Warriors

CHAPTER 33

Alex Hawke could count on one hand the number of times he’d been summoned to Sir David Trulove’s home, Quarterdeck, for lunch. Sir David Trulove, traditionally known within the MI6 spy mecca as C, was not a particularly social animal. He would join Hawke for lunch, cards, certainly drinks, or the occasional supper at Alex’s club in town, Black’s, but only occasionally. Those brief and spotty encounters were the extent of the two men’s relationship outside the confines of Six’s headquarters at Vauxhall on the South Bank of the Thames.

Sir David, a crusty former admiral in the Royal Navy, was one of the great heroes of the Falklands War. Beneath that rough exterior lay, as Hawke liked to say, an even rougher interior. C was in fact a hard man but a fair one, as salty as they come, and there was a lot of real but steadfastly unacknowledged affection between the two men.

Hawke was not operating under any illusions. Especially any faint notion that there was to be anything social about this occasion. Something was up.

Odds were it had to be something fairly serious, too. If the old man wasn’t comfortable discussing it within the soundproof confines of his sanctum santorum, namely his triple-secure office at MI6 HQ, then it had to be serious all right, deadly serious. Perhaps the old man had finally run down the bastards behind the attack on his friend McCloskey’s funeral at Arlington. That would be welcome news. The Americans seemed besieged in the Pacific, and it wasn’t at all a healthy state of affairs.

Ah well, things had been a bit slow at home ever since Hawke had returned from the hospital after the South China Sea business. He’d spent weeks at both RAF HQ in London and, in Washington, at the Pentagon in top-secret meetings. He was endlessly debriefed about his China experiences. The SAM that had brought him down, the new Chinese carrier itself, the F-35C Lightning the Chinese had duplicated and somehow surpassed. And, of course, the huge black, bat-winged stealth drone he found hiding in the carrier deck hangar, now believed to be a prototype of the one destroyed over Arlington.

He decided not to worry about his upcoming meeting, whatever it was about, and just enjoy the ride. He relished the deep rumble of the finely tuned Jaguar racing engine as he geared down for a tight right-hander. The view of countryside over the swooping British racing green bonnet of the vintage C-type race car gave the whole world a better aspect.

Hawke noticed something immediately upon arrival. At the guarded entrance to Quarterdeck, it was obvious that security on the heavily wooded estate had been dramatically enhanced. Once he’d been waved through, he noticed that not a few operatives in mufti were visible, and surely many more in full camo who were not. Hardly surprising, Hawke thought, considering recent events.

One month earlier, in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, four intruders wearing ceramic-bead bomb vests inside their anoraks had managed to gain access to the property. Three had been shot dead after scaling a wall by two very alert members of household security dressed as scrub brush on the perimeter.

When killed, the fourth was crouching with a serrated knife on a small balcony outside Sir David’s second-story bedroom. Britain’s head of Secret Intelligence lay sleeping not fifteen feet away.

That man, the leader, was later determined to be a highly sought Chinese Te-Wu (secret police) assassin named Ku Lin. The leader of a UK-based terrorist cell, Ku Lin had been linked to the Chinese intelligence agency in the past. And involved in the assault on the British ambassador just prior to the brutal murder of the American ambassador Christopher Stevenson and three other Americans at the U.S. embassy in Tokyo.

The drive wound upward and so to a clearing where the classic Georgian house stood in its glory, foursquare to the wind. Rumbling to a stop under the porte cochere, Hawke switched off the snarling engine and saw Sir David standing by the opened front door.

“So. I invite Lord Alex Hawke for lunch and I get Sir Stirling Moss, do I?” Trulove said as Hawke bounded up the broad steps to the formal entrance, snatching the vintage racing goggles off his head. The car had only the tiny twin racing windscreens, and eye protection was necessary at speed.

“Sir Stirling doesn’t get trapped behind a broken-down removals lorry for twenty minutes like I just did. Sorry I’m late.”

“Well. Come inside and have a drink before lunch. This way, please.”

C had a roaring fire going in his book-lined library. Through the tall ice-frosted windows a thin watery sun was trying to make its way through the clouds. A white-jacketed Royal Navy steward was decanting a bottle of claret at the drinks table. When he saw the two men enter, he finished his task and discreetly disappeared without a sound.

“Do you want wine or rum?” C said, or rather barked. “Do sit down.”

Hawke sat in the deep leather chair, crossed his long legs, and smiled at the boss’s lifelong habit of making even the slightest suggestion sound like an order from on high.

“Rum, please. Neat. Gosling’s Black Seal if you have it.”

“Of course we have it. You’re the only one in this corner of England who drinks the damn stuff and there’s always some left over from the last soiree.” He handed Hawke a glass. He took his own whiskey to the chair opposite and collapsed into it.

“Slange var,” Trulove said, raising his glass and sipping. It was the Gaelic toast meaning “Get it to the hole!”

“Cheers. You really should try the damn stuff, sir. You might enjoy it.”

“You like it, Alex, that’s what matters, I suppose. How are you? How’s the bum leg? Still using the swagger stick, I see. Holding up all right?”

“As well as can be expected I suppose. Still a bit stiff. Oh. And Nell Spooner has flown the coop, I’m sad to say.”

“Yes, yes. Know all about it. Dumped you for one of our very own Six lads at the British embassy in Washington. A step up for her, in my opinion. And he’ll make an honest woman of her, I daresay. We all knew you had no intention of marrying the dear girl.”

Hawke stiffened. He didn’t at all like his personal life being scrutinized in this way and was very tempted to say so. He had to bite his tongue to remain silent.

“Sorry,” C said, sensing his offense. “I was trying to be jovial. No bloody good at it, I suppose. Your private life is none of my affair. But only to a certain extent. The fact is, Alex, I’m seriously concerned for little Alexei’s safety.”

“As am I, sir.” Hawke said, sipping his rum. “But Nell’s promised to find someone to step in for her. A woman named Sabrina Churchill has been mentioned. Formerly Royal Protection at the Yard. Quite a formidable woman, from what I’ve heard.”

“Never heard of her. But I’ll have her vetted immediately. Meanwhile, what’s the security status at Hawkesmoor? The grounds, et cetera.”

“The perimeter is as impenetrable as can be done. The usual motion, audio, and heat sensors all over the grounds. More than a few of the groundspeople, gardeners, and maintenance staff are security. If there’s a way inside all that, I don’t know what it is. And it will remain that way until I have a new bodyguard.”

“Still. If someone wants to get at him, they can and will. As you well know.”

“I do. I worry about it all the time.”

“You let me know if you need anything more during this transition period, won’t you? Until Miss Churchill arrives?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me, Alex. We’re all family here. Are we not?”

“Well, if you put it that way, sir, yes, I suppose we are.”

“Lunch?”

“Sounds delightful.”