Dragonfire

by Ted Bell

  And more, so much more. A lovely chap, really.

  But it was chiefly dear old Pelham who, subsequent to the murder of Alex’s parents by drug pirates in the Caribbean, took over as Hawke’s guardian.

  It was little more than a week after Hawke had begun the process of entering the final phase of disordered consciousness. Now he was sitting upright in his hospital bed, chatting merrily with Nurse Vicky, who was lovingly and vigorously massaging his right hand.

  “Why, Pelham’s at home, sir,” she said, smiling. “Resting comfortably.”

  “Resting? At home? Good Lord, you don’t mean to say he—”

  “Survived? Recovered from his wounds? Yes, indeed he did, although no one who attended to him that first night would have believed it possible. There’s a toughness to him belied by his genteel exterior. He was discharged this past Tuesday and is now resting quietly at Teakettle Cottage with round-the-clock nurses tending to his every need. Doing very well, eating normally, gaining strength day by day. . . .”

  “I cannot believe it,” Hawke said. “I was pretty sure he’d died there on the bar. I remember feeling terribly sad about that just before I lost consciousness. How on earth did you save the old boy?”

  “Wasn’t me, dearie. Was our beloved Dr. Wetherell that did it. For all the blood loss, most of his wounds were superficial. The wound to the hand was severe, but the doctor managed to repair all the damage to the tendons. He won’t be using it for a while, but eventually, with therapy, he might recover full use.”

  “God love his soul! You see before you a happy man, a man who, for all intents and purposes, thought he’d lost the one soul closest to him and—” He looked up. “Why, it’s Pelham! It’s old Pelham come to call! Can it be? Pelham? Is that really you? I cannot believe—just a delusion. . . .”

  A sob escaped from deep inside. Confusion and pain were in a tug-of-war within him. As the pain diminished, the confusion began to reign supreme.

  The nurse reached over and placed her warm, dry hand on Hawke’s forearm.

  “My lord,” she said. “I don’t think you realize that—”

  “That what?”

  “That you are crying.”

  “What?” Hawke put his hand to his cheek. It was wet with tears. My God, how long had he been crying? “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . that night, the night we were dying . . . I was just so sure I’d never see him again . . . see that beautiful old soul again. I’m so sorry. . . . I do love him dearly.”

  “Top of the morning, m’lord,” Pelham said, executing a slight bow before he fully deatomized in the doorway, trying not to notice the flood of tears continuing to flow from his lordship’s eyes. “I do hope I’m not interrupting what appears to be an inconvenient moment. . . .”

  Nurse Vicky said, “No, no. It’s not you, dear Mr. Grenville. He’s just emerging from his coma. It’s often difficult to come to grips with the new reality of one’s life. Besides, these fresh tears are tears of purest joy.”

  The nurse hurriedly dropped Hawke’s hand from the death grip she’d been holding it in. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Grenville. Massage is just standard therapy for a recovering coma patient.”

  Hawke sat straight up in bed, gazing goggle-eyed at this walking miracle. Pelham’s ancient blue eyes were shining bright, and his cheeks were flushed a rosy pink with the chilly November air outside.

  “Welcome, good sir,” Hawke said, smiling. “You’re either a convincing ghost, or you’re my dear old Pelham in the flesh! Is it true what they say? You’ve bloody well been raised from the dead! The man is a god, I tell you! Positively immortal!”

  “It would appear so, yes, m’lord,” Pelham said, floating on winged feet into the small room. “I did hear the angels singing, m’lord. For both of us. How do you feel, sir? You’ve been away for some time now.”

  “Bloody marvelous, considering, that’s how. At least, I’ve apparently stopped speaking all that bloody Mandarin. Learned it while a guest of the Chinese government, you’ll recall. But not nearly as good as you look, old son.”

  “Might I sit down, sir?”

  “Of course you can. I say, Nurse, would you be so kind as to pull that chair up to my bedside?”

  Vicky jumped up and got Pelham situated.

  The old fellow coughed discreetly into his closed fist before he spoke. “M’lord, I hate to spoil what is indeed a most salubrious recovery and reunion. But I have grave news. Before he and Lady Mars left for London a few days ago, Chief Inspector Congreve charged me with delivering some very sad tidings, indeed, sir. Assuming you would come out of the coma at some point . . .”

  “Yes, of course, assuming . . . ,” Hawke said, a grey cloud suddenly descending on the happy moment.

  “It’s Miss Kissl, sir. Sigrid Kissl.”

  “What about her? Is she ill?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not. She’s dead.”

  Hawke looked stricken. “Dead, you say? My God!” He looked at the nurse and said, “She’s bloody dead? Why didn’t you say something? Nurse? You’ve not mentioned this?”

  “We were instructed not to, sir. By Dr. Wetherell. He was afraid it might be too much of a blow for you at this early stage of your recovery. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure it comes as a tremendous shock.”

  Hawke closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to compose himself. He looked at Pelham, suddenly thinking about his last night together with Sigrid. A hard rain had descended with the evening, enveloping his little seaside cottage in the white noise of frying bacon. She’d been terribly unhappy all day long. Her back was to the window, and wet, diffused light illuminated her face with unkind surgical accuracy. The short platinum blond hair looked lifeless, and the lines etched in her thin face constituted a hieroglyphic biography of wit and bitterness, laughter and intelligence—a life of accomplishment without fulfillment.

  It was the first time he’d seen her so ineffably sad. . . . She had stood up and wiped the haze off a pane of the window, and for a while, she had stared out past the gardens and the rain to the banana trees undulating hypnotically in the wind. Then she had turned and faced him. “Alex. I know I’ve often described my life as a pile of shit,” she said, then smiled wanly. “But it’s the only pile of shit I’ve got.”

  They’d dressed in silence before leaving for the dinner party with Ambrose Congreve and Lady Mars.

  “Pelham? Help me understand this. . . . How did it happen?”

  “Yes, m’lord. So sorry to be the bearer of such very sad news, m’lord. But I felt you should know now. . . .”

  “She’s dead? How on earth? Last time I saw her, she was at Shadowlands chatting with Ambrose over a good claret at a dinner party. She was drinking heavily. I was worried about her. I told the chief inspector and Lady Mars not to let her out of their sight until I sounded the all clear at the cottage.”

  “Yes, sir, but, as we know now, that all clear was never sounded. I’m sorry to tell you that Miss Kissl was murdered there at the cottage later that night. Attacked and killed in cold blood.”

  “But, good Lord, Pelham, who killed her?”

  “The crime was without an eyewitness, m’lord.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Your gardener found her early next morning. Still alive, but barely. Sigrid had crawled from your bedroom, where the attack took place, all the way out to the rear terrace overlooking the sea. The gardener then left her there and ran inside to call for an ambulance. When he returned, she was lying there on the flagstones, unmoving. But she had. . . .”

  “She had what?” Hawke said. “What did she do?”

  “Before she died, she had used her own blood to scrawl two letters on the pale flagstone. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The letters were: S S.”

  “Shit Smith,” Hawke said, anger dripping from the spoken name. “When are the f
uneral services?”

  “There are none scheduled, m’lord. Miss Kissl is no longer on the island.”

  “Really? Then where on earth is she?”

  “Chief Inspector Congreve took it upon himself to try to track down her family in Switzerland. He finally located the grandfather, a sheepherder in Tiefenthaler, a small mountain town near St. Moritz. Ambrose took it upon himself to make arrangements for the body to be returned to the family, sir.”

  Hawke sat up straight in bed.

  “Putin is carrying out his threat to me when last we saw each other. He said that my immediate family members and I were no longer under his protection. We were first on his list for punishment. Alexei is next.”

  “A reasonable surmise, Your Lordship.”

  “Pelham. Listen carefully. As you well know, my son is at sea. He’s on a Cunard Line circumnavigation. Under the care of my dear Spanish friend, Carlos Martinez de Irujo, the Duque of Alba. And two Royal Protection Officers from the Yard. I want confirmation that those two officers are now guarding him night and day. One within six feet of him at all times. Also, I want a call put through to Carlos aboard the liner. I want to warn him that Mr. Smith is out and about, killed my colleague Sigrid, and nearly killed you and me here in Bermuda. I want Alexei’s two Scotland Yard Royal Protection Officers to be on the highest alert. Understand? In each and every port of call. For the balance of the voyage, I want daily reports as to his safety.”

  “Of course, m’lord. I’ll ring him as soon as I get home.”

  “Be sure that you do.”

  “I’ve always perceived your wishes as commands, sir. Fear not.”

  “All right, Pelham, good on you. Now. It’s high time we went on offense against this crazy bastard. Not to mention that maniac in the Kremlin who put a multimillion-dollar price tag on my head. I want to assemble every fighter worth his salt that we’ve got. First two calls go to Chief Inspector Congreve and Stokely Jones Jr. Next, those two crazy mercenaries known as Thunder and Lightning. As soon as I can get out of this bloody sickbed and recover some strength, I’m going to call my pilot to get us the hell out of here. Do we think that Mr. Smith, now that he believes he’s delivered his triple death blows, has left Bermuda? I wouldn’t guarantee it.”

  “What is the basis for your fears, sir?” Pelham said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “I’ll tell you. Putin knows I survived the attack. The morning of the dinner party at Shadowlands, I got a call from my friend who’s a CIA officer in Miami. According to Harry Brock, the CIA recently intercepted a heavily encrypted message from the very highest levels at the Kremlin. It was short and sweet and sent to every Russian contract killer out there. ‘Bring me the head of Alex Hawke. On a silver platter. Reward. Signed, Vladimir Putin.’”

  Pelham looked at Dr. Wetherell and said, “Doctor, I think you need to alert the Bermuda constabulary immediately. We will need at least two armed guards, one in this room, the other in the hallway. Yes? As soon as they can get here.”

  “Yes, of course, of course!”

  “I need to get out of here as soon as humanly possible, Dr. Wetherell. Now would be good.”

  Pelham said, “He’s a freak of nature, Doctor. Near supernatural powers of recovery.”

  “I’m starting him on physical therapy this very afternoon. I think I should be able to spring him, say, in a week’s time? Ten days? Say, Monday after next? Certainly by that Tuesday.”

  “Alex?” Pelham said.

  “Yes, yes. Yes to the guards and the gym training, all of it. Pelham, you need to return to Teakettle and pack two of my handguns. The forty-five revolver and the Walther PPK if the police didn’t take it as evidence. Two boxes of ammunition each. . . . Also, Doctor, I think you should issue a discreet message to all the nurses on the floor. Should they see anyone suspicious, or anything at all out of the ordinary, come to me immediately.”

  “Good idea, Alex. You really think the killer stuck around the island after he’d done the deed?”

  “I’ve no idea. I hope so. I’d like to see him again. Under different circumstances, of course.”

  “What is your plan, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  “Dr. Wetherell, you saved my life. You can ask me anything you wish. I’m going, with a little help, to heal myself as quickly as is humanly possible. Then I’m going to scour the ends of the earth and sail the seven seas in search of Mr. Smith. When I find him, I will kill him.”

  “From the extent and style of your injuries, I would be very careful as to how you approach this monster. Frankly, you need time to heal.”

  “Oh, I’m not going it alone, Doctor. It will not surprise you to learn that, in addition to Chief Inspector Congreve, I have a few unsavory yet very formidable friends around the globe. Men of a certain stripe who help me—how to say it?—with unpleasant circumstances and individuals. Mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, adventurers, chaps of that sort.”

  “Of course, sir. One only assumes these things based on rumors that swirl around this island when you are off on another adventure.”

  “Ah, yes, I see,” Hawke said. “If you would be so kind, I would be grateful if you could get the chief inspector on the line? He’s now at his home in Oxfordshire, England. Here is his mobile number. If his wife picks up, ask her to put you through straightaway. Tell her it’s urgent and that I wish to speak with him as quickly as possible.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunningdale Golf Club, London, England

  Present Day

  Sir David Trulove, chief of MI6, England’s famed Secret Service, was standing impatiently outside the men’s locker room at Sunningdale, his golf club outside of London. As always, the former Royal Navy admiral, an eminent hero of the Falklands War with Argentina, was looking rather magisterial. A tough feat to pull off while a chappie was wearing golf attire, but he managed it. It was a splendid day, clear and sunny, yet worry clouded his pale blue eyes and well-lined face. The Queen had awakened him shortly after dawn, a call from Buck House. Her Majesty the Queen was fit to be tied.

  It seemed her beloved grandson, secretly her favorite of the lot, Prince Henry, having just attained the threshold of twenty-five, had been invited down to some fancy resort in the Bahamas. Very exclusive. Invitation only. Apparently, someone at the club had seen the photo spread of him in Vanity Fair. The resort was called Dragonfire Club, and owned by a major Chinese industrial family by the name of Tang, Her Majesty had said. Sailing, gambling, golf, women, the usual. That had been ten days ago. Her Majesty had subsequently received two of Henry’s e-mails, quite glib and jolly, and a lively phone call from him last Friday evening. Then an odd call around midnight. She’d picked up on the first ring. There was no one there.

  Despite her own subsequent calls to the young prince’s suite, which went unanswered, there had been no communication since.

  Sir David was convinced that the rambunctious Royal—who was “Jane crazy” as the doughboys used to call an infantryman overly fond of women, and who was also the godson of Alex Hawke—had met some louche heiress or other and swum off to another happy, sun-kissed tropic isle, just another boy looking for the heart of Saturday night, as they used to say.

  Trulove had asked Scotland Yard to send two of their topmost investigators down to Dragonfire Club, posing as wealthy British businessmen, and have a look round. Dig in and see if they could get on the wayward prince’s trail.

  Apparently, the young man had simply vanished. No one knew anything more. Scotland Yard had offered to put a missing-person alert on the missing prince and hope for the best. The Queen was not amused.

  After a week in the Bahamas, the detectives had filed a report saying that the young prince had simply vanished. Along with all of his belongings. The Yard detectives had found a scrawled phone number on a pad on the desk in his room. Turned out to be the reservations line for Raffles Hotel in Hong Kong.
The two men were en route now in an effort to locate the young prince somewhere in China. Since then, complete radio silence from the Yard. After a week or so of digging, the detectives had come to naught and were recalled to London.

  And now, in the wee small hours, the Queen was back on Sir David’s case.

  “I am not at all happy. I want you to do something, Sir David. And I want it done now. That’s why I’m calling so early. I’m told you’re playing golf with Chief Inspector Congreve at Sunningdale today. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Because I want you to inform the chief inspector that the Yard’s assistance is no longer required in the search for my grandson. Tell him he’s been made redundant. Because you, personally, will be heading up the case from this moment forward. Is that quite clear, Sir David?”

  “Abundantly, Your Royal Majesty. Crystal clear.”

  “Good. There’s only one man in England who can find my grandson and bring him home safely. Yes, and we both know very well who he is. Therefore, I want Lord Hawke on this case. And I want him now. Do we understand each other? Should anything happen to that child, I shall hold you personally accountable. Is that clearly understood, Sir David?”

  “Crystal. I understand with perfect clarity, Your Majesty,” Trulove asserted, having no earthly idea how he was going to deliver the goods to Buckingham Palace in a timely fashion. At last report, Hawke had been hovering at death’s door in a hospital on Bermuda.

  “Good. The only member of your staff at Six who is capable of bringing this situation to its proper conclusion is that dear boy, Alex Hawke. No one else will suit. I want his immediate attention on this nightmare, and I want him now! Do we understand each other, Sir David? I want Hawke to go wherever the trail may lead; find the prince and return with him to England posthaste. Alex Hawke has never let me down. Not once, including the time he almost single-handedly saved me and my entire family from assassination by al Qaeda fiends that Christmas at Balmoral Castle! Please give that dear boy the Queen’s best regards, will you? Tell him I hope he’s recovering nicely from that horrid attack.”