by Ted Bell
Hawke cupped his hands round his mouth and screamed. “Kerim! Jump! Now!” But the boy either did not hear or did not respond and Alex had no choice but to start clawing the water, swimming furiously away from certain death.
A second later, the massive, blinding explosion of TNT rent the fabric of the air, cratered the ocean, and lit up the night sky. A fountain of fiery debris and burning fuel shot up hundreds of feet into the heavens. Hawke opened his mouth wide in anticipation of the concussion. It was the only way his lungs would survive it.
The outer perimeter of the shock wave hit him hard, blowing him backwards through the water and taking his breath away; burning sections of wood and fiberglass were raining down all around him and a sea of flaming fuel was racing rapidly across the surface. He could feel the intense temperatures of the fireball on his face, feel his eyebrows starting to singe, the surfaces of his eyeballs aching with the heat.
He spun around and took one long look at Blackhawke. He was deeply relieved to see she’d already got three launches lowered away, started her massive engines, and was even now underway, steaming rapidly away from the explosion and the spread of flaming fuel.
He gulped air and dove deep, angling down and away from the burning gas and flaming debris. Two minutes later, he broke the surface and saw the figure of Tommy Quick, illuminated a brilliant orange in the light of the flames, standing in the bow of the first launch, heaving a life-saving ring in his direction. Hawke cast a final glance over his shoulder at what had once been the handsome yacht Running Tide.
She was gone.
Along with Kerim, the reluctant martyr. Blown to Paradise.
A bloody good cop after all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Miami
THE BLACK LINCOLN TURNED OUT OF THE INEXORABLE RIVER of heavy evening traffic along Collins Avenue and into the long sweeping drive of the fifties-era Miami Beach hotel. Colored landscape lights hidden amidst the flowering shrubbery on the Fountainbleau Hotel grounds and at the tops of the royal palms along the tree-lined drive, cast a greenish underwater glow on a line of bumper-to-bumper limos snaking towards the entrance.
To Stoke, the neon-lit scene had all the boyhood glitz of a Technicolor Frank Sinatra movie. Those were the days. Frankie and his Rat Pack were lucky enough to live in a time when even the baddest of the bad didn’t murder brides in wedding dresses on the steps of no church. That, at least, is what Stoke was thinking as he and Ross climbed out of the back of the Lincoln. Heat hit him like a wall.
He rapped the driver’s side window, and Trevor lowered it, expelling a blast of icy air. Outside, the air was thick, heavy, hot. Just the right conditions for an explosive storm. The electric charge in the air made the hair on his forearms stand up.
“Okay, Preacher, listen up. Here’s the program. Me and Ross, we going inside the Grand Ballroom for a coupla hours and rub elbows with the rich and semifamous. Eat us some gourmet rubber chicken. Maybe even find us a murder suspect doing the cha-cha-cha out on the dance floor, who knows? Can you wait somewhere ’round here?”
“I be right here, don’t you worry,” Trevor said. “De head doorman, Cholo, he is from my hometown of Port Antonio. Member to my congregation. He already knows about you, Tiki-mon. I told him we were coming.”
“Listen. You got to stop calling me that,” Stoke said, bending down to look Trevor in the eye. “Tiki, okay, he’s good, I’ll grant you that, but he plays for the Giants. Candy-ass. Stoke was a Jet, awright? Bad-ass. Get this shit straight, now, you want to stay on the A-team.”
“Yes, mon, no more Tiki.”
“Good. Listen, I don’t think this is going to happen. But you tell your homeboy, Cholo, he sees me and Ross come out that main entrance behind some guy with his hands in the air? That tells Cholo something. Tells him to call your cell, get you up to the front door in hurry. We collar one of these fat cats, there’s likely to be some pissed off people around. Need to cut and run.”
The very idea caused Trevor to slam his fist against the steering wheel in excitement.
“Yes, mon! I love it! You ever see True Lies? Bad Boys Two? CSI Miami on the TV? Same ting as dis, mon! Exact same ting!”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Preacher,” Stoke said. “Me and Ross here, we badass lawmen of the hop and pop, snatch and grab variety. We find this pencil-dicked shithead killed our lady friend, he only going to be wishing his ass was still grass.”
There was a deep rumble of thunder above, brilliant lightning blooming in the towering clouds, and the wind gusting up, bending the crowns of the royal palms. No rain yet, but Stoke could smell the sharp ozone in the air as they made their way up the drive to the hotel’s entrance. A big doorman smiled at Stoke, holding the door open for them. The homeboy Cholo, who looked like some four-star general in Rasta National Guard.
“Most cordial welcome to de Fountainbleau, Tiki-mon,” Cholo said.
Stoke shook his head, didn’t say anything, just followed Ross inside.
“When’s the last time you see a hotel lobby like this, Ross?” Stoke asked rhetorically. Ocean’s Eleven, 1960, that’s when. Damn, that was a good movie. Shit!”
As they made their way through the vast sea of candlelit tables filling the Grand Ballroom, a lot of heads swiveled in Stokely’s direction. They were headed towards Table 27, the designated location inscribed neatly on the invitations waiting for them at the entrance where all the little old red-, white-, and blue-haired Latino ladies sat. Patriotic, you had to say that.
“Hell they all looking at, Ross?” Stoke whispered.
“Stoke, if you could see yourself right now, you wouldn’t be asking that question,” Ross said, smiling.
Unable to find black formal wear large enough to fit him, Stoke had been forced to rent a white tuxedo with wide white satin lapels and white satin stripes down each pants-leg. Normally, he would have been embarrassed, but, earlier, when he’d met Ross for a drink down in the lobby bar at the Delano, the Scotland Yard detective had told him he looked resplendent. Resplendent sounded pretty damn good to Stoke, and, he had to admit, it wasn’t a half-bad look. Be honest about it, way all these Cuban folks looking at him now, he must look pretty damn resplendent.
You got it, you strut it, Stoke thought, strutting through the endless maze of rich folk. Ring-a-ding-ding, and call me a cab, Calloway.
They took the last two empty gold bamboo chairs at the round table for ten and smiled all around at their dinner companions. The handsome black-tied men all looked like Don Ameche or Fernando Lamas and all the pretty ladies had low-cut dresses and more diamonds than the whole damn Tiffany store on Fifth Avenue. The appearance of this strange duet at the last minute was met with obvious surprise.
“No society like high society, am I right?” Stoke asked his dinner companions, a big smile on his face. “I’m Stokely Jones Jr. One of the Joneses of the West 138th Street Joneses of New York City. How you doing?” He stuck out his huge hand, and shook hands with a beautiful white-haired woman seated next to him. No one seemed to know quite what to do.
“Dolores Velasqueno,” the lovely woman said. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Jones.”
“Charmed,” Stoke said. “I’m sure.”
Then Ross said something that sounded like “ahem” that diverted everyone’s attention from the giant black man dressed all in glittering white.
“Good evening, everyone. How do you do,” Ross said to the startled table, bowing slightly from the waist. “I’m Detective Inspector Ross Sutherland, New Scotland Yard. My colleague and I are last-minute invitees, actually. Sorry we’re a bit late. Traffic, you know.”
Ross breathed a sigh of relief as Cesar de Santos took the podium. Everyone became silent, eyes on the elegant silver-haired chairman. Ross looked out over the crowd, pleased with the location of their table. They were near the front and on the edge of the ballroom, two or three steps higher than the main floor. He could get a pretty good look at the entire crowd from this vantage point. White-jacke
ted waiters were already circulating among the tables serving the first course. There had to be a thousand people in the room.
It was going to be fiendishly difficult to pick out a chap just by looking at his eyes, even if they’d gotten outrageously lucky and the man was in this very room. But Ross’s investigative instincts were all telling him this was a good place to start, no matter what transpired.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and bienvenidos,” de Santos said, his voice filling the huge room over the p.a. system. He launched into his remarks in beautifully accented English, thanking everyone for their generosity over the past year, highlighting individual achievements.
Stokely was far more interested when the lady seated to his right, Senora Velasqueno, opened her small white sequined evening bag and withdrew a tiny pair of pearl and gold binoculars. She put them to her eyes and focused on the podium. After a moment, she set them on the tablecloth.
“What power are those things, Dolores?” he asked, pointing at the jeweled binoculars.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How strong are they?”
“Strong as I could get them, señor,” she said. “I’m blind as a bat.”
“Can I take a look?” Stoke asked.
She smiled and handed them to him. “Please, be my guest. I’ve been to this dinner every year since 1975. It doesn’t change much except for the surgery sisters over there at Table 25. They all have brand-new faces every year.”
She giggled and put her hand over her mouth and Stoke slapped his knee and laughed.
She was right about the binocs, though. They were small, but powerful. While de Santos continued with his remarks, Stokely used them to scan the faces of the men in the crowd. “Ross,” he said suddenly, handing the instrument to Sutherland. “Check out glamour boy over there sitting at the table by the exit sign.”
“He’s wearing sunglasses.”
“Damn right. And these candles ain’t all that bright either. So, who’s that hiding behind them mirrored Foster Grants?”
“…and now we come to the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” de Santos was saying. “It is time to bestow our cherished Ca d’Oro award to that individual who has most thoroughly distinguished himself in the eyes of not only our judges, but our great Cuban community…will you bring the house lights down, please?”
As the lights went down, the music of the orchestra swelled. There was a collective gasp from the audience as a single spotlight picked out an object descending from out of the darkness above. Stokely put his glasses on the thing. It was a model of some kind of futuristic building, all towering glass wings with gold and silver beams inside. Suspended on a huge platform, it stopped just above the heads of a crowd who instantly burst into loud and sustained applause.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” de Santos said, “may I present the new Quixote Fox Center for Special Surgery at Sisters of Mercy Hospital! It is my very great honor to announce the man who made this magnificent addition possible. Although new to our cause, already his great humanity and generosity have made him a revered figure in the community. The winner of Ca d’Oro is Señor Quixote Fox! Señor Fox, unfortunately, was called away to an emergency this evening. Please be so kind as to welcome his representative at the podium to receive the award.”
All eyes turned towards the table of honor in the center of the room. A single spotlight swept the table. No one stood up. Stokely trained his binoculars on the table. It was where the guy with the mirrored sunglasses had been sitting. Now, his chair was empty. No man made a move to rise, but a woman did. Stokely never took his eyes off her as she made her shimmering way to the podium. She was maybe the best looking woman Stoke had ever laid eyes on in his life.
“Dolores,” Stoke whispered to his new friend, “Who is that?”
“Her name is Fancha. She is a famous recording star from the Cape Verde Islands off the west coast of Africa. Very beautiful. She is the…friend…of Don Quixote Fox.”
“This Don Quixote’s a pretty lucky fella,” Stokely said, watching through the glasses as de Santos tried to get the blue ribbon with the medal around Fancha’s lovely neck without rearranging her hair-style.
“They say he is very handsome, but I wouldn’t know. I am not surprised he is not here this evening. He rarely appears in public.”
“Really?” Stoke asked. “That’s interesting. Why is that?”
“He’s going blind. Apparently he suffers some very rare form of eye disease. He cannot bear exposure to any kind of light, natural or artificial.”
“Eye disease, huh?” Stoke said, thinking about the mirrored sunglasses guy. “Tell me something, Dolores. This Don Quixote, he been down here in Miami a long time?”
“Oh, no, not at all. Two years perhaps. He’s quite young for such a very wealthy man. No one is quite sure where he made his fortune. Or, even where he came from. Very generous. And very mysterious.”
“Mysterious. Like, what kind of mysterious?”
“Well, there are a number of things. All very curious.”
“Tell me one.”
“Ah. Well, someone proposed him for membership at the Dinner Key Yacht Club. He was unanimously rejected by the membership committee. No one will say why. These things are strictly confidential. Then, a month later, the president of the club overturned the board’s decision and extended him an invitation to join. Some people said that some kind of pressure was involved in the president’s decision to…admit him.”
“Yeah, well, country club politics can be a can of worms all right, and Lord knows I’ve seen no end of that stuff myself, but—”
“There was something, hmm, else…”
“Talk to me, Dolores. Quixote Fox sounds fascinating.”
“This is all beauty parlor gossip, señor, but…somebody apparently tried to kill him. Unsuccessfully, yes. But, I hear there have been other attempts on his life. He rides in an armored Rolls-Royce motorcar and his home has many guards.”
“Is that right?” he looked from Dolores to Ross.
Stokely suddenly got up from the table, motioning to Ross to do the same.
“You got to excuse me a while, Dolores. I got to talk to my man Ross outside for a couple a minutes.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nantucket Island
ALEX HAWKE AND CHIEF JACK PATTERSON STOOD IN THE sunshine on the bow of Blackhawke, some thirty feet above the choppy waters of Nantucket Harbor. It was just before seven o’clock on a fine, clear Saturday morning, little more than twenty-four hours after the barely averted attack on the yacht. There were few signs of life aboard the many craft moored along the docks and out at the buoys. Summer sailors traditionally liked to party on Friday nights, and most of them were sleeping in this morning, having closed down the Straight Wharf, the Summer House, or even the notoriously rowdy Chicken Box in the wee small hours.
The air was full of snapping ensigns and diving seagulls and terns. The brisk wind and sharp iodine bite of the sea air made Hawke keenly aware of all his senses. He could feel it. He could feel everything. He was coming back. The recent episode on board Running Tide had cleared out a lot of cobwebs; more importantly, it had revealed a number of serious chinks in his well-worn armor.
Numb with grief and anger, his defenses down both literally and figuratively, Hawke had managed to stumble into one very nasty trap. Despite warnings from the man he’d entrusted with his security, he had underestimated the level of terrorist threat by a stupidly wide margin. As it happened, the incident was providential. He’d prevented a disaster that could have cost the lives of many of his friends and crew. Had the Arab simply locked down all the hatches leading to the deck, trapping Hawke below, the terrorist attack might have succeeded. But cheap luck like that ran out quickly.
After a year of bliss that had ended in tragedy, Alex Hawke was once again in the thick of it. Congreve had announced over after-dinner coffee that it was officially cloak and dagger time again.
DSS Chief Patterson ha
d arrived from Maine via Coast Guard chopper just at twilight. Alex had watched the approach of the big red-and-white helicopter from Blackhawke’s launch. The helicopter flared up for a landing on the waters just beyond the breakwater. Alex leaned on the twin stainless steel throttles and the launch sped out to the chopper, bobbing on its pontoons, where the head of the State Department’s security forces stood waiting with a small duffel bag. On the short trip back to the yacht, he’d brought Patterson up to speed on the latest events. The near-disastrous flight he and Ambrose had experienced returning to the island from Maine. And the narrowly averted terrorist attack on Blackhawke itself.
“Father and son act,” Hawke said. “They almost pulled it off.”
“Yup. Babysitter’s father and her brother the rookie cop,” Patterson said, in his slow Texas drawl. “Makes sense. Father’d been a mechanic over at the airport since he’d moved his charming little sleeper cell family up from New York City. This kid Kerim. You say he tagged the Dog?”
“Yeah. It’s the Dog, all right. But some guy called the Emir is apparently pulling everybody’s strings. Has been for a long time, too. Ever heard of him?”
“I got emirs and sheiks coming out the wazoo, Hawkeye. You gotta do a lot better than that.”
“I plan to. At any rate, no doubt you, too, are on this particular Emir’s hit list.”
“Hell, Alex, ain’t a shit list or hit list I ain’t on—for so long I can’t hardly remember when I wasn’t. Sometimes I feel like the entire radical Islamic world’s got a fatwa on my head. But you, now that’s a different story. Why in hell would they go after you? You poke your stick in any hives lately?”
“Let’s just say I don’t have a lot of close friends in the worldwide terrorist community,” Alex said.
“Show me your boat and we’ll talk all about it.”
