Patriot

CHAPTER 49

Twenty minutes later Alex Hawke was back aboard his beloved Blackhawke once more. Hawke had gone up to the bridge to have a word with his new captain, an American woman named Geneva King. She wanted to discuss matters regarding their departure for Jamaica first thing next morning. And about security once they had moored in Montego Bay.

But Hawke wanted to talk to her about Cuba.

Hawke had a keen desire to get a good sense of the topography of a particular island off the south coast of Cuba that they would pass en route south. And he’d asked the captain to have sat photos, marine charts, and topographical maps printed out for him when he came aboard.

The Russians’ newly rebuilt spy compound was located on a twenty-eight-square-mile island just off Cuba’s southwestern coast, the Isla de Pinos. A green island in a blue sea, it was suddenly sprouting enormous white radar domes like giant mushrooms in a rainforest. Alex needed to see those charts in order to memorize the island’s coastline, and to understand the geography and topography completely for future references.

Stoke and Alexei, along with the boy’s black Scottie, Harry, trotting along faithfully behind, went forward to the main saloon. There they would find the Scotland Yard Royalty Protection officer, Detective Inspector Tristan Walker, waiting for them, along with his colleague, an armed bodyguard with the name of Sergeant Archie Carstairs.

Holding hands with Alexei (who was understandably nervous about meeting his new male nanny), Stokely descended a broad set of mahogany stairs to the grand saloon below. Filled with sunlight, glass on three sides with a retracting ceiling above, and boasting a shiny black ebony concert grand piano, the movie-set saloon overlooked an expanse of shipshape teak decks and the imposing thrust of the ship’s great bow.

Beyond the windows were members of the crew, all wearing sharp-creased white trousers, white sneakers, and navy polo shirts. They seemed to be moving about like a troupe in a chaotic ballet, making sure all was ready for the impending voyage south to Jamaica.

Stoke couldn’t help but smile at the image Hawke had ordered embroidered on the breast of the crew’s new dark blue shirts. The infamous skull and crossbones flag depicted above the vessel’s name in red below. The Jolly Roger, in honor of Hawke’s notorious pirate captain ancestor. He was the yacht’s patron saint and namesake, the pirate who wore silver skulls woven into his great mane of a beard and whose name struck fear into the hearts of the Brethren of the Coast: the fearless and fearsome scourge of the Spanish Main, “Blackhawke” himself.

Halfway down the wide mahogany staircase, Stoke saw that a tall blond man with a deep tan, pale green eyes, and very white teeth was now racing up the steps toward them with his hand outstretched. He had to be pushing fifty, but there was something incredibly youthful about him. He was wearing a white polo shirt and white shorts and seemed like a guy who got waylaid on his way to play a few quick sets of tennis.

Stoke shook his hand, liking the grip.

“Allow me to introduce myself, sir. I’m Inspector Tristan Walker, Scotland Yard,” he said with gusto, pumping Stoke’s hand as they all paused on the stairs. “And you must be Stokely Jones Jr.! Awfully good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. Very much an honor indeed, Sir Stokely.”

Stoke smiled, liking the man already.

“Inspector, let me tell you something. If I ain’t Stokely Jones? Then, we’re all in big trouble. Just how many other black dudes my size you see messing around this big old stinkpot today?”

“Point well taken, indeed, sir. There would certainly appear to be little room for confusion.”

“Damn right there isn’t any room, because I take up most of it. One other thing, Inspector Walker, please. We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other going forward. Given your new responsibility in the family and all. So do me a favor. Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Just call me ‘Stoke,’ okay? I only use that ‘sir’ title when I’m back in England, having tea and crumpets with the Queen at Buck House or up in Scotland at Balmoral Castle, tossing the old cricket ball around with her two grandsons. You understand what I’m saying?”

“You and Her Royal Majesty are tight, Mr. Jones?” Walker said with a flashing grin. “Ever since you and Lord Hawke saved her family up at Balmoral.”

“Damn straight.”

When Walker smiled, it lit up his whole face. “Stoke it is, then,” he said, and he pumped the big man’s hand again.

Stoke instantly felt good about this guy. He’d been worried sick about this meeting all morning long. What kind of guy this would turn out to be. How he would feel turning Alexei over to a stranger. He’d been pretty sure about one thing. That he’d know instantly whether or not this new protection officer was someone he believed might be capable of stepping into the shoes of the late great Nell Spooner. Or not.

But the inspector’s large green eyes were strong and clear, and, more important, sincere. Nothing phony in his face or posture or big white smile. And his grip was very, very powerful, although you’d never guess it to look at him.

This was no nanny nursemaid at all. No, sir, this was a warrior, a former British Army Ranger captain, a man who’d won the Victoria Cross for his bravery in the face of an implacable enemy in the mountains of Afghanistan. A man who had now chosen to dedicate the rest of his life to protecting the loved ones of the Royal Family and their friends.

“Inspector, please say hello to my young friend Alexei Hawke, here. He’s all excited to meet you, jumping up and down all morning. Right, Alexei?”

Alexei looked up at Stoke and grabbed his hand, puzzled, not understanding what he’d said at all.

“Alexei,” the officer said, going down on his knees to look the boy in the eyes, “I am so very, very glad to meet you at last. I’ve heard all about you. And this is your dog, Harry, isn’t it? A fine black Scottie, isn’t he? Good boy, Harry, look, I’ve a treat for you! And here’s something else, Alexei. I do believe you and Stoke know Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve, don’t you?”

His warm manner seemed to relax the little boy, and he smiled at the stranger.

“We do know him very well, sir. Mr. Congreve is my godfather. But he’s more like my grandfather, really, since he’s old. He’s my very best friend in the whole world. Except for my friend Pelham. He’s the best.”

“I’m sure he is. And, I hope one day you and I will become best friends, too. Would you like that?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, we will have a lot to talk about this morning. I have another friend and colleague with me named Archie Carstairs. Sergeant Carstairs will accompany us on all our many splendid adventures, Alexei. He’s very happy to be meeting you and is waiting for us down there on that white sofa by the windows. See him waving? Won’t you and Mr. Jones come down and say hi to Archie?”

The man stood up and waved. Since he was to be Walker’s backup armed bodyguard, Stoke was pleased to see that he was a squat square of a man, very powerfully built. Walker was also armed, Stoke knew, as the Yard’s protection officers all wore a pistol in the small of their backs when on duty.

“Can we go down to meet Archie, too, Uncle Stokely?” Alexei asked. Stokely smiled, took the boy’s hand, and started down the steps. But at that moment, Stoke became aware of a man in a white steward’s jacket racing down the wide staircase toward the three of them.

“Hullo, there, gentlemen!” the nervous young steward said, taking the steps two at a time. “Hold hard a minute, will you?”

Stoke and the inspector paused and turned to look up at the fresh-faced English steward.

“What is it, Gibbs?” Walker asked the young man.

“Yes, yes, thank you, Inspector. I’m sorry to disturb you both at this very private moment, but I am afraid Lord Hawke wishes you all three to come up to the bridge. Er, at once. He said.”

“What’s this all about, Gibbs?” Stoke asked, worry suddenly coloring his voice.

“Lord Hawke will tell you, sir. But… I’m very much afraid that there’s been some kind of explosion, sir. In North Miami Beach. I’m afraid it’s not good at all. A large number killed or wounded.”

Stoke flashed on the column of black smoke he’d seen rising over the beaches of North Miami while they were en route to the port.

“What’s the fastest route up to the bridge?” Stoke said.

“That elevator right down there at the foot of the staircase, sir. Straight to the bridge.”

“Let’s go.”