Hawke

“One million dollars?” he said, almost choking on the figure. “Yeah, I’d say that was greatly.”

So he agreed to meet them and wangled the family emergency leave. Took his family to Miami. He’d listen to what they had to say. Hopefully, it wasn’t some con to get him off the base so they could waste him. He was a pretty good judge of character, though, and these guys sounded okay to him.

So, here he was, Johnny-on-the-spot at the San Cristóbal on Calle Ocho just like they told him. A million bucks? For that kind of money, he’d meet anybody. Friggin’ Adolf and friggin’ Hitler, man. Friggin’ Frank and friggin’ Sinatra, much less Julio and Iglesias here.

Who wants to be a millionaire? Petty Officer Third Class Rafael Gomez, that’s who.

He was starting to think that the chance meeting with Ling-Ling was the beginning of a major shift in his luck. Luck that, frankly, hadn’t been all that hot lately. Hadn’t been that great since high school, if you wanted the truth.

Gomez noticed they still hadn’t bothered to properly introduce themselves. Because they knew his real name, it bothered him a little. Probably the way these kinds of things went down, though. Less he knew the better, he figured, when and if the fit hit the shan. But, still—

“So let me skip the chase and cut directly to the outcome,” Gomez said, liking the way that had come out. “What exactly does a guy have to do around here to make a million bucks? What’s the plan, guys? And, since we’re going to maybe be in business together, let’s cut the crap. You guys have any, like, real names?”

“I am Julio,” Tallboy said. “Like we told you, amigo.”

“I am Iglesias,” Wideload said.

Gomez looked at them for a second, shaking his head. What were you going to do?

“Right, Julio and Iglesias. Okay, fine, and I’m Elvis and Presley. Split personality, get it? So, if it ain’t too much trouble, how about bringing me up to speed on what, exactly, is the big plan? You guys were kinda vague on the phone, know what I mean? Julio?”

“Necesario, señor. Is very simple plan, Señor Elvis,” Julio said with a smile. He had a gold tooth right up front that was catching the morning sun bouncing off the windows big time. Made it hard to concentrate on what the guy was saying. The tooth and the fact that there might be a million bucks in that suitcase.

“Simple is good,” Gomez said, feeling his heart pumping. He’d started shaking again, only from the inside out now. He was going to have to, what, whack somebody? Would he do that for a million smacks? Maybe.

He’d killed a guy once. Accident. Fed him to the gators late one night in the big ditch along Alligator Alley. Way the hell out the Tamiami Trail in the deep ’glades. Nobody ever knew nothing.

No biggie, he thought, remembering.

“Man, it’s hot in here. Anybody for a brewski?” They both shook their heads. “No? Man, I could go for one. Breakfast of champions, man, the King of Beers.”

Thing about these guys, no sense of humor whatsoever.

“All you have to do, Señor Presley, is take this fine piece of luggage home to Guantánamo with you tomorrow.” The guy picked up the suitcase and placed it on the table.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You guys aren’t going to believe this,” Gomez said, “but that suitcase looks exactly like my suitcase. Exactly.”

“Maybe that’s because it is your suitcase, señor,” Julio said.

“What? No way, man. My suitcase is under my bed at my aunt’s place.”

“Really? When was the last time you checked?”

Gomez looked at all the old stickers and shit on the Samsonite. Old United bag tags from when he was flying back and forth from Cecil Field, N.A.S. JAX all the time. Sonofabitch. It was his suitcase.

“What’s inside my suitcase, you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s difficult to describe, señor,” Iglesias said. “You’ve heard of a Roach Motel?”

“Yeah. The bugs check in but they don’t check out.”

“Well, inside that suitcase is a kind of reverse Roach Motel,” Julio said.

“Sí, he’s right,” Iglesias chimed in. “In this motel, the bugs they are already checked in, but they can’t wait to check out. Check out and kick some gringo ass.”

“But here’s the good part, señor,” Julio added. “The bugs? Decoys. The real killer is some kind of bitchin’ new nerve toxin, man. It’s a deadly combo, one-two punch, I’m serious.”

“The hell you guys talking about?” Gomez said. He was getting shaky again. He could really use a cold one right now. But, and it was a big but, all right, he knew he had to keep his cool if he was ever going to see one million smackers up close and personal.

“It’s a new kind of bug bomb, Elvis,” Iglesias said. “The very latest in modern biological technology. Cause some very serious fuckage, man.”

Julio and Iglesias both looked at him. Hard.

“Bug bomb,” Gomez said. “What the fuck’s a bug bomb?”

7

Hawke perched on the gunwale in his mask and flippers, waiting impatiently for Congreve and the Russians. All were struggling to get their gear on properly.

“You’ve got your mask on upside down, Ambrose,” he said. “That’s why the snorkel’s mouthpiece is above your head instead of below it. Quite useless, the way you’re wearing it. Don’t forget to spit in it, before you put it on.”

“Spit in it? Bloody hell,” Congreve muttered, and reversed the thing.

“You only need the mask and snorkel until we’re through the underwater entrance. Once we surface inside Thunderball, there’s plenty of air. Tell your little friends to hurry it up, please. The tide waits for no man, Constable.”

“You know, of course, that those are sharks in the water,” Ambrose said.

“Hmm, yes,” Hawke said. “The vast majority of sharks around here generally prefer plankton to people, old boy. The poison coral is what you need to watch out for. Here, put these gloves on.”

“And what about the vast minority of sharks?” Ambrose asked, but Hawke had neatly executed a frogman’s backflip into the water and he was gone.

He kicked down a few feet below the surface, looking for the entrance. It was right where he remembered it would be. Only now, some very large sharks guarded it. Luckily, they were mostly of the nurse variety, timid and easily frightened by man.

Ignoring them, Hawke swam straight for the opening.

One particularly resolute shark stood his ground as Hawke approached. There was no getting around him. He was hovering directly in front of the entrance and wasn’t planning to budge. Hawke hovered a foot or so away, eye-to-eye with the blackest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. Hawke patted him on the snout, and the fish bolted like a scalded cat.

Hawke smiled. Ambrose and the Russkies were probably going to encounter this very same fellow. Ambrose, he hoped, would recognize him as strictly a sushi devotee.

Kicking forward, he carefully avoided the jagged coral surrounding the entrance. Some of the coral, he knew, was poisonous. Problem was, he had no idea which coral. Glad of his diving gloves, he had to grab the jagged outcroppings to pull himself through fairly tight quarters. In a moment, he was inside the grotto and bobbing up to the surface, floating in the pure beam of sunlight from the blow-hole some fifteen feet above his head.

It was staggeringly beautiful inside, he saw, pulling off his dive mask. Far more stunning than in the early-morning light he’d seen earlier. A natural cathedral of coral and stone; sunlight shimmering on the sculptured walls and turning the water inside a most amazing shade of clear green. Hawke replaced his mask and ducked his head back underwater. There were dozens of fish of every size and description, including a school of yellow and black striped creatures packed so tightly they seemed a single, darting mass.

Sergeant-Majors.

That’s what the striped fish were called. The name had just popped into his head. He flashed on himself as a child, reaching out to touch the fish. Odd. How the hell would he know that name? Must have been a documentary he’d seen on that BBC nature program.

Diving down to the rocky floor, exploring a forest of stalagmites, he came upon a massive dark shape lurking in the shadows. Swimming closer, he was just about to reach out to rouse the creature, when the thing darted upward toward his outstretched hand, opening its jaws. All Hawke saw as he yanked his hand back were the spiky fangs filling the wide mouth and he spun around, kicking hard for the surface of the grotto. A moray eel. Powerful jaws, razor-sharp teeth. Reflexes almost as good as his own. But, thank God, not quite.

Thinking about introducing Ambrose to this truly scary character, Hawke was surprised to see the man himself when he reached the surface.

“Smashing, isn’t it, Constable?” Hawke said, lifting the mask from his face. “Welcome to Thunderball!”

Congreve mumbled something in reply, but he still had his snorkel mouthpiece in place. Hawke reached over and popped it out of his friend’s mouth. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that I will get you for this,” Ambrose Congreve spouted, spewing seawater and coughing.

“A little dicey getting in, I’ll admit, but those sharks are harmless. Besides, look around you, Ambrose! Rather surreal, wouldn’t you say?” The resounding echo of Hawke’s voice added to the magical quality of the grotto.

Congreve ignored him, looking around for the damnable Russians who’d been swimming right behind him. Terrified they might have panicked and, worse yet, that Hawke might ask him to go get them, he was thrilled to see first one, then the other, pop to the surface. Coughing and sputtering, they removed their masks and didn’t bother to try to conceal the terror that was plain on their faces.

The bearded bear shouted one word over and over to Congreve and made a jerking gesture with his hand.

“What does that word mean, Ambrose?”

“Sharks, sharks, sharks,” Congreve translated. “They are extremely unhappy about your choice of venue, absolutely petrified of sharks, and would like to leave immediately. I must say I have a lot of sympathy for their position.”

“Sorry. It’s here or nowhere.”

Congreve translated and, after a rancorous exchange, the Russians seemed to resign themselves to their fate. The four swimmers formed up into a circle, paddling to stay in place.

“I’ll be brief,” Hawke said. “I am interested in making a purchase. Extremely interested.”

The translation brought smiles back to the faces of the Russians. They spoke rapidly to Congreve.

“They will be happy to oblige you,” Congreve said. “The hover-crafts are reasonably priced. Only sold in lots of three. Two million pounds each. Guaranteed delivery in eight weeks.”

“No, no. No bloody hovercraft,” Hawke said.

Congreve gave him a puzzled look. “What then?”

“Tell them I want to buy a ‘boomer.’ A Soviet Akula-class submarine.”

A nuclear submarine? But Congreve didn’t even blink. He’d been with Hawke too long. He told the Russians what Hawke had said. Both men bobbed their heads excitedly.

“I assume that’s a yes,” Hawke said. “How much and how long until I get it?”

The exchange was brief. Congreve said, “They have an Akula. Excellent condition. One of the last to be built. Fifty million dollars, half up front, the other half payable upon delivery. Six months to get the vessel seaworthy and assemble a trained crew and shoreside maintenance team.”

Hawke eyed the Russians evenly. “How old?” he asked.

Congreve asked and said, “One of the last Soviet subs produced. The Akula Typhoon. Built in 1995.”

“No, no,” Hawke said. “No Typhoon. I want the very last series they built. The Akula II. Code name Borzoi.”

Congreve told them and it generated a lot of head-shaking protestation by the Russians. Ambrose finally said, “They don’t know anything about a Borzoi.”

“My information says they’re lying. Tell them I want a Borzoi. I’m prepared to pay a considerable sum of money. And I want to speak directly to the last person to purchase one. For this kind of money, the emptor better damn well caveat.”

Upon hearing this wrinkle, the bobbing heads of the Russians conferred with each other. Rasputin clearly wanted to proceed; the other one did not. He’d been expecting this to be the hard part. It was why he’d chosen this location to negotiate.

“You’ll notice,” Hawke said, “that the tide has been rising. Very shortly we will be banging our heads on those nasty-looking coral stalactites up there. Some are poisonous. After that, we run out of air. Also, notice how rapidly the sun’s angle through the blowhole is changing. It will be almost completely dark inside soon. Even now there’s not enough light to swim out without getting yourself chopped up by the poisonous coral. Unless, like me, you have one of these dive lights.”

Hawke switched on the high-powered light mounted above his dive mask and directed it toward the Russians, who grimaced in the glare and turned away.

“The experimental Akula II,” Hawke said. “Borzoi. Twin-hulled sub shaped like a boomerang. Carries forty warheads. Tell them that’s the only boat I’m interested in.”

Congreve translated after a brief parley and said, “They say they don’t know anything about a second-generation Akula. They say the Akula I was the last sub produced before the collapse of the Soviet Navy.”

“Fine,” Hawke said. He switched off the light and plunged them all into shadowy darkness. “We’ll all just bob around in here until their memory improves or they drown. Whichever comes first.”

Thirty seconds later there was a sharp cry of pain. The surging tide had smashed one of the Russians up against the jagged stalactites that formed the grotto’s ceiling. Hawke switched on the light and aimed it at the Russians. The skinny little one had a bloody gash over his right eye.

“I want a Borzoi, comrade,” Hawke said, swimming up to him and getting right in his facemask. “Nothing else. Is that clear? Borzoi.”

The Russian sputtered something, shaking his head and peering into Hawke’s mask.

“What’s he say?” Hawke asked Congreve.

“He says yes.”

“Pithy,” Hawke said, smiling behind his mask.

“He says, yes, it’s possible he may be able to locate a Borzoi for you. The price will be very high, however.”

“Good,” Hawke said, smiling at Congreve. “I thought they’d rise to the occasion. Tell them we’ll talk money over dinner aboard Blackhawke. The launch will pick them up at the dock. Seven sharp. Dinner at eight.”

Hawke dove and kicked down, his powerful beam catching the brilliant fish and multicolored coral and lighting the way out of Thunderball. He wasn’t surprised to find his little flock paddling right behind him.

8

Colonel Manso de Herreras sat on the unshaded platform next to the empty chair of his closest friend, the Maximum Leader. Fidel Castro. The Cuban caudillo.

Manso was sweating profusely. His uniform was drenched. Perspiration burned his eyes. It wasn’t the heat that was bothering him, though. It was the chain of events he planned to unleash when and if this never-ending ceremony was concluded. The last Communist leader in the Western Hemisphere had already been speaking for well over an hour.

The platform where Manso sat baking beside the empty chair was on the white marble terrace of the old Habana Yacht Club. They were in one of the old neighborhoods, only a few blocks from the leader’s primary residence. Still, there were six big black Mercedes parked in the circular drive. The leader never rode in the same car twice. Never slept in the same house two nights in a row.

Manso had been sitting in the sun on the flimsy folding chair for almost two hours now. He’d turned a deaf ear to the ceremony and passed the time gazing out over the drowsy harbor. There were a few fishing trawlers crisscrossing the mirrorlike sea. He’d followed their passages idly, trying to tune out the papery voice at the lectern.

It was a dedication ceremony of some kind, God knows what. It was easily the third one he’d attended this week. He no longer bothered to find out who or what they were honoring at these events. They were constantly honoring or dedicating something or other lately, he’d noticed. It hardly seemed to matter what it was.

They would dedicate a tractor if they could find one that was running, he thought, scanning the crowd for any pretty señoritas. He had come to believe that el jefe either enjoyed being handed wilted carnations by endless processions of schoolgirls or was convinced such festivities took the people’s minds off some of their more immediate problems.

Like eating.

An American joke had circulated recently amongst the higher echelons of the Cuban military and State Security. The joke had it that Castro had gotten everything right in Cuba but three little things. Breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.

Since their beloved comrades in Moscow had abandoned them in the early nineties, his country’s economy had crashed and burned. Cuba now had one of the lowest per capita incomes in the Caribbean, ranking right up there with that other economic powerhouse, Haiti. He was sure that el jefe wasn’t mentioning that little economic tidbit in his remarks.

The Soviets had poured a hundred billion dollars into the island of Cuba. Where had it all gone, Manso and his band of disgruntled confederates wondered.

A short list: the army, its uniforms, and missiles. The now-outdated electric power system. A nuclear power plant intended to wean Cuba off foreign oil and left two-thirds completed. A twenty-six-square-mile intelligence-gathering complex outside of Lourdes that Fidel was now trying to peddle to the Chinese. And countless enormous, hideously ugly residential buildings now falling down around their ears because of the amazingly shoddy construction.

And of course, there was the highway system. Ah, yes. Since shortages of fuel, oil, and machinery parts had paralyzed transportation, the endless miles of highways were utterly useless. Sugar production, the economy’s mainstay, had been cut in half. New tourism efforts were helping some, but not nearly enough. Unless drastic measures were taken, Cuba, already running on fumes, would soon be running on empty.

Manso shifted in his chair. The metal seat had begun to roast his backside to a crisp. The hot seat reminded him of yet another misery, the shortage of paper. No books, no magazines, no toilet paper. Thank God for the limitless supply of Marxist economic textbooks that the Cuban populace had finally, after forty years, put to good use.

They also found the Communist paper, Granma, very useful. Published only every other day, it consisted of eight pages full of pap about la lucha, the “struggle,” and how the people must endure these sacrifices for the greater glory. Manso had read an article that very morning stating that not eating was good for you! Privately, Manso had taken to calling Granma the Toilet Paper.

But there was no shortage of speeches and dedications like this one, Manso thought, mopping his brow. The production of speeches, dedications, and pontifications, always high, had recently gone through the roof.

The comandante, at the podium well over an hour or so already, was warming to his theme. As if it weren’t warm enough already, Manso thought, reaching for a cup of iced lemonade beneath his chair. The ice had melted but the tangy juice helped a little.

Out on the lawn, Manso’s olive-green helicopter was waiting. In approximately one half hour, God willing, he and the comandante were scheduled to depart for Manso’s retreat on the southeast coast for the weekend. The two of them would be flying out alone, with Manso at the controls of the aging Kamov 26 helicopter gunship.

Before Fidel had made him head of State Security, Manso had been the highest-ranking colonel in the Air Force. He had a distinguished flying record and many decorations. He was also the only pilot in Cuba to whom the comandante would entrust his life.

The flying time to his personal estate, Manso estimated, was just less than two hours. The weather was perfect, but it still promised to be an exciting flight.

Manso’s estate occupied a good deal of the five thousand acres of an island just off the town of Manzanillo. Manso, whose boyhood nickname had been Araña, the spider, had called the place Finca Telaraña, the Spider’s Web. Originally, it had been just a casita on the balmy shores of the Golfo de Guacanayabo. A little retreat, where he and the great leader could escape the pressures of La Habana and have a little fun.

Over the years, Manso had gotten very good at finding ever newer and more interesting ways of keeping el comandante amused. There was, of course, no shortage of girls willing to do anything for money or el jefe.

The most recent event Manso had staged at Finca Telaraña was a tree-climbing contest. About ten local beauty queens had participated. They had stripped and raced for the trees. The winner got an expensive jeweled watch, while the losers had to shave their heads, eat a few live insects, and perform an elaborate dance number while everyone else enjoyed an exquisite buffet.

Manso supplied the female pipeline and he kept it full. This talent had helped his career in the Air Force enormously. Not to mention the size of his personal fortune. Manso had also done many favors for his leader. Favors Castro would entrust to no one else.

“He has become an inconvenience, Manso” was all that needed to be said. The man, or his entire family, would disappear. Always with a knife, never a gun. Guns, Manso had discovered very early in life, were no fun at all. He had grown up in the cane fields of Oriente province. He had learned that a razor-sharp machete made him the equal of bigger, stronger, and even wiser men.

When he was still a boy, he had formed a small band known as the Macheteros. The machete wielders. Once, barely twelve, he and his two brothers had kidnapped a staff member of the Soviet consulate. The Russian bastard had insulted his mother in the street. They’d placed him in a cotton sack and taken him at midnight out into the cane fields. Swigging rum up in the cab of the stolen pickup, the three brothers laughed at the man bouncing around in the back of the truck’s bed as they careened through the tall cane.

His two brothers held the man’s arms. Manso suddenly stepped forward and whipped off the sack covering the man’s head. When the man saw a glint of moonlight on Manso’s upraised blade, he started begging. He was still pleading when Manso casually lopped off his head, spraying the three boys with blood. It was Manso’s first taste of blood and he found that he liked it.

He’d had the head delivered in a piñata to the Soviet embassy. This spectacular crime, and the ensuing manhunt for Manso and his two brothers, had caused them to flee their homeland. They headed straight for their uncle’s village in the mountains of Colombia. Their mother, a Colombian, had a brother who was a coca farmer in a thriving little hamlet called Medellín.

In the long chain of lucky events that would mark his life, the murder of the Russian brought Manso to the attention of Fidel Castro himself. Normally, this would have resulted in his capture, torture, and execution. The Soviets wanted Manso’s head, that was certain. They’d even sent investigators and detectives all the way from Moscow in search of the murderous de Herreras brothers.

By the time the Russian investigators reached Cuba, Manso and his young brothers were in Colombia, at the forefront of a burgeoning new industry. They were using high-powered speedboats, committing acts of sea piracy, and running cocaine for a Colombian madman called el doctor.

9

El doctor, it didn’t take Manso long to discover, was not a doctor at all.

He was a murderous psychopath. A squat little man who’d gotten his start stealing headstones from the local cemeteries, sandblasting them, and then reselling them. El doctor was the honorary sobriquet given to the young drug kingpin Pablo Escobar in honor of the first man he murdered, a man who happened to be a doctor.

Murder was not an unusual way to earn a nickname in Colombia. But this particular murder would mark the beginning of a reign of terror that would end only when Pablo himself was murdered at age forty, in 1989. At the time of his death, the former tombstone salesman, Pablo Escobar, was the richest, most powerful criminal in the world.

Manso had found his role model.

Shortly after fleeing Cuba and arriving at their uncle’s farm in the tiny mountain village of Medellín, the three de Herreras brothers began learning the thriving new coca business literally from the ground up. They planted and tended the shrubs, native to the Andes, with the pretty yellow flowers. Among other alkaloids, the leaves of Erythroxylum coca yielded a miracle powder called cocaine.

They worked in their uncle’s fields at first, and then graduated to the corrugated tin labs where the miracle money dust was refined and processed.

It wasn’t long until the brothers’ ingenuity, intelligence, and ruthlessness brought them to the attention of el doctor himself. Six weeks after arriving, they had officially been taken under the wing of Pablo Escobar and his Medellín cartel. Pablo was the vicious but wily thug whose murderous assassinations of judges, journalists, and presidential candidates would one day almost topple the Colombian government. Eventually, he blew an Avianca jetliner out of the sky and rocketed to the top of the world’s most-wanted list.

Pablo Escobar was the first billionaire Manso had ever met. He was also a legend to his people. The Colombian Robin Hood took millions in drug money from the stupid norteamericanos and used a small portion of it to build villages and soccer fields for the poor campesinos of Medellín. To the terrorized and oppressed poor people of Colombia, Manso saw, Escobar was a national hero.

Neither a revolutionary nor an idealist, Pablo was merely an outlaw. But in a country where the laws are hated, a charismatic and benevolent desperado can find himself a figure of adulation. Even worship.

Manso kept a keen eye on every move Pablo made. He was mesmerized, like all the rest, by Escobar’s penchant for casually extreme violence. He watched the ruthless Escobar with endless fascination as he went about the daily business of creating and embellishing his own mythic stature.

Manso immediately understood what worlds were opened once a man decided to make his own laws, his own rules. The young Cuban machetero in the thrall of el doctor now had a philosophy to live by. It was simple. You accepted either Manso’s plata or Manso’s plomo. You took his silver. Or you took his lead. It made not the least bit of difference to him which one you chose.

Under Pablo’s tutelage, the three de Herreras brothers became ever more lethal and sophisticated assassins. Before you killed a man, for instance, you first made him scream and beg. Or, even better, before you killed him, you first killed those he loved most.

Before you raped, you assembled an audience. Fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers were forced to watch. It was work his two brothers took to with enthusiasm. Manso had far grander ideas.

A very bright and keen observer of things, he saw that the norteamericanos’ seemingly insatiable demand for the Colombian product was rapidly overcoming supply. He sensed that this was only the beginning. The American appetite for coca powder was proving to be enormous. Many billions would be made in the next five or ten years.

The demand was there. How to supply it became increasingly problematic. Pablo even built a fleet of remote-controlled submarines, each capable of carrying two thousand kilos of cocaine from the shores of Colombia to the waters off Puerto Rico. It wasn’t enough. Manso had an idea.

It was obvious to him that Pablo would need ever increasing numbers of pilots to ferry the huge loads of his product north. So, he’d learn how to fly. But Pablo’s pilotos were a close-knit group and shunned the young Cuban hothead. He begged the pilots for flying lessons. But, another pilot meant less money for them, so they resisted.

He finally persuaded one of the younger pilots to teach him to fly by abducting the man’s sister. The man took his case to Pablo, who applauded Manso’s audacity. The next day, Manso was airborne.

He soloed after only six hours of instruction.

Pilots were in fact paid a lot more than the mere sicarios, or paid assassins, that Pablo employed in ever increasing numbers. It was the happiest time of Manso’s life. He was a swaggering piloto in gleaming aviator sunglasses, playing the narcos version of aerial cat and mouse with the government troops on his weekly runs to Managua in his C-123 transport plane.

With his newfound wealth, he purchased an American Cigarette speedboat. When the weather was too bad for flying, Manso and his brothers took to the sea to make their deliveries. Once the product had been delivered, they went in search of isolated tourist yachts, robbing and murdering at will.

The de Herreras brothers had become the deadliest pirates in the Caribbean. But it was not to last.

After an ill-considered midnight run north to Cuba to see their mother, a bloody shoot-out with Cuban gunboats off the Isle of Pines finally ended in their capture. The three brothers were taken to Havana. They were whisked from the airfield directly to the Palacio de la Revolución and brought before el comandante.

Castro stood up behind his massive desk and stared at them, his hand on the sidearm that always hung from his belt.

“Ah,” Castro said. “The three little boys who murdered the Russian diplomat? Sí?”

“Sí, Comandante,” Manso said, smiling. “It was a great pleasure. The man was a pig. He insulted my mother in the street.”

“So, you cut his head off and sent it to the Soviet embassy in a piñata,” Castro said, walking around the desk.

Manso stiffened. Waiting in the anteroom outside the Maximum Leader’s office, under the guns of the elite guards, he’d concluded that they were all to be shot where they stood. “We will die like men,” he had told his brothers. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting for the bullets to come. He’d seen men die badly. He didn’t intend to disgrace himself.

“Sí, Comandante. I used my machete. It was a clean cut! I am a Machetero! So are my brothers. We are proud sons of Oriente!”

Castro walked up to Manso and stared hard into his eyes. Then his face broke into a grin and he embraced the startled boy in his two strong arms.

Manso was too shocked to speak.

“This man you killed. His name was Dimitri Gokov. We suspected the Russian of being a double agent, spying for the americanos. This very morning, another Soviet agent confirmed under torture that Gokov was part of a U.S. group plotting an overthrow of our revolutionary government.”

“Comandante, I don’t—”

“You are a brave boy. And you have an absolutely amazing sense of timing! Had we caught you yesterday, you would have been shot!” Castro said, and laughed. In Castro’s mind, Manso’s piñata had sent a brilliant, if unwitting, message to both the politburo in Moscow and his enemies in Washington. He embraced Carlos and Juanito and handed all three brothers small black boxes. The three brothers looked at each other, grinning. Inside each box was a shiny golden star attached to a red silk ribbon.

In time, he further rewarded Manso with a commission in the Air Force. He gave Juanito and Carlos commissions, too, in the Army and Navy. All three had shown surprising initiative and risen swiftly to the highest ranks.

Carlitos was now one of the highest-ranking officers in the Navy. Both he and Juanito, comandante of the Western Army, had also secretly returned to the lucrative narco trade they knew so well. Manso’s only fear was that Carlitos’s insatiable love of the product was increasing his already frightening instability.

Carlitos was valuable, but he would have to be watched. Pitting brother against brother, Manso gave that responsibility to Juanito.

Castro’s reprieve had been the beginning of a long, profitable relationship for all of them. Those closest to the leader always reaped the largest rewards. As Fidel himself had once remarked, “I bathe myself, but I also splash others.” There were rumors of hundreds of millions in Castro’s Swiss bank accounts. Manso grew adept at siphoning off his share and more.

In time, all three brothers grew immensely rich from many sources. It was far easier to export your product to America from Cuba than it was from Colombia. Juanito, through his vast drug-running operations in the Exumas, got the product into Cuba. Manso and Carlos got it out of Cuba and into the United States. There were rumors, of course, about narco traffic at the very highest levels of the Cuban military. But Manso’s private security force made sure it was all kept very quiet.

Even the leader, if he knew of the de Herreras brothers’ sideline businesses, never mentioned it. El jefe was famously antidrug, and had even been trying to negotiate some kind of crackdown with the U.S. for years.

Manso and his leader had grown ever closer over the years. The leader, who was never able to sleep at night, would roam the streets of the old city with Manso, pouring out his frustrations and fears. Time passed, and the two men became, not brothers, because their age difference was too wide, but something akin to father and son.

Fidel had been born in 1926 at Las Manacas, near Biran, in northeastern Cuba. Manso had been born twenty-five years later in Mayari, the nearest neighboring town to Biran. They shared a common loathing for the gringo imperialists who had exploited the natural resources and the peasants of their beloved Oriente. This had been one of the earliest bonds between the aging leader and the promising young Manso.

He looked at his leader now, red-faced and shaking his fists in the anger he seemed to summon so easily. Manso took a sip from the cup of the warm lemonade and tried to relax. He was going to need every ounce of his courage and strength of mind to do what he had to do.

It had been six whole months since he’d been to Telaraña. It had become too dangerous for him to be seen there. His brother Juanito had been flying down from Havana once a week, supervising most of the construction. His other brother, Carlos, had been put in charge of planning and organization. He was also in charge of Manso’s personal security force. Castro had an imperial guard said to number ten thousand. Manso’s guard, though not nearly that size, had grown exponentially in recent months.

Manso didn’t like to admit it, but his brother Carlos, who’d risen to the highest echelons of the Navy, was by far the smartest of the three and certainly the most politically astute. He was also the most unpredictable. A lifelong addiction to the poppy and the coca leaf had made him dangerously unstable.

But it was somewhere inside the scrambled brains of Carlos that the little seed of rebellion had begun to grow. Manso, with his limitless financial resources, had provided Carlos’s tiny seed with all the water and sunshine it needed to thrive.

Then there was his brother Juanito, a great general of the Army. There were in fact three distinct armies in Cuba. The army of the East, the Central army, and the army of the West. On pain of execution, the leaders of the three armies were not allowed to communicate with one another. This Manso and Carlos had used to their great advantage.

Juanito, in complete secrecy, had used his position as commander of the Western forces to turn Carlos’s little seed into the vast secret complex of bricks, mortar, missiles, and men called Telaraña. Manso had originally modeled Telaraña after Escobar’s own grandiose estate in the mountains of Medellín, Hacienda los Napoles.

Telaraña had become far more than the jungle pleasure palace, which, to a casual observer, it still appeared to be. An influx of many millions had turned Telaraña into a powerful military fortress that would soon be the birthplace of a new Cuba.

Manso looked at his chunky gold Rolex. Three-fifteen. The speech seemed to be winding up to a climax. Good. With any luck, they could be airborne in twenty minutes or so. If God was truly on his side, and how could He not be, the birth of a new Cuba was less than three hours away.

10

She lay about a half mile outside the channel markers for Staniel Cay and when she was lit up at night, as she was now, she was magnificent. The name, illuminated in huge gold type on her towering stern, said it all.

BLACKHAWKE.

Hawke’s yacht, completed in great secrecy just two years earlier at the Huisman yard in Holland, caused a unique stir wherever she went in the world. And the world, it delighted Hawke to know, had no idea just how singular a vessel this truly was.

At just over two hundred forty feet in overall length, she was a mammoth silhouette against the evening sky. Tonight, since there were to be guests, her gleaming black hull and towering white top-sides were illuminated with halogen lighting from stem to stern. Her crew, who, with the exception of the galley staff and the launch crew, wore simple summer uniforms of black linen, had been given the night off.

Congreve, who loved messing about in kitchens, had sent Slushy, the executive chef, ashore. He’d elected to do the cooking tonight himself. Local lobsters, fresh corn, and salad. In deference to the Russians, he was serving caviar and iced vodka before dinner.

Twilight had congealed into starlit darkness.

The two old friends sat conversing comfortably under the umbrella of stars, as their guests weren’t due for another half hour or so. They were all the way aft on the top deck. Quick, now disguised as a steward, was serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

Hawke had let his parrot, Sniper, out of his cage, and the big black bird was now perched in his favorite location on Hawke’s right shoulder. The bird had been a gift from his grandfather on Alex’s eighth birthday. Hawke had no idea how old Sniper was. Parrots, he’d learned, lived to be ninety to one hundred years old.

It was Hawke’s habit at cocktail time to feed the bird whatever hors d’oeuvres were being served. Sniper seemed to like everything except pigs-in-blankets. But he had an enormous fondness for Russian caviar. At the moment, he was making do with the cheese.

Congreve was busy trying to get his pipe lit again. They were sitting some fifty feet above the water and it was breezy out on deck.

“Another Dark & Stormy, Ambrose?” Hawke asked, feeding Sniper his fifth gob of warm Brie cheese. Dark & Stormy was his friend’s favorite cocktail, a heady mix of dark rum and ginger beer.

“No thank you, Alex. I anticipate a lengthy evening.”

“God, I hope not. I don’t want those two cretins aboard this ship one second longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Sketchy, aren’t they?”

“You have no idea.”

“Pity about that poor waitress.”

“You noticed,” Hawke said.

“Please,” Congreve replied with a withering stare.

“I forgot. You notice everything.”

“I don’t want to be an old Nosey Parker. But, I have to ask, what in the bloody hell are you going to do with a nuclear submarine?”

“You actually thought I was serious? That’s quite good.”

“You’re not?”

“Hardly.”

“I see. And your reasoning for subjecting me to life-threatening encounters with poisonous rocks and man-eating marine life?”

“Simple. Call from Washington. A Soviet Borzoi-class boomer disappeared six months ago from its pen pal at Vladivostok. It took me a while, back-channel, but I was eventually able to determine who might have stolen the damn thing. From there, it was fairly easy to identify who was peddling it. You remember Cap Adams. Middle East CIA station chap in Kuwait City? He finally put me on to the two human ferrets we went snorkeling with today. Pretty sure they sold it. The Americans are desperate to know who bought it. It’s my job to find out.”

“Borzoi? Never heard the name.”

“Not surprising. Last gasp of the Soviet Navy. A highly experimental sub. Only two were built. They used pilfered American stealth technology and some of their own to create the world’s first stealth submarine. Radical delta-wing design. Retractable conning tower. She carries forty warheads and, for all intents and purposes, the bloody thing’s invisible.”

“Good God,” Congreve said, leaning forward. “Anyone in possession of such a weapon could stick up the whole world.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. Global, reach-for-the-sky type hardware. She’s monstrous. Lethal. Undetectable. The pan-Arabic terrorist organization that first tried to buy the sub gave it the code name Operation Invincible Sword. My CIA friend Cap Adams spent a few tough weeks in Kuwait, making sure something went wrong with that plan, thank God.”

“So the Russians had to find another buyer. Who on earth other than the Arabs or the Chinese has got that kind of money?”

“Good question. Cap finally put me on to our two dinner guests. His information indicates they’ve located a new buyer. She has been purchased. Being delivered now. Our job is to find out who the proud new owner is. We need to ensure that the delivery does not happen. The U.S. Navy has deciphered certain radio codes that might enable us to intercept it at sea.”

“Who, exactly, is ‘we’?”

“‘We,’ in this case, is Washington, the U.S. Atlantic Fleet, and me. They’re footing the bill for our little Caribbean cruise, actually. Jolly generous, I’d say.”

“Who in Washington? Anybody I know?”

“High.”

“Your friend POTUS?”

“Yes. And the brand-new American secretary of state.”

“Your old friend Conch.”

“Indeed. She called me in early January just as I was about to shoot myself out of sheer boredom.”

“Ah. I thought you had successfully extinguished that long-flickering flame.”

“Her motives are hardly romantic, Constable. She has hired me to find out who bought that damn submarine and why. Most importantly, where the hell she’s located. They like to keep track of these things, you know.”

“Hmm. One suspects Madame Secretary’s motives are always romantic where you’re concerned. Speaking of suspects, who’s on the list of potential buyers?”

“Oh, the usual madmen and megalomaniacs, naturally. All the rogue states. North Korea. Iran. Some kind of pan-Islamic movement. The one who scares me most is Muammar Useef, the erstwhile Saudi playboy.”

“Long-range ballistic missiles bearing germs. That’s how Muammar would go. And he’s got the money and the motive.”

“And the track record, of course. Not to mention the opportunity. No question. That’s why the Yanks are taking this one so seriously,” Hawke said.

“Funny,” Congreve said. “The world seemed a much safer place when all we had to deal with was a bunch of drunken Russians stumbling around the Kremlin knocking over the samovars.”

“Yes. Praying they didn’t all wake up with hangovers and bang their bloody bums up against the wrong button,” Hawke said. He paused a moment, looking at his friend thoughtfully before he spoke.

“Actually, there’s another matter I’m pursuing down here, Ambrose. I mentioned it to you on the docks this afternoon. At the risk of being dramatic, I’m going to show you something I’ve never shown another living being. Or even a dead being for that matter.”

“Nothing too personal, one would only hope.”

“Please, Ambrose. This is quite serious.”

“Hawke!”

Sniper had squawked a warning, and Hawke knew Quick must be approaching the banquette where they were sitting. It was one of the oldest pirate tricks in the books, but it still worked. Over the years, Hawke had been working on Sniper’s vocabulary, and the bird had a surprising range of expressions.

Tommy Quick was carrying a small metal box with an electronic keypad embedded in the top. He placed it gently on the table in front of them.

“Put Sniper back in his cage, will you, Tom?” Hawke said, waving his hand before his nose. “I don’t think this Brie agrees with him. Upset stomach.” Quick held out his forearm, and the bird immediately flew from its owner’s shoulder to the steward’s outstretched arm.

Ambrose leaned forward to touch the silver box, and Hawke grabbed his hand in mid-air. “Don’t touch the box, Ambrose. It’s alarmed and will respond to my fingerprints only. Sorry.”

“A lovely box.”

“Isn’t it? Polished titanium,” Hawke said, punching in his code. The lid of the box snapped open with a hiss, then started rising slowly. Peering over the edge, Congreve saw a small scrap of blue paper, now yellowed with age. There was some kind of crude drawing and quite a bit of scribbling below the picture. Hawke punched another key, and the interior of the box was illuminated. Then a thick piece of glass lowered from the raised lid to cover the opening. It was, Congreve saw, optical glass designed to magnify the contents.

“It’s the map, Ambrose. The one I spoke of. Early eighteenth century. My grandfather gave it to me.”

“A map of what, exactly?”

“Oh, buried treasure, and all that sort of thing. My grandfather loved to tell stories of cutthroat buccaneers and bloodthirsty swashbucklers and buried booty. This map you see here belonged to one of my more infamous ancestors.”

“They were all infamous, as far as I can tell. Right down to the present day.”

“Every family has a few black sheep, I suppose. Only in my family, it was a black hawk.”

“Blackhawke, the pirate. Yes. Your great ancestral role model. I’ve always been curious about that bloody chapter in the Hawke family history. So, tell me the story for God’s sake. The barbarous Russians won’t be here for another half hour!”

“Well, if you’re really interested.”

“Hawke, you really do try my patience at times.”

“All right, all right. I’ll tell you the tale.”

11

“The pirate stared at the skulking black rat,” Alex Hawke began, and he was off.

“Last meal, Rat!” the ragged old man shouted hoarsely at the creature. “Here’s the totality of me bleeding generosity at last, down your bleeding gullet, I’m afraid.” The pirate eyed a lively morsel of weevil-infested bread and lobbed it at the oily-looking creature. The rat had backed into its favorite dank corner of the prison cell, all eyes and haunches. Man and rodent had grown quite companionable these last few months, and the proffered tidbit was quickly consumed.

The rat’s black eyes glittered as it turned away from its benefactor with nary a trace of gratitude for past favors. There then came a sound from the pirate’s throat that could have passed for a sigh, had it not been so mournful, and he collapsed back upon his pitiful rack. Wrapping a threadbare blanket around his shoulders, he lifted his gaze. One patch of sky was visible in the moldy wall opposite, and he could see the light was fading. With it went the pirate’s chances for a long and happy life.

Unlike his friend Rat, the ailing buccaneer would not be enjoying the hospitality of Newgate Prison when the sun rose next morning. The prisoner coughed and smiled grimly in spite of himself. Six months prior to his arrest and this miserable circumstance, he’d been out on the open seas of the Caribbee, his ship bursting to the gunwales with captured booty he’d relieved from a Spaniard, on a hard reach, flying up the Gulf Stream, finally to home and family after long years afloat.

They’d be coming for him shortly, he knew, for what would be his last journey. King’s men, horses, and soldiers. Coming to load him into a cart, him and a few of his miserable shipmates, and haul them all away, down Holborn Street, through the laughing, taunting crowds. This trip was known poetically as “heading west.” But every lost soul rolling out Newgate’s gilded archway for the last time knew he was eastbound. East, for the muddy banks of the Thames and Executioner’s Dock. Where waited a length of stout rope and the hangman.

“It’s old Blackhawke himself that’s cornered now, ain’t it, Rat?” he said, watching the animal scurry to the corner opposite. The man dipped his quill once more into the inkwell and returned to his unfinished letter. He coughed and shivered in the chill, damp air.

His recent trip across the icy North Atlantic, chained like a dog in the brig, and subsequent few months in this notorious pesthole of a prison had left the famous pirate captain much diminished. Once the mere sight of his flagship masthead appearing on the horizon had struck fear into every man afloat. Now Blackhawke was a figure of mockery and derision, wrongly consigned to the hangman’s noose by high-placed friends now turned lower than dogs, treacherous enemies who had betrayed him to save their own hides.

Blackhawke straightened and turned once more to his letter. Such thoughts of doom weren’t befitting a man of his stature and fame. And, besides, there was still the chance of the king’s pardon, wasn’t there? He dipped his quill, put it to the blue paper, and made a few scratches, trying to sketch in the outline of the island’s coastline. He wasn’t much used to drawing maps and figures, and it taxed him sorely.

“Now, where was that bloody rock?” he said to Rat, scratching his raggedy beard. “I remember a spiky rock standing just above the cave, looked like a ship under sail it did, but where? Here, I think,” he said, and drew it on the map.

He’d been trying to finish the letter to his wife all week, but his mind was clouded with fear, anger, and rum. The rum was courtesy of the Newgate Prison parson, who’d been smuggling it into his cell in ever more copious quantities as his days dwindled.

“See? All smugglers in some ways, ain’t we, Parson?” he’d said between sips of rum to the clergyman that very morning. Both knew it was possibly the pirate’s last drink. “Piracy! There’s a laugh! Who ain’t a pirate? It’s the way of the world they’re hanging me for! And me not even guilty! Why, I had me that letter of marque from his majesty and two French passes for all them East India ships I took, didn’t I?”

He and the parson both knew that wasn’t exactly true. The famous pirate captain had been sentenced to death for the murder of a Mr. Cookson, a former bosun on his ship. The captain, strolling his quarterdeck, had overheard an unflattering remark from the bosun and banged the man smartly on the head with a wooden bucket. Unfortunately, the poor fellow expired two days later.

At his trial for both murder and piracy, Blackhawke had claimed it was manslaughter, a crime of passion. Suppression of mutiny, he’d argued in the dock. But the jury had decided otherwise. In words that tolled like solemn bells in the gloom of the Old Bailey, each prisoner learned his fate that evening.

“You shall be taken from the Place where you are, and be carried to the Place from whence you came, and from thence to the Place of Execution, and there be severally hang’d by your necks until you be dead.

“And may the Lord have mercy on your souls.”

The pirate scratched some more on the scraps of blue paper that Parson had given him. His fever had parched his memory. He was having trouble remembering the outline of the rocky coast on the nor’west side of the island. This was information vitally important to his purposes. It was his last chance to provide sustenance for his soon to be grieving widow and children. As he drew, he tried to call up the night he’d buried the last of his ill-gotten treasure.

On a chilled, moonless night, he and two mates had left the moored English Third-Rater and rowed the skiff toward the island’s rocky coast. Though Blackhawke had paid careful attention as the shoreline hove into view, the exact geography of the place had long receded now from his mind’s eye.

Well, he’d just do the best he could and hope his dear wife would find the location. Surely she’d recognize the twisting river that he roughed in there on that jagged coast jutting into the sea? And the coconut trees here, and the big rock above the cave? His drawings looked something like cocoa trees, didn’t they?

He put a bold black X where he thought the treasure should be. Yes. That was it. Just about that far west of the river.

The captain and two shipmates had done their digging inside the cave right there, two leagues west of the mouth of the river. Boca de Chavon, the Spaniards called it, whatever that meant. And exactly one hundred paces from that big rock jutting into the sea, the one that nearly chewed the bottom out of that skiff all right.

Three men had rowed ashore. There was a hidden cave, the mouth of which was completely underwater all the time save dead low tide. At the very back of that cave was where they did their digging, hacking deep through coral and wet sand.

But after the bags of gold were safely concealed in a deep hole in the deepest part of the cave, only one man had returned to the sloop that night. Blackhawke himself. The two mates remained behind to “guard” the treasure, although they were in a most unhealthy condition. As they held their lanterns, leaning over, peering down into that black hole full of gold, both had their skulls stove in by a mighty swipe of Blackhawke’s spade.

Under the crude illustration, Blackhawke wrote to his wife in his crabbed hand:

Gold! Aye, there’s gold in that cave on the Dog’s Island, dearest wife, verily some hundred odd bags of it that we lifted from the good ship Santa Clara, being the barge of the Spanish corsair Andrés Manso de Herreras, which we took as a prize off the Isle of Dogs.

This Manso de Herreras, he was the most bloodthirsty of cutthroats and we lost many a man in a pitched battle on his decks once we’d boarded the Santa Clara. He almost got the better of your beloved husband, advancing on me from behind, but my faithful parrot Bones sung out in time and I sent the cur to his maker and his gold to my hold from whence I stashed it in the cave. I pray you, care for old Bones, since the wily old bird will live a long life and twas mine he saved.

But also in that cave you’ll find two unfortunate souls who I had to dispatch so as to keep my secrets. Prepare yourself for them skeletons before you lift your spade, my Darling. And do your digging as I do mine, on nights when the moon has fled the sky or the clouds abet your endeavours.

A caution, dear Wife! There’s grave danger for a body wanting to go ashore on that rocky coast. Cave Canem! Its teeth are sharp enough to bite you into bits. Many have died trying. But, once past those cruel teeth, I warrant that my poor family’s salvation lies beneath my mark on the old Dog himself.

At least I go to my maker knowing I’ve provided for you and our dear children. I’ve got some fancy this letter will prove my farewell, although the king may spare me yet. I only hope my good name will not be forever sullied by this treacherous betrayal—

There was a sharp rap at his cell door, and Blackhawke looked up. Surely they’d not come for him so early as this? Blackhawke hurriedly reached beneath his threadbare bedcovers and withdrew a battered brass spyglass. He removed the eyepiece and set it aside. Taking up his quill, he scrawled under the map and letter “With undying affection, your husband Richard” at the bottom of his letter.

He then rolled up this document and inserted it into the body of the spyglass. As good a hidey-hole as any and his only one at that!

Another rap at his door and he called out, “Away with you, whoever you may be! Captain Blackhawke is not presently receiving!”

He was screwing the eyepiece back into place when the heavy cell door swung open. It was only Parson, carrying another jug of prison grog.

“Good Parson!” Blackhawke said. “Have you happy word from my beloved monarch?” Blackhawke was at the window, the spyglass to his eye, peering through the bars at the dark and lowering clouds. Good, he thought, the letter was not visible inside the shaft of the glass. He’d get the thing to his wife somehow, with the parson’s help.

The parson came forward and handed the jug of grog to Black-hawke, who immediately took a deep swig. “Come, what news? I beg you.”

“The king’s men are in the courtyard,” Parson said. “The carts are being harnessed as we speak. Only one of your crew was pardoned. A Mr. Mainwaring, who finally produced convincing evidence of his innocence, Captain.”

The old pirate collapsed back upon his cot and uttered one word, “Lost.”

12

“Splendid yarn!” Congreve exclaimed just as the heavily armed steward came to stand beside Hawke. “For God’s sakes, man, don’t stop now!”

“Sorry for the interruption, sir,” Tom Quick said. “But the stern watch just rang up to say the launch has left the dock and your guests are on their way.”

“Thank you, Tommy.”

Ambrose slapped his knee in delight. “Astounding. Really quite remarkable!”

“What do you mean?” Hawke asked.

“Well, I mean to say it gave me goose pimples. The ‘skulls stove in with spades.’ All that blood and thunder sort of thing.”

Hawke smiled at his friend. He had to admit he had gotten rather caught up in the telling of the tale.

“So what happened next, old chap?” Ambrose asked. “You’ve certainly captured my imagination!”

“Well, I’ll continue it later, if you insist. I’m not much of a storyteller, but I must have made Grandfather tell it a hundred times. I’ve been anxious to tell you the story, and show you the map, ever since we got down here to the tropics. Get your old brain working on the thing. I’ve been chewing at that map all my life and made a little progress, of course, but I’ve only gotten so far.”

“It’s fascinating. Once I’ve examined the document more closely, I’ll compare it to some of the older maps in the ship’s library. First thing tomorrow and—heavens—look at the time! I’d better get hopping. I’ve got a few very nervous crustaceans awaiting me in the kitchen and I think it’s time to get them into a nice hot bath.” Congreve got to his feet.

“It’s called a galley, Constable. How many times must I remind you? On a boat, the kitchen is the galley.”

“In my view, a kitchen by any other name is still a kitchen.”

“I give up,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Show those lobsters no mercy.”

“Yes, once the lobsters have been murdered in cold blood, I’ll rejoin you and your new comrades in arms,” Congreve said. He wandered off, cocktail in hand, pipe between clenched teeth.

Hawke noticed Quick coming up the steps with a bottle of Chateau Montrachet on ice.

“Love a splash of that, Tom,” he said.

“Pleasure,” Tom said, and poured him a glass.

“These two men coming for dinner,” Hawke said. “Russians, as you know. Arms dealers, in fact. Highly untrustworthy. Has Sutherland alerted the crew and staff remaining on board tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble. A fairly pathetic duo. But keep your eyes open all the same, Tom. You look a proper steward, but you’re armed to the teeth, I suppose?”

Quick opened his loose-fitted starched white jacket to reveal twin holsters strapped across his chest, a pair of nine-millimeter automatics in each one. There was a bandolier of extra magazines around his waist.

“Ah, good. I wonder. Do you find yourself missing good old Fort Hood much, Sergeant Quick?”

“Every minute of every day, sir,” Tom said, smiling.

“Good lad. I’m grateful to have you aboard.”

“Shall I escort the guests up here when they arrive?”

“Yes, and do me a small favor, would you?” Hawke asked, keying the code that would close the metal box. “Would you return this box to the library? I believe you know where it’s kept? And, also, there is a rather large black Halliburton travel case in the same locker.”

“Yes, sir. I know the one.”

“Please bring the case up to wherever Congreve has us dining this evening. And stow it out of sight.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll be in the small dining room, just off the library,” Quick said, and turned to go. He paused. “Sorry, the wine steward asked if you’d chosen a dinner wine.”

“Do we have any more of this sixty-four Montrachet left?”

“I’ll speak to the steward, sir.”

“Good. I hate to waste good wine on bad company, but perhaps it will loosen their tongues.”

“I’ve got the audio recording system set up in the dining room, sir.”

“Fine. Keep a close watch while these two redbirds are aboard, Tommy. I don’t want them going anywhere on the ship unaccompanied. Even if they need to use the head, someone stands outside.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Hawke rose and strolled over to the ship’s stern rail. He gazed out over the polished black ocean and breathed deeply. On the horizon, humped silhouettes of islands, bone-white in the moonlight, looked, in a trick of light, like a slouching white bear, sleeping. About half a mile out, he could see the launch approaching. Her bow was up on a plane, throwing white water to either side, red and green running lights winking. A long trail of frothy wake streamed behind her in the moonlight.

Christ, it was beautiful. Was that why, since he’d arrived in these islands, he’d noticed this strange feeling, like a tug on his soul? He could have invited Victoria down here to share all this with him. Bad idea, he’d finally decided. The trip was, after all, strictly business. Sticky business, probably. Make that definitely. Maybe even risky business.

Vicky. The mental picture of her standing right here at the rail was so strong he felt he could almost reach out and stroke her lovely hair. It had been a long few weeks since she’d waved good-bye to him on a rainy afternoon outside his home in Belgrave Square.

Something caught his eye and he looked up just in time to see a flaming star’s brief arc across the deep blue bowl of the heavens.

So lovely here. A dusting of stars and a fat moon played hide-and-seek now among a few tattered clouds. The hearty salt tang in his nostrils smelled of seaweed and iodine. Something about the place was definitely tugging at his heart. Caribbean moons and stars were not the sort of thing a boy of seven or so would remember, of course. He had little memory of being here at all. Still, here he had been, and now his work had brought him back.

Gazing out, Hawke was astounded to find his eyes tearing up. What on earth? He was hardly the type to get all leaky about a pretty view or even a beautiful woman, was he? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something about this place that—

He had turned and started to go below when it hit him. A kind of chill ran through him, then a shudder so severe it rattled his bones. He staggered, reached out, and gripped the rail with both hands. He’d gone all lightheaded and short of breath. Seeing his knuckles go white on the rail, he realized he was literally holding on for dear life. Had he actually blacked out?

He managed a few deep, slow breaths and it seemed to calm him a little. Still, his heart was jackhammering in his chest. Was this what a heart attack felt like? A stroke? Good Lord, it couldn’t be! He was only thirty-seven years old. He exercised like a fiend, smoked only the occasional cigar, drank only the odd cocktail or two. He was fond of his wine, true, but that was good for you, wasn’t it? he asked himself, weaving his way over to the banquette where he collapsed.

If this was some severe illness announcing itself, the timing couldn’t be worse. He clasped his hand to the back of his neck, squeezing hard, feeling the spike of panic abate just a bit.

He’d been thinking, while shaving just this very morning, that he’d never felt better in his life. In a world besieged by dirty little wars and full of evil, dangerous people, he was doing his duty. Work he felt was vitally important. At the same time, he’d managed to rebuild his family fortune and fund causes and charities he believed in.

And, at last, he’d met a beautiful woman he couldn’t get off his mind, Dr. Victoria Sweet. Doc, he’d taken to calling her. She wasn’t practicing much medicine anymore. She’d been a pediatrician, specializing in children’s neurological disorders. Then she’d published a children’s book called Whirl-o-Drome that had become an enormous success on both sides of the ocean. Hawke had adored the story. And so had the public. There was talk of Hollywood.

He leaned his head back on the cushion and looked up into the night sky. He remembered the rainy night Vicky had read the thing aloud. It was soon after they’d met. And he remembered telling her that such wonderful stories would probably do more, for far greater numbers of children, than her medical practice might ever accomplish. Especially Whirl-o-Drome.

It was a tale of a child’s enduring love. A young boy, whose father’s Spitfire has been shot down in flames during the Battle of Britain, is sent to live in a seaside village with his aunt. Every night, he goes down to an old amusement park by the sea and rides the Whirl-o-Drome, an ancient merry-go-round with toy airplanes secured at the ends of long poles. The little planes spin round and round, and climb or dive when the children use the airplane’s control stick.

One night, just before closing and after many, many rides, the boy’s little silver plane comes to life. The lights inside the cockpit suddenly illuminate. Needles are spinning on the dials. Tiny red lights are winking out on the wing tips. Suddenly, the boy hears static and a faint voice. It’s coming from the headphones of an old leather flying helmet that has somehow appeared between his feet. He places the helmet on his head and pulls the goggles down over his eyes. Suddenly, a button he’s never seen before begins to glow bright red at the center of the console. The voice in the headphones tells him to push the red button in front of him. He does, and the little airplane disengages from the arm of the ride, and the boy soars out over the sea.

“Climb, climb!” says the strangely familiar voice in his earphones, and the boy pulls back on the stick, soaring higher and higher. Finally, he bursts through a canyon of clouds into clear starlit air. He sees an old Spitfire doing barrel rolls in the moonlight. He races to catch up with the plane and sees the number on its wing.

Number Seven. His father’s number.

“Timmy? Is that you?” the voice in his earphones says. The voice sounds an awful lot like—

“Y-yes?”

“See that big bright moon on the horizon? You stay right off my starboard wing and follow me all the way there. There’s something I want you to see!”

“Are you really—Number Seven? Because Number Seven was my father’s plane and—”

“It’s me, Timmy,” the voice said. “It’s your father. You can find me up here most nights, if you’ll just believe in your little plane.”

It was a lovely tale.

“Skipper?” Tommy Quick said. “Sorry to bother you. But the guests have arrived.”

“Ah, yes. The guests. Thank you, Tom. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

He realized his heart was still racing. He willed the image of Vicky to appear out there before him. He let her smiling eyes finally cause the triphammer of his heart to slow gradually to a near normal pace. What on earth was the matter with him? He wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, but this wasn’t the first time he’d suffered one of these little, what did they call them, seizures. They’d begun shortly after Blackhawke had arrived in the Caribbean. Ironic. People came here to relax.

After a little while, he felt somewhat like his old self once again. He sprang from the banquette and headed for his stateroom to shower and dress for dinner. He looked at his watch on his way down the aft stairway. He had maybe ten minutes to collect himself before it was time to go down and suffer his insufferable guests.

13

The huge twin rotor blades of the olive-green Kamov-26 helicopter started spinning rapidly as Manso spooled up the revs of the jet turbine engine. He looked over at his lone passenger, Fidel Castro.

“All buckled in, Comandante?” he asked over the intercom. Both of them were wearing headphones with speakers. It was the only way you could communicate because of the turbine engine’s whine.

“Sí, Manso. Vámonos!” Castro said.

Manso flipped a switch that killed any transmission in the leader’s headphones.

“Havana Control, this is Alpha Bravo Hotel One,” Manso said. “Do you copy?”

“Copy loud and clear, Alpha Bravo, you’re clear for takeoff. Over.” Manso recognized the silky voice of Rodrigo del Rio, owner of the Club Mao-Mao and, more importantly, Castro’s former deputy head of State Security. Now he’d been bought and paid for by Manso. His loyalty to Manso was unquestioned. Only this morning, the air traffic controller typically in the tower at this time of day had been stabbed to death in his bed by del Rio. Rodrigo had used his weapon of choice, a gleaming pair of silver scissors that had earned him the nickname Scissorhands.

“Roger that, tower,” Manso said.

He took a deep breath and said the three code words that would change Cuba forever. Upon hearing the code, Rodrigo, in concert with Manso’s brothers Juan, General of the Army of the West, and Carlos, Commander in Chief of the Navy, would unleash their forces. They would initiate the first military takeover of Cuba in forty-some years.

“Mango is airborne.”

“We copy that, Alpha Bravo,” Rodrigo said. “Mango in the air. Over.”

Safety checks complete, rotors engaged, the Kamov-26 rose vertically some forty feet into the air. Manso tilted the nose over to initiate forward velocity and roared across the bay. The old yacht club fell away quickly, but Manso liked to fly low, almost brushing the tops of the sailboat masts in the marina.

The skippers on the fishing trawlers all knew el jefe’s chopper on sight, and he saw many of them lift their caps and wave as Manso executed a sharp looping turn to the southeast and headed back across the Malecón that ran along the bay, climbing up over Morro Castle and the crumbling city of Havana.

“The speech, it was excellent, Comandante,” Manso said, once they were out over the countryside.

Castro turned and gave him a look. Manso knew as the words were coming out that it had been a foolish remark. They’d known each other too long for such trivialities. Castro had an innate genius when it came to selling himself. It had allowed him to dazzle millions of people around the world. This speech was simply more anti-American self-promotion, done brilliantly, nothing new.

Beads of sweat had popped out on Manso’s brow and threatened to run down into his eyes. He realized he was too nervous for small talk. Tense. It would be wise to just shut up and fly.

“Gracias,” Castro said, the word dripping sarcasm, and turned to gaze out the window at his failed utopia, falling away beneath him as the chopper gained altitude. God knows what he’s thinking, Manso thought, surreptitiously eyeing his leader. Look at him. He has confronted and defeated ten American presidents. He has made himself a martyr through sheer defiance, spitting in the face of Uncle Sam. With the Cold War ended, he has used America’s outdated trade embargo to further burnish his shining star. A cunning actor, strutting across the stage of the world, occasionally luring popes, potentates, terrorists, and presidents to the little island, adding a little glamour to his cast.

This earnest, brave-hearted, little off-off-Broadway production, Castro’s Cuba, had been running for over forty years. The star of the show was still shining bright, his name still up in lights all over the world.

The secret? Manso had learned it well from Escobar. Every great hero needs an implacable enemy. El jefe had the perfect enemy. The one country the world loves to hate. America. Manso had watched, first Pablo and then Fidel. He’d learned every sleight of political hand and every brilliant move, and was now ready to implement his former masters’ concepts for himself.

Castro, at seventy-five, obviously had no idea what the immediate future held for him, or Manso would be dead. Were there even a trace of suspicion, the leader would never be up in this helicopter alone with him. So, why the tightness in Manso’s chest, the sweat stinging his eyes?

It had been a tense six months. Days and nights of endless planning and tense debate. Even this simple moment, timing a flight from the Havana Yacht Club to Telaraña, had been a subject of elaborate study and conjecture.

In the beginning, the problems they had faced had seemed insurmountable. Manso’s rebellious confederates needed constant reassurance. Manso, however, had been steadfast in his belief that such an operation could succeed, and even have a kind of simplicity.

They had not been easy to convince, of course. But gradually, Manso had been able to boost their confidence: The unthinkable could be thought, and the undoable could be done. He had been unwavering, and in the end, he had prevailed.

He told them in detail about the perfect simplicity of Batista’s coup back in 1952. Like their own, the ’52 rebellion had originated with a few young military officers, mostly campesinos and middle class. They had become completely disenchanted with the corruption of President Prio’s regime and recruited Batista, a former president himself, to lead the coup that would bring down Prio.

It had gone off precisely as planned. Perfectly.

Batista had arrived in the capital at 2:43 A.M. one Wednesday morning. It was Carnaval, and the merrymakers were still reveling in the streets. Batista was wearing brightly colored slacks and a sports jacket. The guards at Camp Colombia, where nearly two-thirds of Cuba’s armed forces were housed, didn’t even notice him. He literally did a samba through the security gates with his boisterous comrades singing and laughing.

The higher-ranking officers at the camp were all sound asleep. Many had been drinking heavily and simply passed out on the floors of the barracks. At Batista’s signal, they were all arrested and driven to Kuquine, Batista’s palacial country estate outside the capital. Not a single officer had offered any resistance.

Simultaneously, rebel officers were taking over the telephone company and the radio and television stations. By sunrise that morning, the entire operation had been completed.

President Prio returned to the capital and tried to rally his supporters. But without the army or access to the radio and television, his old civilian government was paralyzed. Prio was forced to acknowledge the inevitable.

The only thing Manso always left out of the story was el presidente Prio’s addiction to morphine. When the man wasn’t sleeping, he was sleepwalking. Batista knew this, of course, and used it to his great advantage. Castro, of course, was another story. He hardly ever slept and was constantly surrounded by secret police and vigilant bodyguards.

The plotters had decided to give their operation the code name Mango after a popular song that ridiculed Fidel in his omnipresent green fatigues. Their joke was that you can’t have “mangos” without “mansos.”

Secrecy surrounding Operation Mango had been keeping Manso awake lately. The possibilities of a leak increased with every passing day. He’d lain sleepless many nights during these last months of intense planning, wondering who might betray him, even accidentally.

He had constantly reminded his band of rebels, “When you are sitting on a secret this big, be careful. Because everybody notices that there is something under you.”

And right now, he felt surely the man next to him must see the enormity beneath him. He drew his sleeve across his brow, wiping the sweat from his eyes, hoping Castro wouldn’t notice.

“Did you ever read the book The Last Tycoon by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Manso?” the voice of the comandante crackled suddenly in his earphones. El jefe had been gazing out the side window of the cockpit and Manso thought he had dozed off.

“No, Comandante,” Manso said, intensely relieved that Castro’s mind was on his books at the moment.

“Too bad,” Castro said. “There is a wonderful parable in the book. The hero, who is a young Hollywood film producer, is on a cross-country airplane trip. He is interested in learning to fly, so he goes up into the cockpit. The questions he asks, the pilots think he could learn solo flying in ten minutes, he had such a mentality.”

“Sí, Comandante,” Manso said, a hot spasm of nerves suddenly sizzling at the edges of his brain. Where was this going?

“The plane is flying over a large mountain. Just like the one up ahead of us. Do you see the one I mean?”

“Sí, sí, Comandante,” Manso said. “It’s no problem. Our altitude—”

“Listen to the story, Manso. This mountain is important in the story. The producer tells the pilot and copilot to suppose they were railroad men. And they wanted to build a railroad through the mountains below.”

“Sí, sí. But the mountain is in the way, no?”

“Claro que sí,” Castro said in agreement, looking down through the lexan nose of the cockpit at the green mountain now fast disappearing between his feet.

“They have surveyor’s maps. Showing three or four possibilities, no one better than the others. So, he asks them what they would do, since they have no basis for a decision. The pilot says he would clear the forest on the left side of the mountain and put his railroad there. The copilot says no, it would be simpler to go around to the right where the river has already cleared the trees. I paraphrase, of course, but this is the point. No one is sure.”

“It’s an excellent parable, Comandante.”

“It’s not finished, Manso,” Castro said sharply. He looked at his pilot. “Is something wrong? You are pale. You sweat.”

“No, no, Comandante, I feel fine. A little too much chorizo at lunch, I think. Please. Continue with the story.”

“If you’re ill, it’s dangerous. We should land.”

“Is nothing, I promise. Please tell me the end.” And, after regarding his pilot carefully for several seconds, Castro did.

“This producer, Monroe Stahr, he was a boy genius. He said to the pilots that since you can’t test the best way, you just do it. Pick a way, any way, use powder and nitroglycerine and simply blast your way right through. He said that, then he left the cockpit.”

“Ah,” Manso said.

“You do not understand the parable, my old friend, neither did the two pilots in the story. They thought it was valuable advice, but they didn’t know how to use it. It is the difference between us, Manso. I learned long ago that the best way out is always through. Never around.”

Madre de Dios, Manso thought. Does he know? Suspect? What is the point of this story if he does not?

Manso elected to make no reply, and they flew for another hour in silence. It was the longest hour of Manso’s life.

When they were some fifteen minutes away from landing at Telaraña, Manso finally broke the silence.

“Comandante,” he said, “do you remember a certain Petty Officer Third Class Rafael Gomez? The American sailor Rodrigo recruited in Havana some time ago?”

“Of course I remember him. I read the reports. Rodrigo believes he could prove to be one of our most productive moles inside Guantánamo Naval Station. Is there a problem? Is he compromised?”

Manso took a deep breath and stepped off the wide platform that had been his support, his life, for almost as long as he could remember.

“More of an opportunity, Comandante.”

“Tell me.”

“This Gomez, he is…more than a mole. I have ordered Rodrigo to make arrangements for Gomez to smuggle a weapon inside the U.S. base. A biological weapon. A bomb containing a completely new strain of weapons-grade bacteria developed by the Iraqis. The bacteria are only a diversion. In addition to the bacteria, the bomb contains an indescribably powerful nerve toxin. With a delivery system also created by the Iraqis unlike anything seen before. Expands to cover any predesignated area, kills, and then expires.”

Castro looked stricken. His face suffused with blood as the enormity of what he’d just heard sank in. He turned in his seat and glared at his trusted friend and comrade.

“You? You ordered such a thing without my consent?”

“Sí, Comandante. I ordered it. The Cuban people have suffered the indignity of the Americans on their sovereign soil for over forty years. And you allowed them to do it! I intend to rectify this insult!”

“And Rodrigo? Don’t tell me the deputy chief of Secret Police has complicity in this? Rodrigo has aided you in this madness?”

“I have his support, yes.”

“Have you both gone insane?”

“Comandante, it is you who has allowed the American presence on our island! You should have forced them out decades ago!”

“Your ignorance of political realities would be laughable if it were not so pathetic.”

“There is a new political reality, Jefe.”

“Yes. You and your fellow traitors would rain fire down upon our heads, just like the Al Qaeda brought to Afghanistan!”

“No, Comandante. It is a brilliant plan. We will give the gringos forty-eight hours to evacuate. If they do not—well, once exploded, this bomb will kill every man, woman, and child inside the American compound within hours. Then, it simply expires.”

“My God, Manso,” Castro said, collapsing back against his seat.

“What drives you to this?”

“Vengeance, my comandante. I watched Escobar. I watched you. I spent my life watching two magnificent performances. I was inspired, but I was patient. I saw how brilliantly you picked your enemies. How you would toy with them and bring the spotlight upon yourself. But this humiliation at the hand of the fucking yanquis must end. It’s my time, now. I feel this.”

“You feel it? Your time? To do what? You’re a madman! You have no credible support around you. No political infrastructure. You can’t even control your two brothers! Carlitos is totally unstable. A borderline psychotic. The state will spin out of control!”

“I will deal with my brothers when the storm subsides. I have assembled a cadre of young and trustworthy advisers. As for now, I am ready to wreak havoc and seek vengeance. I am ready to fulfill my destiny.”

“It is not vengeance you seek, Manso,” Castro said with a bitter laugh. “It is only the limelight.”

“Be careful what you say, Jefe.”

“You are beyond transparent. You think you are unique? You have a destiny? You are nothing but a pathetic cliché! You merely want the world to see your face on CNN! Once a man has all the money and power in the world, the only thing left for him to seek is fame.”

“I learned from the master, Comandante.”

“And once you blow up your little bomb, Manso, what then? What’s to stop the Americans from obliterating our country in the space of an hour?”

“They won’t lift a finger, Comandante.”

“You will not succeed, Manso.”

“I think I will. Have you ever heard of the submarine the Russians call Borzoi, Comandante?

14

Hawke carefully folded his linen napkin and pushed himself back from the table. An hour ago, he’d been knocking on death’s door. Now, he felt bloody marvelous. His speedy recovery from the strange malady had been nothing short of miraculous. Whatever had gotten into him up on deck was gone.

“My compliments to the chef, Ambrose,” Hawke said. “What was in that sauce?”

“A simple blend of butter, lime juice, and a lot of Appleton rum. The one-fifty-one proof.”

“That explains it. Feeling tipsy and I’ve only had one glass of wine.”

He wasn’t tipsy at all, but the Russians were. At first, they’d been quiet, a little awed by their surroundings perhaps. But now, having imbibed large quantities of vodka and some of the flashiest wines in the ship’s cellars, they’d acquired a rosy glow and gone quite chatty.

The dinner, from Hawke’s point of view, had gone off well. There’d been no talk of business, and Ambrose had carried on the bulk of the conversation completely in Russian, with only the odd “I say” or “Hear, Hear!” necessary on Hawke’s part. As the steward cleared the table, Congreve refilled the Russians’ glasses with vintage Sandeman port, saying something or other which they found amusing.

Hawke sat back and savored his surroundings, nursing his own small port wine. He loved this room and everything in it. The Minton china and porcelain currently gracing the table had been in the Hawke family for generations. White, with gold trim, each piece of china featured the same magnificent black hawk on a circular field of gold. The same symbol was on Hawke’s flag, the massive ship’s burgee, painted in gold leaf on Blackhawke’s twin smokestacks, and it adorned the crew’s uniforms. The symbol was even emblazoned on the cufflinks Hawke was wearing at this very moment.

But this room. He’d taken great pains with the room itself, making every effort to reproduce a small study at his grandfather’s home on Greybeard Island. This cabin was filled with artifacts from that very room. The paneled walls were of black walnut, hung with the tattered battle flags of regiments of yore.

In an illuminated corner display case were rows upon rows of lead soldiers, a collection Hawke had started as a boy. On occasion, even now, he would re-create famous battles on the dining room table, challenging Ambrose’s own formidable generalship.

There was, too, the magnificent sword collection that had been in the Hawke family for centuries. The swords were mounted everywhere, the most valuable of them locked up inside illuminated glass cases.

Hawke’s eye fell on one sword in particular. His favorite. It was an ornamental rapier with the most exquisite provenance. One of his ancestors had taken it from the body of Marshal Ney, the bravest of Napoleon’s generals. The sword had been in Ney’s hand when he led the last French charge at Waterloo.

His grandfather had taught him the art of fencing with it. Later, at Oxford, he’d mastered the sport and been thrice champion. He still practiced it fiendishly.

He rose from his chair and removed the sword from its pride of place above the small fireplace. Amusing himself, he made a few parries and thrusts.

“Brian,” Hawke whispered to the tall, sandy-haired steward hovering by the door, “that black case that Tom Quick stowed in the pantry? Would you mind?”

“Certainly, sir,” Brian said, with a smart salute, and pushed through the swinging door that led to the pantry.

Brian Drummond was only one of the many “stewards” aboard whom Hawke had recruited from various branches of the British military. Royal Navy, SAS, and the Special Boat Squadron, where Brian had served, an elite unit on a par with the Navy SEALs. The stewards on board Blackhawke were, in fact, a small, highly trained fighting force under the joint command of Brian Drummond and Tom Quick.

Hawke, in a jolly mood not to be knocking on heaven’s door, after all, raised the gleaming sword and pointed it directly at the bearded Russian called Golgolkin.

“Do you fence at all, comrade?” Hawke said to him, and Congreve, highly amused, translated.

“Nyet,” said Golgolkin, and that was good enough for Hawke.

“Pity, it’s my favorite sport,” Hawke said, and, drawing his dinner jacket aside, he slid the rapier through his cummerbund so that he was now wearing it on his hip. “Rather rakish, don’t you think, Ambrose?” Hawke had donned black tie and evening clothes, a tradition he kept whenever company came to supper.

“Everyone should wear one,” Congreve replied with a sly grin. “You never know when you might want to make a point.”

Standing at the stern just as the launch arrived, Congreve and Hawke had come up with a novel way of extracting the desired information should their guests prove less than forthcoming. Congreve could see that Hawke now felt it was time to put their plan in motion.

“Ambrose, please tell our guests that we’re about to serve dessert. Something I whipped up especially for them,” Hawke said.

The Russians, whose cheeks were flushed with vodka and wine, smiled broadly as Congreve spoke. They had never expected to be invited aboard the famous Blackhawke. And, now, to be served a dish created by the famous owner himself? Well, they’d be dining out on this tale back in Moscow for years to come, that much was certain.

Hawke pushed a button mounted under the dining table. In the pantry, Brian saw the flashing light above the door and entered the room, carrying the small Halliburton metal case. As Hawke had instructed, he placed it on the dining table in front of the two Russians and stepped back.

“Gentlemen,” Hawke said, walking around the table toward the Russians, “we have a special treat for dessert this evening. I think you’re going to enjoy it.”

As Congreve translated, Hawke reached across the table and released the two latches. The case lid cracked open.

“Tonight, we’re serving”—he opened the case with a flourish—“money.”

The Russians’ eyes went wide, startled at the sight of the neatly wrapped and arranged stacks of U.S. currency that filled the case.

“Not at all fattening,” Hawke said. “Only twenty million calories, after all.”

The Russians were speechless. They kept looking at each other, the money, and then each other again. This Hawke was unlike anyone else they’d dealt with. Neither was quite sure how to respond to a man so cavalier with his cash.

Hawke closed the case, locked it, and handed it back to Brian.

“Ambrose,” Hawke said, “our guests are invited to continue discussing this transaction up on deck. Perhaps a brief tour of the yacht while we talk.”

While the translation was in progress, Brian walked to the bookcase beside the small hearth and reached up to a large leather-bound volume, Life of Nelson, and pulled it halfway out. There was a faint whir somewhere, and the bookcase slid back and to one side, revealing a small elevator.

“This goes directly to the bridge, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We’ll begin our tour there.” He stood back and let the astonished Russians and Ambrose enter, then stepped inside and hit the button for the bridge deck. The elevator started up.

The door slid open to reveal the bridge, a massive room, inky black save for the vast array of multicolored display screens that filled an instrument panel stretching some thirty feet across. Above the screens, large black windows ran from one side of the room to the other. The windows were tinted, but you could see the starry skies beyond.

A single captain’s chair was mounted before the center of the panel.

A large screen just to the right of the chair seemed to show a live view from space. Through the moving cloud layers, you could see a scattering of small winking lights below in the darkness.

Hawke, seeing the guests eyeing the screen, said, “A live satellite view of our precise location. Were I to zoom in, we could see the lights of Blackhawke itself.”

Congreve translated this to noises of amazement from the Russians. Hawke hated showing off, but with these two he had no qualms.

“Captain Robbie Taylor is normally in charge of this ship. I gave the captain the night off,” Hawke said, escorting the Russians into the room. “So the ship is essentially running itself. There are twenty-two mainframe computers monitoring every system aboard and talking to each other twenty-four hours a day.”

“Frightfully boring conversation, I should imagine,” Ambrose whispered to Hawke, and then translated what Hawke had said to the Russians.

There was a sudden low screech in the darkness, and then a dark shape was darting toward the larger of the two Russians. The man cried out, more in fear than in pain, and Hawke quickly shouted, “Sniper! Release!”

The Russian—it was Golgolkin—was cursing loudly, and Congreve touched a wall panel that brought up a soft, diffused lighting from the domed ceiling.

Hawke’s beloved parrot had Golgolkin’s right wrist clamped in his sharp beak.

“Sniper!” Hawke shouted. “I said ‘Release’!”

When the bird still did not obey, Hawke said mildly, “Ambrose, Sniper has taken a strong dislike to this fellow. Ask our guest if he is carrying a weapon of some sort, won’t you?”

The Russian replied to Congreve’s question, and Ambrose said, “Pistol. Right pocket of his jacket.”

“Take it,” Hawke said, and Congreve pulled a small automatic pistol from the man’s pocket. He handed the weapon to Hawke. The parrot immediately released the Russian’s wrist and removed himself to perch on Hawke’s outstretched forearm.

“Mr. Golgolkin, I’m disappointed. I didn’t subject either of you to the ship’s metal detector out of common courtesy. And now I find that you come to my dinner table with a gun in your pocket. What were you planning to do with it?”

Ambrose questioned Golgolkin, who was grimacing, rubbing his wrist, and replied, “He says he always carries it. He has many enemies. He offers his deepest apologies.”

“These enemies,” Hawke said, stroking his parrot’s head, “trouble me. Are they the unhappy result of any recent transactions?”

Congreve asked, and said, “He says they are political enemies, not business enemies.”

“Mildly reassuring, I suppose,” Hawke said. “His gun will be returned to him at the launch. In the meantime, we’ll continue our little tour.”

After the translation, Congreve said, “He apologizes once more and hopes this unfortunate mistake on his part won’t have a negative effect on this transaction.”

Hawke waved the notion away.

“Come, gentlemen, I’d like to show you the view of the islands from the bow of the ship. It’s magnificent.”

Hawke touched a panel on the wall, and a giant gullwing section of the starboard-side bulkhead opened upward out into the night sky, silently above the deck. He stepped through and waited for the others to follow.

“This way, please,” Hawke said, striding briskly forward along the teak decks. The others had to hurry to keep up.

“They should know,” Hawke said over his shoulder, “that they are free to take five million dollars cash with them tonight when they leave the ship. In return, I want a written commitment for three things. A delivery date six months hence. The right to see the actual submarine prior to commissioning. And acknowledgment that the boat will be finished precisely to my personal specifications. Still with me, Ambrose?”

“Of course.”

“Splendid,” Hawke continued. “In addition, as I said earlier, I want to speak directly with their most recent purchaser. Assuming he’s a satisfied customer, and they fulfill the other obligations, they will receive my commitment for the balance. To be determined, of course.”

The foursome had reached the bow of the ship. There was a narrow bow pulpit extending some ten feet out over the water. The pulpit itself was some forty feet above the ocean’s moonlit surface.

“They agree to all conditions,” a slightly winded Congreve said, “save one. They cannot divulge the names of any prior purchasers. It is, apparently, a no-no in their trade.”

“Ah, well, progress of a sort,” Hawke said, extending his hand toward the pulpit. “In order to enjoy the full splendor of the view, they need to walk out on the pulpit to get out over the water. No need to fear, it’s quite sturdy.”

Congreve told them, and the two Russians, followed by Hawke and Congreve, walked out onto the narrow pulpit. Hawke removed a remote control device hanging from the pulpit’s stainless steel rail. He pushed a button, and the entire pulpit started extending silently forward from the bow of the ship.

“Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We use this as a gangplank for docking in the Mediterranean. When it’s fully extended, you’ll be able to look back and see the entire superstructure of the yacht. Quite a sight.”

The Russians said something and Congreve translated, “They say the great height makes them nervous.”

“To hell with height,” Hawke said. “Tell them to look at all the bloody sharks circling down below. And ask them if they’d like me to take a picture of them together. A souvenir of the evening. I brought a little camera.”

Congreve told them and both Russians were clutching each other in a boozy embrace and breaking into silly grins.

“What a fabulous photo op,” Hawke said, backing up and putting the small camera to his eye. “Splendid, but I’m a little too close. I’ve got to back up a few feet—hold that smile—yes, this is going to be brilliant. Hold it one more second—” Hawke and Congreve stepped off the pulpit and back onto the bow and the camera flashed.

And then he did something that struck terror into both the Russians’ hearts. He pushed another button on the remote that caused the steel guard railings running along either side of the pulpit to withdraw into the hull. The two arms dealers shouted and clung to each other for dear life, staring down at the sea far below.

They were essentially standing at the end of a narrow diving board forty feet above shark-infested waters. They screamed something in Russian, but Hawke ignored them.

Instead, he drew his sword and walked toward them.

“How much for this Borzoi?” he asked.

“They say one hundred fifty million.”

“Done,” Hawke said. “And the owner of the other Borzoi? I want that name.”

The Russians said a few words.

“Impossible for them to reveal it,” Congreve said.

“Operation Invincible Sword,” Hawke said. “Remember that little fiasco in Bahrain, Comrade Golgolkin?” He flicked his sword tip across the fat man’s belly and said, “Welcome to the sequel.”

Congreve had to smile. Alex Hawke was nothing if not a shrewd negotiator.

15

Gomez looked at his watch. He was already half an hour late for the birthday party.

This was unfortunate because the party was in honor of Lucinda Nettles’s fourth birthday. Little Cindy was the only child of Admiral and Mrs. Joseph Nettles. And Joe Nettles was the commanding officer at the United States Naval Air Station, Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. In other words, Joe was Gomez’s boss. El nacho grande here on Gitmo, as they called the joint.

Normally, of course, lowlife swabbies like Gomez didn’t get invited to the CO’s pad for parties, hang out, have a cold one, shoot the shit with the old man himself. But Gomez’s two girls, Amber and Tiffany, were in the same class as Cindy Nettles. And that was the only reason Joe’s wife, Ginny, had even invited them to this damn party, he knew that much for sure. Also, Gomez’s wife, Rita, had gotten pretty palsy-walsy with Mrs. Nettles lately. Went to some friggin’ card game there every week.

Fightin’ Joe ran a tight ship. The invitation with all the little balloons said three o’clock sharp. It had been right there on the refrigerator door all week. Three o’clock it said, and now it was three-forty. And Fightin’ Joe didn’t like it when you were late.

Joe went to Annapolis, but, face it, he was still a damned redneck. Hell, he used go up on those watchtowers sometimes, the ones looking out over no-man’s-land, the minefield around the base perimeter. His friend Sparky Collins was a guard up there. Sparky told him Joe would climb up and say to the guys on guard, bored shitless, “Hey, watch this, boys!”

Joe, knowing the Cubans—the Frontier Guards, they called themselves—were up in their own towers, had their scopes trained on him, goes up there, turns his back on ’em and drops trou! Moons them, for chrissakes. The friggin’ CO of the whole friggin’ outfit! The Marines all went apeshit and everybody started calling him the Moonman.

And then one day he has this fancy-ass barbeque for some big shots from the State Department and he’s laughing, telling them all about mooning the Cubans, and this wise guy from the Cuban Desk says, “But, Admiral, you obviously don’t understand Cuban culture. In Cuba, they don’t see your action as an insult. They see it as an invitation!”

Whoa.

Everybody within hearing range was smart enough not to laugh right out loud except Gomez, who doubled over with tears in his eyes.

Gomez had never been invited back to the CO’s house, which caused his wife Rita to pitch a shitfit every time the Nettleses had a party and they didn’t make the cut. That’s why she was so hopped up about this damn birthday party. Maybe they’d gone from the shitlist to the A list.

Rita and their two daughters had gone straight to the party from school. The party was going to be out around the pool in the CO’s backyard. Man. He could see it all now. All those screaming kids running around with ice cream and Oreos all over their faces. He hoped they’d be serving something besides Kool-Aid for the grown-ups. Maybe he’d stick a couple of his little airplane Stolis in his pockets for insurance.

Gomer, as his buddies on the base called him, had called his wife and explained that he might be a little late getting to the party. He was stopping by the house to finish wrapping a special present for little Cindy. That’s what he was doing now, at the workbench out in his small garage.

He placed a large box on the bench, opened it, and pulled out a teddy bear. One big teddy bear. The biggest, fluffiest one he could find at the base exchange. Thing had to be at least three feet tall. The tag around its neck said it was a Steiff, imported from Germany or somewhere. Expensive, but, hell, he could afford it. He was a goddamn millionaire!

The bear was snow white. And nice and plump, with a big fat belly too, which served his purposes. The idea for the birthday present had come to him over a few too many beers one recent afternoon in the PX. One minute he’d been mulling the whole thing over. The next minute he had it. It was just the way his brain worked. It was an ability that had brought him a long way from the barrios of Miami.

A long way from the gusanos of Little Havana, señor.

Los Gusanos. That’s what Fidel called his people. The Worms. Like his father and all his aunts and uncles. The ones who’d abandoned their homeland and tried to make a better life in America. The worms. He couldn’t decide who was worse, the fidelistas or the americanos. They were all shit, weren’t they? The Cuban people deserved better, he knew that much.

Castro? America? He could give a shit. That’s why he’d agreed to go along with the Million-Dollar Plan, right? No shit, Sherlock.

A toy. He’d been sitting there at the bar, and whammo! The idea had just popped into his brain. Poof! But not just a toy. A toy inside the home of Guantánamo’s commanding officer. A toy in the room of the CO’s little girl. It was perfect. He had actually started giggling when he thought of it, and his buddies at the bar had looked at him funny.

Damn, he was good, though. You had to admit.

He stopped giggling and started gulping. He’d noticed he was drinking a lot of beer lately. Beer and tranks and, at night, cold potato juice, Vitamin V, right out of the freezer. Then a couple more beers before bedtime. It seemed to help. Bam, he was out like a light. Gonzo. Up at six and he never missed a day of work, did he? Hell, he still pumped iron at the gym. He was doing just fine.

But Rita didn’t think so, obviously. She was ragging his ass day and night. Still bugging him about the goddamn initials on his left hand. A tattoo, he’d told her. It just looked a little weird ’cause it had gotten infected. Then of course she has to know whose initials. Whose? Whose? Some little whore in Havana he’d gotten drunk with? Some AIDS-infected puta?

At that exact moment, a moment when most guys he knew would have lost it, what’s new, he’d nailed it. Just looked her right in the eye and hung it out there.

“MM. ‘My Mother,’” he said.

“Oh.”

“The one who died? Remember her?”

That shut her ass up. But she still never let up about the hootch. Afraid a little booze now and then was ruining his Navy career. As if it wasn’t ruined enough already. You didn’t exactly get promoted for spending a lot of consecutive nights in the brig.

What she didn’t know was that it didn’t goddamn matter! They were rich! That would shut her up on a permanent basis. He’d made them so goddamn rich they could thumb their noses at anybody in the whole stinkpot Navy.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

Rafael Goddamn Gomez, that’s who, and by God, he was one.

He even had this number he could call in Switzerland. He called it every day and gave the guy at the bank his secret account number. They’d give him the current balance in his secret numbered account. Money was growing like weeds over there. Hell, the interest alone was more than his shitty Navy salary.

Did he feel guilty taking all that money? Well, that was a good question. Did Uncle Sam feel guilty about the agony of his sainted mother in that hospital in Havana because of the goddamn U.S. embargo on medicines? That was another good question. How many innocent people had to die in pain before the idiots in Washington lifted that friggin’ blockade?

Guilty? Him?

“I don’t think so,” Gomer said aloud, looking out the greasy garage window at some little kids on their bikes. American kids with lots of Armour hot dogs and Diet Coke and individually wrapped American cheese in the fridge and eardrops in the medicine cabinet if their little ears got little friggin’ earaches. Hell, they even had a McDonald’s here.

Happy Meals! While everybody else in Cuba was going to bed hungry, these little rugrats were wolfing Happy Meals!

Guilty? Not in this friggin’ lifetime.

Gomer took out his pocketknife and flipped open the big blade. He held the teddy bear down on the worktable with one hand and slit it open along the seam under its arm with the other. White stuffing popped out and flew all over the bench. Christ. He looked at his watch again. Four-fifteen. How long did birthday parties generally last anyway?

It would look weird if he didn’t get over there pretty soon. The phone in the kitchen had been ringing off the hook and he was pretty sure it was Rita, wondering what the hell was keeping him. He was doing the best he could, wasn’t he? Providing for his family? There was a cold Budweiser sitting on the table that he didn’t remember bringing out to the garage. Weird. He took a gulp and felt better already. Beer was a goddamn miracle food and nobody ever gave it any credit.

Gomer walked over to his car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. It was an old car, a goddamn embarrassing heap to tell the truth. Well, his days of tooling around in crap like this would be over before you knew it. He had a stack of Corvette magazines under his bed to prove it.

He unlocked the trunk and opened it.

That’s where he’d hidden the package that Julio and Iglesias had given him in Miami. The one they’d wrapped up in his own friggin’ T-shirts and jockeys and put inside his own friggin’ suitcase! Which they’d given back to him in the coffee shop the day he’d agreed to go along with the Big Plan.

The package was in there, right under the spare tire. Since he was the only one who drove the damn car, he figured it’d be pretty safe under there. And there it was, too, right where he stowed it soon as he’d returned from stateside. Man. When you got it going right, you got it going right.

It took him a few minutes to get the package open. First there was all this goddamn Cuban newspaper wrapped in twine. And then all this goddamn bubbly stuff wrapped around the box. And you get that off, then it was goddamn shrink-wrapped inside! Christ. They certainly weren’t making it easy for him. He probably should have done this earlier in the day. Before he’d gone to work.

So he was a little late. Shoot him.

He was curious to see the thing itself. He ripped at the bubble stuff, just throwing it on the floor, trying to get to the box inside. Then he had it. The box was made of some kind of heavy black plastic. High-impact stuff. It had latches on all four sides. He flipped them open, easy.

It was like Christmas. What was in the box?

Oh. A thermos bottle.

That’s what it looked like. A silver thermos with some kind of foam packing all around it. And two other little gizmos packed in the foam right next to it. Everything wrapped in newspaper with some kind of damn Arabic writing on it.

He lifted the thermos out very carefully because he knew what it contained of course. El Motel de los Cucarachas, baby. He set it down on the workbench next to his beer. Careful. Don’t want to knock either of these two babies over! Then he pried the first gizmo out and placed it next to the thermos thing.

The gizmo was round, and threaded inside. And, man, it was heavy. He could see that the threads inside matched the threads outside the bottom of the thermos bottle. He had a vague recollection of the Cubans showing him a drawing, telling him to screw the little gizmo on the—the—what the hell had they called it, the canister.

That’s it. It was a canister, not a thermos bottle. He picked up the gizmo and screwed it to the bottom of the canister. The thing made a little electronic noise that surprised him, but it sounded like a happy noise. Like he’d done it right. Surprise, surprise.

Piece of cake. Birthday cake, he thought, and laughed out loud. You weren’t supposed to laugh at your own jokes, but still.

He turned the whole thing upside down and looked for the switch they’d told him about. They were very nervous that he’d forget the switch, he remembered that. But he hadn’t forgotten to remember, had he? Even though he’d had a little buzz on all day.

The switch was under a little clear red plastic cover that you had to slide back. So far, so good. He slid the cover back and flipped the switch. He took a swig of beer. Then he held the thermos up and looked at the gizmo end. There was a digital readout window with red letters that had now appeared.

He liked the look of the word he saw blinking there. It was just the kind of word that got a whup-ass alpha male like himself hyper-jazzed. In bright red letters it said:

ARMED

How awesome is that? Armed and extremely dangerous. He knew you weren’t supposed to laugh at your own jokes, but you had to chuckle at that one. Okay, now, by the book. Step one: Drink more beer. Step two: Put the thermos inside Mr. Bear, sew up his fat little tummy, and then wrap him all up in the pink paper and the big red ribbon. Put him very carefully into the car.

He’s shaking now, from the inside out. His whole body is thrumming like the frigging G-string on Axl Rose’s Fender Stratocaster.

Okay, the second little gizmo. What had they called it? A soda pop name. 7UP? No, RC. That was it. Leave the second gizmo, a little metal box with an antenna on it, right where it was, inside the black plastic box. He wouldn’t be needing that little item, not until he got The Call. Till then the box could go right back in the trunk under the spare.

Time to amscray on over to the Moonman’s birthday bash.

Easy as peas.

When you’ve totally and completely got your shit together and know exactly what you’re doing, that is.

16

“Nothing stirs the human blood quite like the sight of large dorsal fins knifing through the water,” Hawke said, pointing his sword down toward the sharks circling below. “Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?”

Grigory and Nikolai looked ready to vomit.

“Can anyone identify the various species?” Hawke asked. “There are over three hundred and fifty, you know. Look. There’s a big bull for you. I saw a few tigers and even a white-tip earlier. Nasty fellows. Carnivores. Strictly the man-eating meat-and-potatoes type.”

The big Russian had started to edge his way gingerly back toward Hawke, who pointed his rapier directly at the man’s midriff. The man stopped short.

“Here’s my point, Nikolai,” Hawke said, pressing the sword’s sharp tip against the man’s stomach. “You want my hundred fifty million dollars. I want your nuclear sub. But I insist you give me the name of your last customer. All clear?”

Suddenly, Brian Drummond appeared at Hawke’s side carrying a large stainless steel pail. It was filled with two gallons of pulverized fish entrails, guts, gristle, and blood. What fishermen call chum.

“Ah,” Hawke said, “look, Nikolai. Here’s our steward Brian, who’s brought along his chum. Throw it overboard, please, Brian. Bit ripe for my taste.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.” Brian walked to the forwardmost part of the rail and flung the putrid contents of the pail overboard.

Seconds later the water below the extended pulpit was a churning pinkish froth as the sharks went into a feeding frenzy. The Russians looked down in horror.

“Speak up, boys,” Hawke said. “I’m running out of patience, and you are running out of time.” The two men started gibbering.

“They say revealing names is not only unprofessional; it’s suicide,” Congreve said. “To reveal any of their contacts’ identities would mean certain death for both of them.”

“Ask them what, at this point, they think not revealing those identities means.”

The petrified Golgolkin started talking very rapidly. Rasputin was cringing behind him, speechless with terror.

Congreve listened to all this and turned to Hawke.

“Here we go, Alex. He received a DHL parcel containing five million dollars cash and a telephone number,” Congreve translated. “When he called it, the party did not identify himself, but gave another number to call. After countless calls like this, he finally spoke to someone who claimed to be negotiating for a third party. This party wished to buy a Borzoi-class Soviet submarine. He was willing to pay the going price. He insisted on remaining anonymous.”

“Very good,” Hawke said. “Progress. What was the country code of the last number he called?”

Congreve asked, and said to Hawke, “There were so many numbers, so many different voices, he says he can’t remember. They were all cell phone numbers in various countries.”

“Did he receive the deposit?” Hawke asked.

“He says yes.”

“How did he receive it?”

“He says it was a wire transfer. Into his numbered account in Switzerland.”

“Excellent. And now, please, where was the money transferred from?”

“He says he can’t remember. He begs you to spare his life.”

“Pity. It’s always sad when memory fails us at just the wrong moment,” Hawke said. Sword extended, he walked out over the water toward the cowering Russians.

“Do you know our English expression ‘to walk the plank,’ Comrade Golgolkin?” Hawke asked.

“He says no,” Ambrose said.

“Really? It’s an old Hawke family tradition, invented a few hundred years ago by one of my more rambunctious ancestors, I believe.”

He flicked the sword’s point across the man’s belly.

“Ai-eee!” the Russian cried.

“Sorry, old chap, but this is how it works. You can talk. Or you can walk. Should you choose neither of the above, I can happily run you both through.”

The sword penetrated the man’s shirtfront, and a bright red flower of blood began to bloom on his belly. The Russian looked down at the blade in his stomach, horrified.

“Last chance, Golgolkin,” Hawke said. “Where was the money wired from?”

Rasputin was screaming something, undoubtedly encouraging his colleague to cough up the information. The fat Russian squeezed his eyes shut and uttered something between his clenched teeth.

Hawke turned to Congreve. “I’m sorry, Ambrose. What did he say?”

“The money was wired from a private account. A bank account. In Miami, he thinks.” Congreve said.

“And the name of the bank?”

Congreve translated. A huge sob escaped from the big Russian. “He’s praying,” Congreve said.

“His prayers will go unanswered. I want that bloody bank’s name! Now!” He twisted the sword blade.

“Sunstate Bank,” the Russian blurted out in English.

“Now for the hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar question,” Hawke said. “Who bought the bloody Borzoi? Who? Give me that name on the account in Miami or you’re a dead man!”

“Telaraña,” the Russian finally cried. “Telaraña!”

“That’s better,” Hawke said. “Such a relief when the truth comes out at last.”

Withdrawing his sword but keeping the tip poised at the man’s belly, Hawke said, “Bloody good show! Now, tell this fat bastard two things. If he’s lying, there’s nowhere in the world he can run. I’ll find him and slice him to bloody pieces with this very sword.”

Hearing this, the man shook his head violently. “He understands,” Congreve said. “He’s telling the truth. He swears it.”

“Good. Now that he’s in a talkative mood, I want to know when he received final payment for the Borzoi and when it’s scheduled for delivery. I also want to know how many subs he’s sold, the total number, and I want to know what type of boats they were. Diesel, nuclear, everything. Would you ask him that, please?”

Congreve extracted this information and relayed it to Hawke.

“And one more thing,” Hawke said. “Tell him that if either he or the little mad monk ever lay a hand on that poor girl Gloria again, the sharks will be eating their balls for breakfast.”

When the man shook his head again, Hawke withdrew his sword, wiped the bloody tip on the Russian’s trousers, and stuck it back in his cummerbund. Then he turned and walked toward the portside rail.

Brian was waiting with a glass of port and Hawke’s parrot resting on his forearm. The bird instantly flew to Hawke’s shoulder.

“Call me old-fashioned, Brian,” he said to his steward. “Politically incorrect, I’m quite sure. But, God, I hate dealing with Russians. They’re almost as bad as the French.” He took a swig of the ruby-colored wine.

“Bad as French!” Sniper screeched.

“Almost, Sniper old boy,” Hawke said. “I said ‘almost’ as bad, didn’t I, Brian?”

“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Brian said, discreetly checking the automatic weapon strapped to his shoulder.

“Would you mind seeing these two infections safely back to Staniel Cay? Keep a gun on them.”

“Will do, sir. I think—”

“Hawke! Hawke!” Sniper shrieked.

Hawke spun around. Rasputin, with a murderously mad gleam in his smoldering eyes, was plunging toward him. He had an ugly serpentine-shaped dagger raised above his head and he began screaming like a crazed banshee.

Hawke came close to freezing. Knives, he’d learned long ago, tend to have that effect on most people. But he feinted left and moved right with blinding speed.

He had exactly one second to get an arm up and ward off the downward slashing dagger. He felt the burn as the blade sliced his forearm open and saw bright blood splashing upon the teak decks. Ignoring the pain, he sucked in a deep breath and in an instant he had Rasputin’s knife hand in his grasp and had planted one foot solidly on the deck. He pulled Rasputin forward and pivoted on his one planted heel at the same time.

The Russian pitched forward, grunting, losing his balance, and Hawke gathered himself, using Rasputin’s own forward momentum to lift the shrieking Russian off the deck. Still gripping the knife hand, he pivoted once more and released his grip, flinging the man bodily into the air, out and over the yacht’s waist-high gunwale rail.

With an inhuman wail, the man went pinwheeling into space, finally hitting the water some forty feet below with a great splash.

Hawke leaned against the bulkhead, calmly tying his pocket handkerchief around his blood-soaked forearm. “Cut me to the bone, the bloody bastard,” Hawke said.

“Shall I ring the ship’s surgeon, sir?” Brian asked, returning his weapon to its holster. Hawke had dispatched the Russian with such alacrity he hadn’t needed it.

“Not now. I’ve suffered worse in a nasty badminton match. Ambrose, please ask Mr. Golgolkin if his comrade down there can swim.”

Ambrose and Golgolkin had their backs to Hawke, both peering down over the side of the yacht. Someone flipped on a spotlight and trained it on the Russian. They could see him thrashing about in the water and the disturbance was attracting the attention of the sharks congregated at the bow.

“I say, did he survive the fall?” Hawke asked.

At the sight of the fins slicing through the water in his direction, the floundering Russian started screaming.

“Apparently, he did,” Hawke said, answering his own question. He stepped to the rail and glanced down. He was pleased to see all the dorsal fins, circling, closing.

“Brian, let the sharks get a little closer and then have someone open the closest starboard hatch and pull the little bugger in.”

“They’re pretty close right now, Skipper,” Drummond said. “Especially that big white-tip.”

“Not close enough,” Hawke replied.

He turned to Congreve.

“Ambrose, perhaps someone could give Comrade Golgolkin here a towel or something to press against his wound. It’s nothing serious, unfortunately, just a scratch. And I suppose we can return this to him now.”

Hawke pulled the confiscated automatic pistol from his pocket, released the cartridge magazine, and tossed the clip overboard before handing the empty gun to Golgolkin.

“You’re quite welcome, I’m sure,” Hawke said, having heard no expression of thanks for his kindness.

The bearded Russian was speechless. Goggle-eyed, he was leaning over the varnished teak rail, watching the sharks circling ever closer around his hapless colleague.

“Will that be all, Skipper?” Brian asked.

“I think that’s quite enough excitement for one evening, don’t you? If our chief bosun is still sober when he returns to the boat, you might ask him to have my seaplane fueled and ready for me first thing. File a flight plan to Nassau, I want to be airborne by dawn’s early light.”

“Aye, sir.”

“After you’ve seen our guests safely ashore, you might call my pilots in Miami and tell them I want the Gulfstream to meet me in Nassau, tanks topped off and ready for wheels-up at noon. I’m taking her into Reagan Washington.”

“Aye, aye.”

“Aye, aye!” squawked Sniper.

“Ah, Sniper, my brave fellow. You deserve a treat. Brian, a lid of our best Beluga for old Sniper?”

“Done,” Brian said, smiling.

“Oh. And tell Miss Perkins down in the ship’s office to have Stokely pick me up in D.C., and book me a quiet table for two at the Georgetown Club at eight.”

“Done,” Brian said. “And your usual suite at the Hay-Adams overlooking the White House?”

“Not necessary, thanks. I spoke with Pelham. Apparently the new house is ready for occupants.”

Brian saluted and headed aft to make the arrangements.

Hawke noticed that the fat Russian, still looking down over the rail, appeared to have been eavesdropping on his conversation with young Drummond. Nosy, he decided, very nosy.

“Ambrose, do you have a second?” Hawke asked, and he and Congreve walked to the top of the steps leading down from the bridge deck, moving out of earshot of the Russian.

“Well done,” Congreve said softly. “He wants his money.”

“He’s bloody lucky he’s got his life,” Hawke said. “Tell that socialist disease that anyone who lines his pockets putting nuclear weapons in the hands of terrorists takes his chances with me. He’s already used up one. And one is about all he gets. Bagged his bloody limit.”

“We’ll get them off the boat, Alex. But I would definitely increase the security on and around the yacht, starting tonight. Round the clock. These chaps are beyond unsavory.”

“I agree. I’ll have a word with Tommy Quick. Double the watch. This Telaraña. I seem to have heard the name. Spanish, isn’t it? Something to do with spiders?”

“The spider’s web, actually.”

“I’ve always been petrified of spiders,” Hawke said, shuddering. “Strange, isn’t it? Ever since I was a boy. No idea why, of course. Spiders. Horrid little buggers.”

“Let’s have a nightcap up on deck, shall we?” Ambrose said. “And you can finish the gripping saga of that scourge of the Spanish Main, the blackguard Blackhawke.”

“Pirates’ lore. Most appropriate after a splendid evening of saberrattling and plank-walking,” Hawke said. Motioning his friend up the stairs, he said, “After you, Constable.”

17

Once Hawke and Ambrose had made themselves comfortable up on deck, Hawke continued the story of his illustrious ancestor.

The old pirate, upon hearing that the king’s men were in the courtyard, now knew he was not to be spared the hangman’s noose. Collapsing back upon his tattered cot, he uttered one word, “Lost.”

The parson knelt on the cold stone beside him and put his hand out to the man. “Repent with me now, and make your final journey with peace in your soul. I beg of you to—”

“Innocent!” Blackhawke bellowed. “How does an innocent man repent? The king himself long encouraged piracy to fill his coffers. Now that damnable East India Company decides pirates are discouraging the mercantile trades, and suddenly our heads are on the block!”

“Alas, ’tis true.”

“My friends at court, my crew, one and all betray me to save their own skins! It’s these foul traitors must repent their treachery, not Captain Blackhawke!”

“Alas, ’tis true twice over,” the parson said. “Let us go now, and speak with the Lord.”

On their way to the courtyard, the parson took the hapless pirate into the prison chapel for one last chance at redemption. They sat for a moment in the gloom on a long hard pew facing a single coffin draped in black. As was tradition, the doomed prisoners had been forced to sit before the symbolic coffin, quite empty, for hours each day, supposedly doing their penance.

Thick incense floated to the high, vaulted ceilings, but it couldn’t mask the pervasive stench of urine rising in every dark corner; nor could the chants and mournful prayers of the condemned hide the sounds of those wretched souls fornicating on the back benches.

Blackhawke stared silently at the draped coffin, quietly sipping his grog.

“It’s no use, Parson,” he said finally. “It ain’t in me, repentance. Nary a bit of it. I’ll step off into the next world and take me chances as I am.” He pulled the spyglass in which he’d hidden the map from his cloak and slipped it into the parson’s hands.

“This glass is all that’s left to me in this world,” Blackhawke rasped. “’Twas a gift from my wife when first I went to sea. Now I want her to have it as a poor remembrance of her husband. I beg you to see that it makes it safely into her hands. I’ve four gold doubloons sewn into me coat here that are yours, if you’ll give me no more than your sacred word. It’s my last wish.”

“Consider it done, Captain,” the parson said. And Blackhawke ripped open the seam in his coat, withdrew the doubloons, and slipped them to the fellow.

The parson and the pirate emerged into the courtyard.

“I warn you, Parson,” Blackhawke said, angrily eyeing the crewmen who’d betrayed him, some of whom were already in the cart. “I warn you this. An unarmed man full of vengeance is the most dangerous of men. I warrant I’ll rip their treacherous hearts out!”

But in the event, riding in the king’s cart, Blackhawke merely drank grog all the way to the dock. He was simply too tired and too weak and too full of rum to wreak his vengeance. He was thus oblivious to the merry shouts and taunts of the crowds lining the streets leading to the River Thames. By the time he and the other condemned arrived at the place of execution, the parson had to help the old man stagger up the steps to where the hangman waited. The notorious pirate captain would be the first to go.

He stood, with the noose finally around his neck, and looked out over the noisome crowd. He had arranged for some few remaining friends to stand below the gallows and witness his departure. Theirs was a mission of mercy. Since the drop itself seldom did the job, his mates were there to leap up, grab his heels, and yank down to end Blackhawke’s agony quickly.

As it happened, the rope parted, and Blackhawke tumbled to the ground with little more than a bad rope burn round his neck. The dazed man had to be carried once more up the steps to repeat his agonizing departure.

By now, however, the rum fog had dissipated a bit, and it was a much-sobered Blackhawke who had one final revelation. Standing once more upon the precipice, he felt suddenly alive, breathing, conscious. Even the sting of the rope burning around his neck was something to be cherished, and, oddly, the crowd ranged below him now seemed to be cheering. A joyous sendoff for one last epic and uncharted voyage! Yes!

His mind allowed him to stand once more on his quarterdeck, shouting orders fore and aft. Lines cast off, sheets loosed, sails filled with an evening breeze. Bound for the far horizon. Men scrambling like monkeys in the rigging, all color and glory. Bound for that fat yellow moon floating just over that far, far horizon.

Farewell.

Well. This is it then. Torches burning along the riverbanks. The dusky glow of London Town shimmering across the water. Lovely night. Been a good life, hasn’t it, after all? Strongly lived. Well fought and well rewarded. Left the treacherous Caribee and tedious humdrum of the New World’s penny-pinching merchants far astern, hadn’t he?

Been a young man then, still, when he’d taken up the pirate’s adventuresome ways. Loved the endless roll of the boundless blue sea, he had, really. Loved every league and fathom of her, for all his life.

A small sigh escaped his lips and his mates below drew forward, hushed now. All the crowd below quiet now. He would go into the next world unarmed. But he was unafraid and had no doubt he’d conquer the next as he’d done the present.

He’d given some serious thought to his parting shot, looking for a defiant farewell, and he uttered those words now, raw and raspy, but still strong.

“The man without sword is oft the deadliest enemy,” Blackhawke bellowed. “Hear me, Death, and lay on!”

There was a resounding huzzah from below.

He brought the curtain down on this world, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering just as hard as he could:

And the cannons’ thunder, too, and the blood, and the plunder. Loved it all and no regrets now, none save the sweet wife’s face hanging out there in mid-air now, beckoning, all her tears falling like soft rain on the upturned faces below. His wife, his children, lost to him, too, and all that buried booty and—

He sucked one last draught of sweet air into his lungs and then—stepped off into forever.

The next morning they hung Blackhawke’s corpse from a post on the riverbank, in plain view of the passing river traffic. It rotted there for some months, sloughing off flesh, blacker and smaller with every sunrise, a stern and daily reminder of the fate awaiting those foolhardy enough to consider the pirate’s adventuresome ways.

In the end, there was little left of Blackhawke but legend. That, and his sun-bleached bones, tinkling gaily in the wind off the river.

Hawke was silent a moment, having finished his tale. He drained his port, then he stood and raised the empty glass to his friend.

“Hear me then, Death, and lay on!” Hawke said, and flung his glass far out into the nighttime sky.

“Hear! Hear!” Ambrose said, and, getting to his feet, he flung his glass over the rail as well. “Now we’ve sent Captain Blackhawke off to his reward, I’m for bed myself. Good night, Alex. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Ambrose,” Alex said. “Thanks to you, old soul, I’ll no doubt be dreaming of pirates tonight.”

But of course he dreamt of them every night.

18

At six the next morning, a crewman on the bridge initiated a program that caused the entire stern section of Blackhawke to rise upward on massive hydraulic pistons. It revealed a yawning, cavernous hangar, where Hawke garaged a few of his “toys,” as he called them.

The deck and bulkheads of the hangar were brilliantly polished stainless steel and contained only a tiny portion of Hawke’s permanent collection. Among them were the 1932 British Racing Green Bentley, supercharged. A C-type Jaguar, winner of the 1954 Le Mans race, and Alberto Ascari’s Mille Miglia–winning Ferrari Barchetta.

Then there was the seventy-foot-long Nighthawke, an offshore powerboat capable of speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour. Hawke had made many a narrow escape thanks to Nighthawke’s powerful turbocharged engines.