Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  There was a long silence at Hawke’s end of the line.

  “Smith? Yes. I have definitely heard of him. What have you got?”

  “Our guy says Smith’s in Afghanistan right now. Aiming to kill the heir to the throne of England. Harry, the son of Prince Charles. You believe that?”

  “I do now. I was just informed of an attempt on Prince Harry’s life this morning. It failed. The sniper was killed and an accomplice escaped. Thanks to you, I now know who the accomplice was. Our friend Mr. Smith. And it makes sense of the fact that the shooter used the highly classified long-range British sniper rifle left at the scene.”

  “Sounds to me like you got a big hole in your bucket, boss, kinda leaks you’re talking about.”

  “We certainly do. This intel is invaluable, Stoke, thank you. This Smith character must have connections at the highest levels of Britain’s government. And he is deeply involved with Sword of Allah. One of our immediate tasks is to run him down.”

  “Sword of Allah took down Jackson Memorial Hospital here in Miami. It’s the Sword that’s blowing up school buses all over America. Another thing we found? About twenty radicalized homegrowns from a southside mosque in Chicago were all set to take down New Trier High School with AK-47s and suicide bomb belts. Almost five thousand kids in that school could have died. You believe that? FBI rounded up the killers just two days before they would have done it too.”

  “Appalling. We’re dealing with the world’s first, highly organized, megaterror group, Stoke. Recruiting and training in prisons. Forming allegiances with the IRA and the Communist governments in Cuba and Venezuela. Possibly the North Koreans, and God knows who else. Our job is to find and cut off the head so the body will die.”

  “I have more on them, boss. My songbird says the top dog in the entire Sword organization is somebody named Abu al-Rashad. Code-named Scimitar in all the encrypted Internet communications. I even think I might know where he is at the moment. In the Quaid-e-Azam hospital in Islamabad, sick or wounded, I don’t know which.”

  “He was right about the assassination attempt on Prince Harry in Afghanistan. You’ve got him scared enough to start telling the truth. Good work. See what else you can get out of him. Whatever it takes.”

  “Will do.”

  “Please tell me, God forbid, you’re not waterboarding this guy, Stoke. Politically incorrect in Washington, you know, even when the fate of the whole goddamn planet is at stake.”

  “Me? Waterboard? C’mon, boss, you know I’d never stoop that low.”

  “Stoke, I’ll call you back in exactly one hour. I need to convey every word you just said to the directors of both MI5 and MI6. Stay near that radio.”

  Click.

  Then Stoke heard Harry Brock cursing and screaming in pain.

  WHEN STOKE STEPPED BACK OUT into the blazing sun, he saw Harry Brock clutching his gut, blood spurting between his fingers and pooling on the deck.

  “He’s got a knife!” Harry said, his eyes on the little guy, backing away. “Fucker tried to kill me.”

  “You okay?” Stoke asked him.

  “Not really.”

  “Looks like a flesh wound.”

  “Hurts like a bitch though, trust me.”

  “Harry. Pay attention. You get that map he drew?”

  “Yeah, I got it, that’s when he knifed me, handing it over.”

  The master terrorist was backed up against the transom at the stern, nowhere to go, waving the rusty fish knife around as if daring Stokely to try to take it away from him. Stoke told him to relax. Then he put both his hands in the air and started slowly toward him in as nonthreatening a fashion as a man his size was capable of.

  “Ozzie, listen up, partner. You’re fighting way outside your weight division. Flyweights should not get into the ring with heavyweights, it’s a well-known fact. Ask anybody.”

  He spat out something unprintable in Farsi or whatever.

  “Just throw the knife down and no one else has to get hurt,” Stoke said. “Drop it on the deck and—”

  Screaming the now all-too-familiar Islamic war cry, “Allahu Akbar!” the terrorist charged Stokely, the bloody fish knife raised above his head. Stoke calmly waited for him to strike, then shot out a plate-size hand and vice-clamped al-Wazar’s right wrist just as his knife hand started down, pivoted, yanking his arm violently enough to dislocate his shoulder.

  In a single, fluid motion Stoke whirled completely around, still gripping the man’s wrist, and flung Azir al-Wazar high into the air, whereupon he dropped into a frothing frenzy of the bloodthirsty sharks still circling about twenty yards off Maiden Voyage’s stern.

  “Hey, Stoke,” Harry said, taking a front-row seat on top of the bait box. His fist pressed deep into his flesh wound to stanch the bleeding, he was watching with some interest the flashing fins circling ever nearer to the screeching and wailing terrorist, now flapping about like a pregnant pelican trying desperately to get airborne.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you forgot to inform our little buddy out there of his Miranda rights.”

  “Did I? Damn, I think you’re right, Harry.”

  Stoke lumbered up onto the wide teak transom, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out to the man in the water now boiling with his own blood, the man who’d just tried to kill him and his pal Harry.

  In a loud, clear voice, Stoke said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

  Stoke heard only a very garbled response.

  “What’d he say?” Brock asked.

  “Hard to tell. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s going to exercise his right to remain silent.”

  FIFTY

  BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

  BRIXDEN HOUSE, ANCESTRAL HOME to Lady Diana Mars, and countless forebears both illustrious, nefarious, and notorious, was off the Taplow Common Road. Hawke slowed for the entrance gate, a massive black iron affair topped with numerous large gilded eagles atop marble columns, the birds sufficiently weathered over the centuries as to be discreetly unobtrusive.

  Hawke rolled his gleaming black 1956 Ford Thunderbird to a stop just outside the gates and waited for the plainclothes detective to come out of the small guardhouse. While the man checked their names against the guest list, Hawke was content to sit and listen to the sweet rumble of the automobile.

  The car had proved a worthy stand-in for the battle-scarred Locomotive, still undergoing massive bodywork after being pummeled with bullets in the assassination attempt. The T-Bird, as he lovingly called it, had the removable hardtop and he’d left the top at home so he and Sahira could enjoy the early August sunshine.

  It was clear and unseasonably cool, with late afternoon sunlight like great bars of gold, laying upon the green hills and valleys.

  He particularly liked the vintage American car for the lean beauty of its lines, its snarling mouth, and the single flaring nostril of the air intake centered on its bonnet. He’d replaced the stock Ford engine with a huge, low-revving Mercury V-8 of five-liter capacity, and the result was rock-solid performance; the T-Bird was definitely not a precision instrument like a good English sports car, but he counted that a virtue.

  “Dr. Karim, Commander Hawke, welcome to Brixden House,” the Scotland Yard man said, smiling as he ticked their names off against their identification and the big iron gates swung inward. “I hope you enjoy your evening.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Hawke said, returning the professional smile. He put the car in gear, accelerated, and turned to Sahira to say, “Welcome to the infamous den of spies. You’ll feel right at home.”

  Hawke motored slowly up the long, meandering drive. Sahira seemed to be enjoying the view over vast acres of parklike grounds offering occasional glimpses of classical statuary, sloping green lawns, lakes, and one or two small Gr
eek temples.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘den of spies’?” she asked a few moments later.

  “I did. This place will be full of them tonight, but that’s not what I meant. Over the years, Brixden House acquired a very sketchy reputation—you’ve heard of the ‘Brixden Set’?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “In the prewar years, a circle formed around Diana’s great-grandmother, the Viscountess. Brixden House became a de facto salon for a right-wing, aristocratic group of politically influential individuals. The Viscountess hosted splendid parties for her friends, which surely included hot-and cold-running Germans, some of them undoubtedly spies. This Germanophile cabal was not only in favor of the appeasement of Adolf Hitler, but also of promoting friendly relations with Nazi Germany.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, her eyes on the magnificent Italianate palace standing atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a graceful bend in the gently flowing Thames. Dusk was near, and every window, large or small, was blazing with light.

  “Ah, but the best was yet to come. The ‘Swinging Sixties’ brought fresh scandal to the house. It was apparently the scene of wildly decadent sex parties. Including the one where Cabinet Minister John Profumo met and bedded Christine Keeler. A woman who just happened to be simultaneously sleeping with a Soviet agent. Profumo went down in flames and so did Harold Macmillan’s government.”

  Sahira smiled. “Well, you’ve certainly given me a gold mine of information for dinner table conversation.”

  “Diana wouldn’t mind, I assure you. She’s a splendid lady, feet on the ground, a woman who seldom lets anyone or anything bother her. Ambrose is a very, very lucky man to have found her.”

  “He is lucky, isn’t he, Alex? So very lucky,” Sahira said, a sudden sadness in her eyes. It was, he thought, a shared sadness for both of them.

  EVERY ROOM WAS ALIGHT WITH CHANDELIERS, flaming candles, sparkling diamonds, and bubbling crystal flutes of pink champagne; clinking wineglasses, laughter, and music filled every room with sounds of honest joy for the happy couple. In a far corner, a society band flung Gershwin memories into the smoke and chatter.

  Hawke and Sahira made their way through the crowded great hall, a splendid room with its grand fireplace, soaring ceiling, and the famous John Singer Sargent portrait of Diana’s great-grandmother that hung to the left of the wide hearth. People would turn to smile in appreciation when they entered new rooms. Hawke and Sahira saw in their eyes the flattering reflection, as if the two of them were some kind of double Narcissus.

  Hands touched jeweled arms over and under the white tables. Under the spell of music, the vivid gowns and starched white shirt-fronts swayed together, a vibrant rhythm of dancers circulating in the semidarkness of the candlelit ballroom. Among the passive observers around the edge of the floor, suits of gleaming armor stood guard against walls hung with faded tapestries and large gilt-framed portraits of Lady Diana’s long forgotten royal ancestry.

  Countless searching eyes instantly shifted toward the exquisite Indian woman on Hawke’s arm. Sahira looked resplendent in a simple sari of blazing crimson embellished with gold embroidery. It was the first time Hawke had ever seen her with her dark hair up, held in place by two golden combs, and he had to admit it only made her all the more alluring.

  “Ready?” Hawke asked her, looking for an opening in the crowd. He’d seen Diana and Ambrose across the room, receiving guests by the fireplace. Having plucked two champagne glasses from the liveried steward, he moved in their direction.

  “Cover me, I’m going in,” Hawke said.

  “Go for it, champ,” Sahira said with a laugh.

  Hawke assumed his tried-and-true “Marvelous to see you!” smile and waded in, Sahira happily in tow. As he excused and beg-pardoned his way through the writhing mass of plunging necklines, enormous gems dangling from swanlike, lily-white necks, all the distinguished gents in white ties and tails, he saw looks of utter astonishment of the normally reserved countenances of polite London Society. Why on earth? Then he remembered.

  He’d been missing in action for well over a year. Most of these people, upon seeing his face, must have thought a ghost now walked among them. “Was that Alex Hawke? We heard he was dead.”

  He didn’t see Sir David Trulove in the crowd until the man reached out and put a hand on his forearm. C leaned in close to Hawke’s ear and said, “Good evening. Need to speak. Rather urgent, I’m afraid. Can you slip away and meet me in, say, twenty minutes? I’ll be waiting at the far end of the south terrace, overlooking the parterre and the river.”

  “Splendid idea, sir,” Hawke said in a normal voice. “I should be delighted. Sahira and I just want to say a quick hello to the host and hostess.”

  “Good,” C said, and turned back to the extraordinarily beautiful American wife of the Ambassador to the Court of St. James.

  It took a good ten minutes for them to wade in and reach Ambrose and Diana.

  “I must say you’re beaming like a full moon,” Hawke said to Congreve, shaking his dear friend’s hand. Ambrose had introduced Sahira to Lady Mars and the two women had immediately engaged in a cheery conversation about charities or some such.

  “I must count myself among the happiest of men,” Congreve said, smiling, using that stilted lofty tone he adopted when the champers kicked in.

  “As well you should, you old dragon,” Hawke said, clapping his friend on the back. “As well you should.”

  “You should have seen her face when I produced the fabled rock at last, Alex. I think she was beginning to doubt the honor of my intentions.”

  “How long has it been since you first dropped to your knees and begged for her hand? Years, I think.”

  “Too long. I desperately wish I’d met her in my thirties, instead of my fifties.”

  “Beware of desperate wishes,” Hawke said, looking quickly away.

  “Alex, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Hawke brightened and said, “Nothing to forgive. It’s going to be a splendid evening, and we’re all going to live happily ever after. I just want you to know one thing, in case, well, anything should happen. All my life, since I was a boy, you have done more for me than any friend could ever ask. And I will always love you for it, until the day I die.”

  “Alex, I don’t know what to say. I only wish—”

  “Don’t say anything. It’s just something I wanted you to know. In case something should ever happen.”

  With that, Hawke took Sahira’s hand, and the two of them disappeared into the brilliant crowd.

  HAWKE FOUND C STANDING ALONE at the stone balustrade, gazing out at the formal gardens now catching the dying rays of the sun. The silvery Thames below, winding through the wooded hills, made it a sight well worth gazing at.

  “Lovely view, isn’t it?” Hawke said, joining him.

  “Lovely. You know, Alex, I’ve been standing here reflecting on the events of the last few months. We’ve never been particularly close. We’re both given to broadsides, and thus there’s been a distance. But. I have endlessly marveled at your…your, what shall we call it, your resurrection. And I’ve come to the conclusion that you are one of the very few men on earth I shall always have utter and complete faith in.”

  “Well, sir, that’s kind of—”

  “No, no, I don’t mean it in that way. The Service, thank heaven, is full of brilliant, talented, and courageous men and women who execute their dangerous duties at the very highest levels imaginable.”

  “How did you mean it, then, sir?”

  “Trust. It seems that every time I meet with someone, issue an order, confide in them, question them, I find myself wondering, Is this the one? Is this the traitor in our midst?”

  “I understand completely. But I think one has to look beyond the Service as well. Beyond both Six and Five. MI5 reports to the Home Secretary, Lord Hume, as you well know. Perhaps someone on staff there, privy to the Home Secretary’s every secret, is on a payroll somewhere. Or someone at
Number Ten Downing. Anywhere in government, in fact.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. At any rate, it’s not why I asked you to join me. I’m afraid there is terrible news from Pakistan. I got a call on the drive out here.”

  “A fundamentalist military coup?”

  “No. Worse yet. As you well know, Pakistani president Asif Ali Zadari recently released ‘national command authority’ over Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal to Prime Minister Gilani, who won’t really have control either. The real control is now in the hands of the army. General Kayani, his top three-star general. As you know, ‘military secure’ is not necessarily totally secure. Everyone and his brother in HM government have been worried about nuclear security should the mullahs take over the country. While I have been far more worried about all those senior officers in the Pakistan Army who are caliphates. Men at the top of the chain of Pakistani military command who believe in a fundamentalist pan-Islamic state. And now my worst fears have been realized.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It was the CIA chief of station in Islamabad who rang me in transit. At least one powerful nuclear device has gone missing from the Pakistani nuclear arsenal.”

  “My God. How?”

  “The CIA, as Abdul Dakkon stated in my office, have long suspected that some of the guards in the Islamabad underground storage facility were on the payroll of one or two of the most powerful Taliban warlords. Or that other rival warlords were holding the guards’ families under threat of death should they not comply with their demands when the time came to seize control of the arsenal.”

  “And now the warlords have decided to act with impunity because they no longer fear retribution from the Pakistani Army.”

  “Exactly. They are putting us to the test, awaiting our reaction. We need to show a forceful response immediately. I called President McCloskey and informed him of MI6’s plan to send a team to Islamabad. He backed it fully and offered the cooperation of the U.S. Air Force and units of the Marines operating nearby in Afghanistan.”