by Ted Bell
“How do you like this car?” Stoke asked his copilot.
“I like it, sir.”
“Your daddy tried to win it from me one night in a poker game in Manila. Guess what. He lost.”
“Daddy cheats,” Hawke said, laughing.
“It’s beautiful, sir. May I ask what kind it is?”
Hawke leaned forward between the pleated white leather seats.
“Oh, no, Alexei. Don’t even get him started.”
Stoke tousled the boy’s shaggy black hair and said, “Pontiac GTO, son,” he said. “Nineteen sixty-five vintage. Custom metallic black raspberry paint job, rolled-and-pleated hand-sewn white leather interior, bored-and-stroked V-8 mill with Edelbrock headers, full race cam, Hurst shifter . . . I’ll tell you what, son, she’ll blow the doors off anything you’ve got in the standing quarter mile and yet she’s totally street legal, little brother. Street legal! What you going to say to that?”
Alexei furrowed his brow. “Golly, I hardly know what to say, Mr. Jones. I don’t even know what you said!”
In the backseat, Hawke threw back his head and laughed out loud.
CHAPTER 49
Twenty minutes later Alex Hawke was back aboard his beloved Blackhawke once more. Hawke had gone up to the bridge to have a word with his new captain, an American woman named Geneva King. She wanted to discuss matters regarding their departure for Jamaica first thing next morning. And about security once they had moored in Montego Bay.
But Hawke wanted to talk to her about Cuba.
Hawke had a keen desire to get a good sense of the topography of a particular island off the south coast of Cuba that they would pass en route south. And he’d asked the captain to have sat photos, marine charts, and topographical maps printed out for him when he came aboard.
The Russians’ newly rebuilt spy compound was located on a twenty-eight-square-mile island just off Cuba’s southwestern coast, the Isla de Pinos. A green island in a blue sea, it was suddenly sprouting enormous white radar domes like giant mushrooms in a rainforest. Alex needed to see those charts in order to memorize the island’s coastline, and to understand the geography and topography completely for future references.
Stoke and Alexei, along with the boy’s black Scottie, Harry, trotting along faithfully behind, went forward to the main saloon. There they would find the Scotland Yard Royalty Protection officer, Detective Inspector Tristan Walker, waiting for them, along with his colleague, an armed bodyguard with the name of Sergeant Archie Carstairs.
Holding hands with Alexei (who was understandably nervous about meeting his new male nanny), Stokely descended a broad set of mahogany stairs to the grand saloon below. Filled with sunlight, glass on three sides with a retracting ceiling above, and boasting a shiny black ebony concert grand piano, the movie-set saloon overlooked an expanse of shipshape teak decks and the imposing thrust of the ship’s great bow.
Beyond the windows were members of the crew, all wearing sharp-creased white trousers, white sneakers, and navy polo shirts. They seemed to be moving about like a troupe in a chaotic ballet, making sure all was ready for the impending voyage south to Jamaica.
Stoke couldn’t help but smile at the image Hawke had ordered embroidered on the breast of the crew’s new dark blue shirts. The infamous skull and crossbones flag depicted above the vessel’s name in red below. The Jolly Roger, in honor of Hawke’s notorious pirate captain ancestor. He was the yacht’s patron saint and namesake, the pirate who wore silver skulls woven into his great mane of a beard and whose name struck fear into the hearts of the Brethren of the Coast: the fearless and fearsome scourge of the Spanish Main, “Blackhawke” himself.
HALFWAY DOWN THE WIDE MAHOGANY staircase, Stoke saw that a tall blond man with a deep tan, pale green eyes, and very white teeth was now racing up the steps toward them with his hand outstretched. He had to be pushing fifty, but there was something incredibly youthful about him. He was wearing a white polo shirt and white shorts and seemed like a guy who got waylaid on his way to play a few quick sets of tennis.
Stoke shook his hand, liking the grip.
“Allow me to introduce myself, sir. I’m Inspector Tristan Walker, Scotland Yard,” he said with gusto, pumping Stoke’s hand as they all paused on the stairs. “And you must be Stokely Jones Jr.! Awfully good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. Very much an honor indeed, Sir Stokely.”
Stoke smiled, liking the man already.
“Inspector, let me tell you something. If I ain’t Stokely Jones? Then, we’re all in big trouble. Just how many other black dudes my size you see messing around this big old stinkpot today?”
“Point well taken, indeed, sir. There would certainly appear to be little room for confusion.”
“Damn right there isn’t any room, because I take up most of it. One other thing, Inspector Walker, please. We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other going forward. Given your new responsibility in the family and all. So do me a favor. Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Just call me ‘Stoke,’ okay? I only use that ‘sir’ title when I’m back in England, having tea and crumpets with the Queen at Buck House or up in Scotland at Balmoral Castle, tossing the old cricket ball around with her two grandsons. You understand what I’m saying?”
“You and Her Royal Majesty are tight, Mr. Jones?” Walker said with a flashing grin. “Ever since you and Lord Hawke saved her family up at Balmoral.”
“Damn straight.”
When Walker smiled, it lit up his whole face. “Stoke it is, then,” he said, and he pumped the big man’s hand again.
Stoke instantly felt good about this guy. He’d been worried sick about this meeting all morning long. What kind of guy this would turn out to be. How he would feel turning Alexei over to a stranger. He’d been pretty sure about one thing. That he’d know instantly whether or not this new protection officer was someone he believed might be capable of stepping into the shoes of the late great Nell Spooner. Or not.
But the inspector’s large green eyes were strong and clear, and, more important, sincere. Nothing phony in his face or posture or big white smile. And his grip was very, very powerful, although you’d never guess it to look at him.
This was no nanny nursemaid at all. No, sir, this was a warrior, a former British Army Ranger captain, a man who’d won the Victoria Cross for his bravery in the face of an implacable enemy in the mountains of Afghanistan. A man who had now chosen to dedicate the rest of his life to protecting the loved ones of the Royal Family and their friends.
“Inspector, please say hello to my young friend Alexei Hawke, here. He’s all excited to meet you, jumping up and down all morning. Right, Alexei?”
Alexei looked up at Stoke and grabbed his hand, puzzled, not understanding what he’d said at all.
“Alexei,” the officer said, going down on his knees to look the boy in the eyes, “I am so very, very glad to meet you at last. I’ve heard all about you. And this is your dog, Harry, isn’t it? A fine black Scottie, isn’t he? Good boy, Harry, look, I’ve a treat for you! And here’s something else, Alexei. I do believe you and Stoke know Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve, don’t you?”
His warm manner seemed to relax the little boy, and he smiled at the stranger.
“We do know him very well, sir. Mr. Congreve is my godfather. But he’s more like my grandfather, really, since he’s old. He’s my very best friend in the whole world. Except for my friend Pelham. He’s the best.”
“I’m sure he is. And, I hope one day you and I will become best friends, too. Would you like that?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, we will have a lot to talk about this morning. I have another friend and colleague with me named Archie Carstairs. Sergeant Carstairs will accompany us on all our many splendid adventures, Alexei. He’s very happy to be meeting you and is waiting for us down there on that white sofa by the windows. See him waving? Won’t you and Mr. Jones come down and say hi to Archie?”
The man stood up and waved. Since he was to b
e Walker’s backup armed bodyguard, Stoke was pleased to see that he was a squat square of a man, very powerfully built. Walker was also armed, Stoke knew, as the Yard’s protection officers all wore a pistol in the small of their backs when on duty.
“Can we go down to meet Archie, too, Uncle Stokely?” Alexei asked. Stokely smiled, took the boy’s hand, and started down the steps. But at that moment, Stoke became aware of a man in a white steward’s jacket racing down the wide staircase toward the three of them.
“Hullo, there, gentlemen!” the nervous young steward said, taking the steps two at a time. “Hold hard a minute, will you?”
Stoke and the inspector paused and turned to look up at the fresh-faced English steward.
“What is it, Gibbs?” Walker asked the young man.
“Yes, yes, thank you, Inspector. I’m sorry to disturb you both at this very private moment, but I am afraid Lord Hawke wishes you all three to come up to the bridge. Er, at once. He said.”
“What’s this all about, Gibbs?” Stoke asked, worry suddenly coloring his voice.
“Lord Hawke will tell you, sir. But . . . I’m very much afraid that there’s been some kind of explosion, sir. In North Miami Beach. I’m afraid it’s not good at all. A large number killed or wounded.”
Stoke flashed on the column of black smoke he’d seen rising over the beaches of North Miami while they were en route to the port.
“What’s the fastest route up to the bridge?” Stoke said.
“That elevator right down there at the foot of the staircase, sir. Straight to the bridge.”
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 50
Blackhawke’s new skipper, Geneva King, had already downloaded a real-time satellite photo of the explosion by the time the three of them reached the bridge. A pretty woman turned and smiled at them. The ship’s new captain was a very attractive American woman, with dark red hair and bright green eyes. Tall, rather stunning in her white uniform, she stood watching the sat photos spit out of the printer.
Suddenly, seeing Stokely Jones appear in the elevator with his son, Hawke strode across the sunlit bridge deck to gather the little boy up into his arms. To Alexei’s enormous delight, his father lifted him up and placed him astride his shoulders.
“And you, sir, must be Tristan Walker, unless I’m very much mistaken,” Hawke said, extending his hand to the stranger he’d heard so many good things about.
“I am, indeed, sir,” he said. “It’s a very great honor to meet you, sir.”
“Well,” Hawke said, looking a bit anxious, “here we are. So. How are you and Alexei getting on, Tristan?”
“Very well, I would say. Would you agree, Alexei?”
“I miss Spooner, Papa,” he said, burying his face from sight in his father’s curly black hair.
Tristan’s eyes softened ever so briefly with compassion for the bereft child now in his care. He placed his hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “I’m sure you do, Alexei. We all miss Nell terribly at the Yard. Nell Spooner, in addition to being the sweetest soul alive, was a magnificent woman, a courageous woman in every way. One of my closest friends.”
Alex set his son back down on the deck as he said, “Alexei, I want you to shake hands with the inspector and tell him how much you appreciate his coming along to help watch after you. Will you do that for me?”
“I suppose so, Daddy.”
The little boy raised his hand, his eyes cast downward at his feet.
“Look a man straight in the eye when you shake his hand, son. Just like I’ve taught you. Firm grip.”
“Awfully glad to meet you, sir,” Alexei said, every bit as manfully as his father could wish as he put out his hand.
Stokely approached, holding sat photos in his hand. He held one up for Hawke’s inspection.
“Any news on whatever the hell happened?” Hawke said, taking the picture in his hand.
“That smoke we saw in the distance on the way over here? Big explosion at Florida Power & Light. The primary Miami-Dade station.”
“Bad?”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Look at this sat shot taken earlier, before the thing blew sky high.”
“It’s a massive complex. The whole thing went up?”
“Evaporated. That’s before; this shot is another satellite pass after the event.”
“Jesus Christ. Obliterated. Cause?”
“Brock has been on the phone with CIA Miami. At first they thought it was electrical, because all the main transformers blew. Now, it’s different. They’re starting to say it’s terrorists. Some FP&L employees were shot by intruders just prior to the explosion.”
“How bad, Stoke?”
“Bad. All Miami is down, all Dade County. South to the Keys, north to Fort Lauderdale. The whole damn grid has gone dark, boss. And it’ll take months to get it all back up and running. I hate to think of the chaos we’re in for, months of darkness and no power. A nightmare for people. Big trouble. Big damn trouble, I’ll tell you that for sure.”
“Harry?” Hawke said, looking over at him.
“It’s bad. Nobody saw this one coming. No threats. No Internet chatter, nothing. Clear out of the blue.”
“Any early ideas?”
“The usual suspects. We’re looking at ISIS, Cuba, AQ, homegrown terrorists, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The explosives. It was an instant controlled blast, judging from the force parameters and the look of it. But . . . my guys on-site can’t find any trace of C-4, Semtex, Demex, or any satchel charges. Nothing. We don’t know where to start looking at this point.”
Stoke spoke up. “Harry, I think it’s about time you showed him the pictures you took with your iPhone when we boarded that Russian spy boat.”
“Okay. First, here’s the military sat shot taken of Miami Beach very early this morning. Right before all hell broke loose. The angle from above and the composition looked vaguely familiar to me. I knew I’d seen this aerial view before. And guess what. I had. Aboard that Russian ship, believe it or not. Here’s my iPhone shot.”
Harry handed his cell to Hawke. The small screen displayed the scene down in the hold of the spy ship.
“Right,” Hawke said. “You showed me some of these when you returned to the CG cutter. Didn’t make a whole lot of sense at the time. You shot this down in the aft hold?”
“I did. In the ‘billiard room’ as we called it. The whole space was filled with pool-table-sized platforms, each one with a different model American city. They all looked sorta alike at first glance. But this one? That’s Miami, all right. Including the central FP&L power station right there. Only now, it looks like this.”
Hawke looked at the second, postattack photo.
“Remarkable. Scorched earth.”
“There’s nothing left but twisted steel. At least a square mile of blackened earth,” Stoke said.
“Unbelievable, isn’t it,” Brock said, nodding his head. “What possible kind of explosive could cause that much destruction and not leave a trace?”
“I was just thinking about that,” Hawke said, looking away and clearly concentrating.
“Stoke,” Hawke said finally, “you mentioned something about another locked compartment down there.”
“Yes, boss. Way in the back. Nothing much there. A couple of cases of German vodka, some of the bottles opened and half empty.”
Hawke looked over at him. “I don’t recall you saying anything about any vodka.”
“Well, it just didn’t seem all that important, boss,” Stoke replied, troubled by the look in Hawke’s eyes.
“I did grab a couple of bottles as souvenirs,” Brock jumped in.
“You did?” Hawke said, his eyes lighting up.
“Sure did.”
“Tell me you didn’t drink that stuff, Harry,” Hawke said sharply.
“Me? No. I only drink scotch. That stuff’s rotgut, right? Jet fuel, that’s all I know.”
“Something like that,” Hawke replied, his mind suddenly racing, putting two and two together.
“Where are those vodka bottles? Right now?”
“In my apartment. Over in Coconut Grove.”
Hawke, excited, took hold of Brock’s shoulder.
“Call CIA Miami, Harry. Now. Tell them about the vodka you found when you searched the Russian ship. Tell them this is all somehow related to the power station bombing. National security priority. Tell them I said so. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“And tell them not to let any agents go anywhere near those two bottles. I want the bomb squad to remove them. Under no circumstances should they break the seals of the metal screw tops until they’ve spoken directly to me. Do you understand the urgency in my voice, Harry?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I do.”
“Get them on the phone. Now.”
“A bomb squad, boss?” Stoke said. “For a couple of bottles of vodka?”
“Not exactly vodka,” Hawke replied, watching Brock make the call and listening to every word he said.
CHAPTER 51
Thirty minutes later, Hawke’s mobile rang. He looked at the screen. It was area code 305, Miami, but routed through the primary switchboard at MI6 on the Albert Embankment in London.
“Commander Hawke,” he said, after punching the button.
“Commander, I have Sentient Stormchasers in London calling. I’m going to be putting the call through to you on a secure line. It’s a Miami call. CIA station there. All right if I put them through now?”
“Please.”
Hawke listened for the familiar yet still mysterious echoes of whizzes and clicks from far across the sea. And then a voice.
“Commander, this is Special Agent Sheffield, Miami station, calling you on a secure line.”
“Thank you. Go ahead, please, Agent Sheffield.”
“We are currently located at the Miami address in Coconut Grove. We’ve just completed evacuating the entire neighborhood. Bomb Squad is on-site for removal.”
Hawke said, “Have you found the two vodka bottles?”
