Pirate ah-3

by Ted Bell

  “Hoo-ah,” Stoke said, staring at Hawke as he approached, looking like an interplanetary traveler in his undersea warfare gear. Stoke, who’d be driving the boat for a good portion of this mission, had a red-lensed pencil flash, studying their route one last time. On the stern, a crewman was lowering the torpedo-bodied SDV slowly to the surface.

  “Let’s go get this bloody thing over with,” Hawke said, putting on his half-helmet and adjusting his lipmike.

  Stoke’s gut was talking now, saying it was going to be bad.

  It just didn’t say how bad.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Southampton, New York

  “FINE DAY FOR IT, CHIEF INSPECTOR,” THE HEAD DOORMAN, Michael O’Connell, said, tipping his cap as Ambrose pushed through the hotel doors onto Seventy-sixth Street. He was a cheery rosy-cheeked fellow who’d been on the door at the Carlyle for years. He had Ambrose’s rather tired-looking leather grip in one hand and held a silver whistle to his lips with the other, scanning the solid phalanx of traffic headed north on Madison for a taxi. The sun was out with a vengeance now and steam was rising from the glistening streets.

  Something in the air: You could sense the green acres of Central Park baking dry after a good soaking.

  “British Airways, sir?”

  “No, no taxi to JFK this morning, Michael,” Ambrose said. “Someone’s picking me up.”

  “Enjoy your stay, sir?”

  “Most enjoyable, Michael. Always feel at home here.”

  “Where to now, sir?”

  “Out to Long Island for a country weekend. Friends of friends out at Southampton. Some kind of house party, I believe. Chap named Jock Barker. Ever hear of him?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite famous, sir. Jack ‘Call me Jock’ Barker. You’re sure to have a good time at Stonefield.”

  “Stonefield?”

  “The old Barker place. One of the loveliest homes out on the island, sir. Mr. Barker throws this party every summer. Legendary. I believe that’s his car coming around now.”

  The car, a Rolls, was one of the new Phantoms. As it swung mightily around the turn into Seventy-sixth Street, it looked as if it had been carved singly from a massive block of black steel. It had a haughty, imperious aspect that Rollers had lacked for the last decade or two. The car seemed to say, “I’m back. Move over.”

  The chauffeur, dressed in robin’s-egg-blue livery and wearing matching gloves, leaped out and opened the boot. He was a strapping, freckle-faced boy of about twenty and had the earnest look of a chap who loved his work. Ambrose slipped Michael a twenty and thanked him. The opaque rear window nearest the curb began to slide down. Ambrose’s eyes went to a beautifully rendered monogram, in the same light blue, on the door. Below a prancing horse, the words Spe Labor Levis. Hope lightens work. A worthy sentiment.

  A face appeared, pale and lovely, china-blue eyes framed by soft auburn curls, the small red bow of a mouth done up in a smile. Ambrose staggered a step, but recovered quickly by pretending to lean over and place a hand semicasually on the roof above the rear window. The prettiest girl in the world said, “Oh, hullo, stranger. Need a lift?”

  Ambrose climbed inside the sumptuous coach and sank into the soft leather beside Lady Diana Mars. She gave him a chaste peck on the cheek and took his hand. Her hand felt small and cool and fragile inside his own. She regarded Ambrose for a moment, her eyes softening, then leaned forward on the seat and said to the driver, “Gin Lane, Buster, and step on it.”

  Ambrose was astonished, but the chauffeur was apparently accustomed to this sort of behavior. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Yes, ma’am. We should be out there in less than two hours if we get lucky leaving the city. A bit more if Route 27 is backed up.”

  “Let her rip,” Diana said and then whispered into Ambrose’s ear, “I’m not being cheeky. He’s Jock’s bodyguard. His name really is ‘Buster.’”

  Buster steered the stately battle cruiser up the Northern State Parkway east to avoid any traffic that might dare cross his path, and then picked up the notorious Long Island Expressway. The LIE, all eight lanes of it, ran due east the length of the island, stopping just shy of Montauk Point. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper all the way to Manorville. The passengers, at least, had the luxury of ignoring it, happily bringing each other up to speed on events on either side of the Atlantic. Diana’s brush with an intruder seemed the furthest thing from her mind as she pressed Ambrose for all the lurid details of his Coney Island escapade.

  “How perfectly dreadful, Ambrose. But you got your confession. Now what?”

  “I’ve merely provided the CIA, FBI, and Interpol with ammunition. It’s up to them when and if they choose to use it.”

  “Murdering your own father. The man should be shot.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve a feeling he will be.”

  After the Pine Barrens and Manorville, the scenery grew much more agreeable, an expanse of rolling green hills criss-crossed with white picket fences and brown potato fields stretching into the distance. Once they reached Route 27, Buster was able to open the mammoth Roller up a bit, give the Phantom her head. They were probably doing well over a hundred but it felt like fifty. Ambrose and Diana lapsed into silence, each content to watch the sunlit summer day slide peacefully by the windows.

  “Mr. Congreve?” Buster said, his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe we’ve picked up a tail, sir.”

  “Really? When did you notice it, Buster?”

  “On the Triboro Bridge, sir. It’s a white van.”

  “Lots of white vans,” Ambrose said.

  “This one’s got a cracked windshield, sir. Sun catches it.”

  “Does he know you’ve made him?” Ambrose craned his head around and peered out the small rear window.

  “I don’t think so. Four or five cars back, sir. Behind the red Porsche.”

  “Is there a back way into Southampton?”

  “Yes, sir. Through Hampton Bays. The turning’s coming up in about two miles.”

  “What’s the top end on this machine?”

  “She’ll do one-fifty if you push it.”

  “Push it. After you make the turn, pull over. We’ll see what happens.”

  “Someone’s following us?” Diana said. The acceleration was noticeable but not uncomfortable, pressing her firmly back into the deep leather cushions.

  “Perhaps. We’ll know soon enough…hold on, we’re going to take this turn very, very quickly. Well done, Buster. Let’s just nip into this car park and see what transpires.”

  Buster swung into the lot and turned the big car around so that they were out of sight but had a clear view of the highway they’d just left. After a minute or two, Buster said, “No sign of him, sir.”

  “Did he speed up when you did?”

  “I don’t think so. He’d have passed us by now, sir. May have turned off.”

  “There you have it, then. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Sorry to alarm you, sir. I just thought that—”

  “No apologies necessary. Caution is always rewarded. Let’s get going, shall we?”

  Soon enough, they came to a traffic light and were moving at a snail’s pace through the lively town. Southampton looked to Ambrose as if it had once been a sleepy village and quaint. Main Street was lined with trees and the sidewalks were still of brick. What had once plainly been a residential street in a small town was now lined with an assortment of shops, restaurants, and even an old-fashioned hardware store standing cheek-by-jowl with an emporium selling surfboards and sunglasses.

  Town was certainly busy on this Saturday afternoon in high summer; the sidewalks were crowded with strollers, shoppers, women in tennis whites pushing baby prams, men in colorful Lacoste polo shirts with the collars turned up. Main Street proper was clogged with vintage convertibles and big black Range Rovers with blacked-out windows. The summer people crossing in front of the Rolls at each corner stop l
ooked tan and fit and desperately happy to be here. And, for the most part, they looked quite rich.

  “What sort of house party is it going to be?” Ambrose asked Diana as they rolled to a stop at a dead end. Main Street ended abruptly at a leafy, shady cross street with the charming name of Gin Lane. They turned right and he caught glimpses of the blue Atlantic sparkling in the sun on his left. He was most curious to see the great ocean palaces, but they were all well hidden behind severely manicured hedgerows twenty feet high. “I’ve never ventured out here before and I’ve no idea what to expect.”

  Diana squeezed his hand. “You’ll see, dear. Jock’s parties are legendary. Look, we’re pulling into the drive now!”

  The Rolls cruised through a tall pair of very ornate gates, wrought-iron vines forming the letter B when they were shut. The gravel drive that curved toward the ocean was lined with stately elms boasting great bursts of leaves that formed a solid green canopy over the road. Ambrose lowered his window and was rewarded with the sharp tang of ocean air mingled with the delicious scent of freshly mown grass.

  Presently, the drive widened and they came upon Stonefield standing on a gentle knoll amid a profusion of blazing rhododendron. The house itself resembled a hotel in France where Ambrose had once spent a week recovering from a gunshot wound to the posterior. The Hotel de Ville in Normandy. There was a tower to one side, old brick under a thin beard of dark green ivy. Sprinklers were flashing on the lawn in front, their arching spray reaching the sundials and brick walks and flame-red gardens.

  The front of the stone house was broken by a line of French doors, all of them aglow with mirrored gold, and all flung open so the great house might inhale the delicious scents of summertime. There was a man standing with his legs apart at the front door. He was wearing riding clothes and Ambrose guessed he was the host, Jock Barker. When the Rolls glided to a stop, he rushed down the steps and whipped Diana’s door open before Buster had even switched off the ignition.

  “Diana, my darling, it’s so good of you to come,” the tall and well-made fellow said. He was perspiring mightily, and Ambrose assumed he’d just returned from his stables. He spoke in a husky tenor and he had a good smile full of white teeth, startling against his tan.

  “You look lovely, girl,” Jock said as she climbed out.

  “So good of you to have me,” Diana replied, putting her arms round his neck and kissing his cheek. “Come say hello to my good chum Ambrose Congreve.”

  Ambrose climbed out of the back of the Rolls and shook the man’s hand.

  “I’m Jack, call me Jock, Barker,” the big chap said with a smile. “Welcome to Stonefield.”

  “Ambrose Congreve. Pleasure to be here. What a splendid car you have there, Jock.”

  “Why, thanks. It’s brand-new. My wife, Susan, hates it.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “She says a car like this makes me look like I want people to think I’m rich.”

  “What does she want you to drive?”

  “According to Susan, the truly rich all drive beat-up Volvo station wagons.”

  “But then you’d look truly rich.”

  Barker laughed and turned to Diana. “I think Ambrose and I are going to get along just fine. Come on inside and say hello to everyone. We’re just having lunch served down by the beach. Then we’re going for a swim.”

  “Swim?” Ambrose said, a tremor in his voice. “In the sea?”

  “Or not,” Diana said.

  “What’s that?” Jock asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” Diana said. “Ambrose doesn’t care for swimming. He’s allergic to water.”

  Later, from the beach, where the sand was still warm even though the sun was long gone, the house looked as if it was afire. It stood bathed in a blaze of lights, white floodlights picking out the seaward windows and many-gabled rooftops, colored lights dancing above the pool complex, and millions of tiny white lights winking gaily in all the trees that marched down to the water.

  Four massive commercial searchlights, positioned straight up at the four corners of the lawn, created columns of pure white light and a space for the chorus of voices that rose up from the lawn, bits and snippets that existed and then twinkled out like stars looking down from above. This heady cocktail buzz, the familiar Hamptons’ comic opera of summer small talk and instantly forgotten introductions, was fueled by champagne. The Bob Hardwick orchestra flown in for the occasion accompanied it.

  The only competition for all this grandeur was the moon, rosy-gold with a haze around.

  “I see him,” the waiter said, pushing his black glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “She’s gone inside.”

  The tall, white-jacketed waiter, who’d dyed his curly blond hair jet black for the party, stood in the lee of a sand dune smoking a cigarette. The thin line of a smile appeared. He’d been waiting a long time for this night. A very long time indeed.

  “Anyway, I think they’re coming,” he told the woman standing beside him in the shadows.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why, because I fucking said so, didn’t I? That’s why. I heard him tell her to get her wrap. That they were going for a little stroll on the beach. I made it my job to keep track of them, didn’t I? Without being recognized, I might add.”

  “I can’t stand out here all fucking night,” the woman said. She was wearing a thin black raincoat. Her jaws were clenched to keep her teeth from chattering. Even in summer, the rolling ocean cooled the night breezes blowing onshore.

  “You want some of this?” the waiter hissed, raising the back of his hand and giving her face a near miss.

  “No. I’m done with all that.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Look. Here they come,” the waiter said. He threw down his cigarette butt and crushed it into the sand with his heel.

  “That’s them?”

  “That’s them all right. Good hunting.”

  The waiter made his loping way across the dunes and back to the party, careful to avoid the happy couple strolling hand-in-hand through the sand toward the low-hanging moon.

  Chapter Fifty

  Masara Island, Oman

  HEAVEN, AT LEAST FOR THE TIME BEING, WAS ON HAWKE’S side. The inverted bowl of sky above was an ideal shade for his purpose: black. There was no moon to speak of and only a silver sprinkling of stars across the northern sky. Since the winds were calm, so were the seas. Not that you would dare say it aloud: perfect spec-ops conditions. Fifteen feet below the surface, Hawke’s thirty-foot-long vehicle, dubbed Bruce, was sliding silently forward. Given the conditions, the sub was, Hawke hoped, invisible to the tower guards manning the heavy machine guns.

  “All stop,” Hawke said, looking over at his navigator.

  “All stop,” Stoke said.

  The two men were adjacent to each other, each tucked into a separate flooded compartment in the nose of the SDV. Both were hooked into the vessel’s internal communication and auxiliary life support systems. They could speak and breathe easily. Easing the throttles back in sync to the neutral position, they felt the sub slow and stop. There was no sound.

  Buoyancy systems kept them hovering at the desired depth in the black water. Visibility was near zero. Only a hooded four-color GPS screen in front of Hawke allowed him to see precisely where he was in relation to the island dead ahead. They’d made good time from the mother ship, arriving off Point Arras right on schedule.

  The minisub’s all-electric propulsion system was powered by rechargeable silver-zinc batteries and designed for silent running. Only the most sophisticated underwater auditory monitors could pick it up. At idle, and three hundred yards offshore, Hawke felt the chance of audible detection was very slight indeed.

  “You have the helm,” he said, removing his hand from the control stick.

  “I have the helm,” Stokely replied, taking it.

  Hawke completed his preparations to disembark from the portside pilot station. It had been previously agreed that he would now leave the vehicle, alone, and swim
the three hundred yards remaining to the entrance to the docks. He disengaged from the onboard underwater breathing apparatus, called a “hookah” because of its uncanny resemblance to a water pipe. He now switched over to his Draeger LAR-V underwater breathing apparatus.

  Opening the small hatch cover, he levered himself out of the cockpit and kicked away from the vehicle. Moving his fins with slow, scissorlike movements, he remained in Stokely’s view just long enough to make a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Stokely gave the return thumbs-up and Hawke swam away. Hawke would make sure there were no unpleasant surprises at the dock before Stoke brought the sub in close.

  Once he had the all-clear signal, Stoke would pilot the SDV directly to the tunnel entrance. On the panel before him was an array of sophisticated instruments including Doppler navigation sonar displaying speed, distance, heading, and other piloting functions. A ballast and trim system controlled his buoyancy and pitch attitude. A manual control stick was linked to Bruce’s rudder, elevator, and bow planes. Pure functionality, no frills, just the way Stoke liked his war machines.

  But the beast also had sharp teeth. A shark’s toothsome grin was depicted on the nose, hand-painted on the bow by some boys at the Naval Amphibious Base at Little Creek, Virginia. Boys, Stoke said, who clearly had too much free time on their hands. Still, he had to admit the grinning shark’s teeth did give Bruce a very intimidating appearance.

  It sort of screamed Don’t mess with me. I bite.

  Hawke covered the remaining three hundred yards swiftly and without incident. He surfaced under the dock, swinging the Beretta nine in his right hand through a tight arc. There was a round prejacked into the chamber.

  All quiet. No beeping, screeching alarms, no whispered shouts and frantic running feet on the network of steel docks above his head. Only the soft lapping of the water against the pilings. He flipped down the NVG goggles atop his helmet and quickly located the three marks he’d slashed into the barnacle crust on one of the pilings.