stuck around Dark Harbor long enough to sabotage Hawke’s airplane. Patterson was catching a ride on a Coast Guard chopper and was scheduled to arrive shortly for a meeting aboard Blackhawke. His boss, Secretary of State de los Reyes, had already asked for Alex’s help. Now, Tex was coming down to seal the deal.

As always, Alex had told Conch on the phone that morning, he’d do whatever he could. He’d just have to postpone recharging his batteries until the thing was over. Hell, he said, as the old American expression had it, you can sleep when you’re dead.

Congreve was quietly bringing Sutherland and Stokely up to speed on the recent events in Maine when Pelham wafted in with the tea service. He set the silver salver down on a velvet ottoman next to Alex. Alex noticed a small black velvet box on the tray beside his china cup.

“This is a bit sudden, isn’t it, old boy?” Hawke said to Pelham, picking up the velvet box. “I mean, we hardly know each other.”

Pelham smiled, said nothing, and withdrew.

“What on earth’s wrong with him?” Alex asked, as Pelham pulled the door closed after him.

“Embarrassed is all. Something the boy meant to give you long time ago, Boss,” Stoke said. “Better open it.”

“Really?” Alex said, “How odd.”

He opened the box and saw the gold medallion and chain. He lifted it out and dangled it before his eyes. “Unbelievable,” Hawke said. “My St. George’s medal. Stoke, you remember. That night in Cuba. That guard who—”

“Stuck his knife in your neck and cut the chain. Yeah, I remember that.”

“How did Pelham come by it after all these years?”

“Some Spanish-sounding guy apparently showed up with it on your doorstep late one night and told Pelham to give it to you. Boy stuck it somewhere and plain forgot all about it. He feels bad ’cause then you’d have had a heads up. About somebody being on your case.”

“Most unfortunate,” Hawke said, examining the medal. “His memory is less than…”

“He’ll be all right,” Stoke said, seeing Hawke’s wan expression.

“My mother gave me this,” Hawke said, slipping it over his head, “the day before she died.” He cut his eyes away, pretending to study a picture on the wall, a small marine painting by James Buttersworth.

“Yeah. That’s another reason why Pelham feels bad, boss,” Stoke said.

“Your notion that Vicky’s murderer may be Cuban was spot on, Alex,” Sutherland said. “We have considerable evidence pointing that way.”

“Vicky’s murderer,” Hawke said getting to his feet. He threw another log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks shooting up the chimney, and then sank into one of the armchairs near the hearth. His face ashen, he looked like someone had just taken a razor to the carefully stitched sutures of his heart. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what’s happened,” Hawke said softly.

“Two things, sir,” replied Sutherland. “The cigar stub found at the base of the tree was Cuban. Domestic. Never sold for export.”

“Bought in Cuba,” said Alex. “Go on.”

“Two,” Sutherland continued. “Stokely determined the murder weapon left at the scene was Russian, but the scope was American. Very limited production. U.S. armed forces and law enforcement account for all of them. One such scope was stolen six weeks ago in Miami.”

“Good work, Stoke,” Alex said.

“Scope belonged to a murdered Dade County SWAT guy,” Stoke said. “Serial number on the stolen scope matches our murder weapon. Last thing, that guy who delivered your medallion? Pelham got a look at his eyes that night. Says he ain’t got no color in them.”

“Scissorhands,” Hawke said, anger flaring up in his eyes. “The bloody bastard in Cuba. The one who interrogated Vicky after she was abducted. What was his name, Stokely?”

“Rodrigo del Rio.”

“Del Rio. Right. Castro’s former Chief of State Security, until the coup.”

“That’s the one. The man with no eyes, boss,” Stoke said. “Just may be we got our shooter.”

“Not yet we don’t. But we will.”

“I got an idea,” Stoke said, “If he’s slipped back into Cuba, I know someone who would just love to tack his testicles to a palm tree. And that someone owes me a favor.”

“Who, Stoke?”

“Fidel damn Castro, that’s who. The rebel generals was fixing to murder his tired old Communist ass, you remember, and I got him out of there. El Jefe himself sent me this goddamn medal round my neck.”

“Yes, yes,” Hawke said. “The irony of your saving the skin of one of the last great Communist dictators on earth has not been lost upon me.”

“Well, hell, Alex, what was I s’posed to do? I know an evil dictator when I see one. But, them drug dealers were going to shoot that sick old fool just lying there in his bed. Cop instinct took over.”

“Don’t get defensive, Stoke. Terrible as he is, Fidel was far and away the lesser of two evils. The thugs who tried to overthrow him would have made the Saddam-era Baghdad or Kim’s Pyongang look like Disneyworld.”

“You right, Boss.”

“Scissorhands may well be back in Cuba, Stoke,” Alex said, “But Cuba’s a dangerous place for a high-ranking security officer who went with the losing side. We should start in south Florida, I think. If I were Cuban and on the run, that’s where I’d go. Calle Ocho. Little Havana. Great place to hide, Miami.”

“And where that gun sight was stolen,” Stoke said.

“At the very least, it would be a good place to begin looking for this fellow,” Hawke said. “Then, the islands.”

“Ain’t no place the man can hide from me, Boss,” Stoke said. “Look here, you got your hands full with these State Department assassinations. Why don’t you just let me and Ross go find this shithead by our ownselves?”

“I don’t let other men shoot my foxes, Stoke,” Hawke said quietly.

Hawke lowered his head and rubbed both eyes with the tips of his fingers. He was, Stoke knew, torn in half. Vicky was gone and wasn’t coming back. Hawke was a man with a vengeful spirit, and the urge to avenge his bride’s vicious murder was powerful. Tearing him apart. But so was his urge to do all in his power to help his old friend Conch.

In the end, the professional warrior inside him won. Out there somewhere was the man who had killed his beautiful bride. Perhaps the same man who had also just come very close to killing him. And Congreve. But that was personal. Another psychopath was targeting America’s diplomatic corps. And making the world far less stable in the doing. Perhaps the two were one and the same. Perhaps not.

A few moments later, Hawke looked up and stared hard at Stokely, then, finally, fixed his gaze on Sutherland. Ross could see that he’d made a decision.

“There is procedure, isn’t there, Ross?”

“Indeed there is, sir.”

“Shouldn’t you call your superiors at the Yard about this?” Alex asked. “You still officially report there, and they’ve got jurisdiction in this case.” Sutherland looked mutely at Hawke. It was the question he’d expected and one he did not want to answer.

“Galling, isn’t it, sir?” Sutherland managed.

“I’ll answer that one,” Congreve said. “The Yard have told Ross and me to stay completely away from this thing, Alex. Completely.” As Sutherland nodded his head in affirmation, Ambrose added, “By all reports, they’ve not made much headway so far.”

“Are you going, Ambrose? To Florida, I mean.”

“I’d recommend sending Ross and Stokely, Alex. I might be of more help in this other matter.” Hawke nodded assent.

“Good. Go find this son of a bitch, Stoke. You and Ross. Miami, Jamaica, Cuba, wherever the hell he is,” Hawke said. “Don’t kill him unless you have to. Bring him to me. I’d very much like a word with him before he gets turned over to the Yard. A private word.”

“Yeah,” Stoke said. “We can do that.”

“I’m going up on deck,” Hawke said. “I need some bloody air.”