Hawke

by Ted Bell

  Suffice it to say, one didn’t stroll through these aged portals expecting limbo nights, cocktails with tiny umbrellas, or the quaint melody of “Yellowbird” wafting through the palms. Perhaps the club had seen better days. Perhaps, worse.

  The music on the club’s PA system consisted of either reggae in the evenings, or, as now, scratchy recordings of early American blues-men such as Son House or Blind Lemon Jefferson.

  Amen Lillywhite, the club’s chief bartender, was all smiles when Hawke and Congreve walked in. He was an ancient blackbird of a man, tall and bare-chested with golden hoop earrings. His enormous white grin and a necklace of shark’s teeth had been a primary attraction at the club since the night it opened.

  “Welcome, welcome, gentlemen!” he boomed. “What can I get for you two young fellows?”

  “Two ice-cold beers would be lovely,” Congreve said.

  News both good and bad traveled fast in Staniel Cay. Amen, presiding at his horseshoe bar, was at the very epicenter of information flow on the small island. News of the launch moored at the end of the dock reached his ears seconds after its arrival. His excitement grew when he learned the name Blackhawke was scribed in gold leaf on the launch’s transom. The famous yacht had arrived almost a week earlier, mooring in the deeper water offshore. This was the first time her launch had ventured into Staniel Cay.

  It was dark and cool inside the bar where Hawke and Congreve stood waiting for the Russians. The two agents had finally arrived, but remained out on the docks, having a frightful row. Meanwhile, the two Englishmen, each sipping from a cold bottle of Kalik, were gazing up at a wall covered with faded snapshots, a kaleidoscopic jumble of sunny days and rum-soaked nights.

  There was an eclectic mix of locals, charter skippers, international boat bums, rich American or British yachtsmen, and even a surprising number of movie stars. Everyone posing with his or her arms around Amen. Amen’s appearance changed with the passing decades, but he was the only constant.

  “I’d say there are only three ways of getting one’s picture up on this wall, Constable,” Hawke said. “No doubt you have arrived at a similar conclusion, you being the famous bloodhound, after all?”

  “Better hound than hare,” Congreve replied, rubbing his chin and perusing the photographs. “I would say that there are actually four.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve got to be rich, famous, or an alcoholic,” Ambrose declared.

  “And the fourth?” Hawke asked, delighted.

  “All of the above, of course.”

  “Precisely,” Hawke said, looking at his friend with an admiring smile. “Ambrose Congreve, Scotland Yard’s own Demon of Deduction,” Hawke added.

  Alex then looked out toward the docks, frowning. The Russians were still there, shouting. Arguing about just how much money they might gouge out of the rich Englishman, Hawke imagined. Bloody hell, he hated waiting.

  “What the devil is keeping those two? And what are they going on about anyway?” Hawke asked. “Are we having this bloody meeting or are we not?”

  “I’ve been eavesdropping. They’re fighting over a woman. Grigory came back to their boat last night and found Nikolai having a go at someone Grigory fancied. Not being very nice to her either, apparently. Someone named Gloria. A local girl from what I can make out.”

  “Your Russian seems sound enough.”

  “Flawless.”

  “Here’s the thing. Go tell those bastards I’m walking out of here in fifteen seconds.”

  “Right-ho,” Congreve said, and pushed through the screen doors and out into the sun.

  Hawke looked around the ancient saloon. Every arched wall was festooned with fishing nets, buoys, giant mounted marlin and sailfish, conch shells, shark jaws, and endless strings of Christmas lights. Somehow, he thought to himself, it all worked.

  Two or three “members” were seated at the bar, wholly absorbed in some kind of dice game, paying scant attention to Hawke or anyone else. The tables were all empty. Lunch crowd gone, cocktail crowd not yet arrived. Good.

  The two crewmen from Hawke’s launch had scouted the yacht club yesterday and proclaimed it ideal. Now, both armed, they had stationed themselves none too discreetly on either side of the club’s front door.

  The younger of the two, ex-U.S. Army sharpshooter Tommy Quick, was happily tossing fried bacon rinds into the waters surrounding the docks. In the gin-clear water, Tom could see literally dozens of large nurse and bull and sand sharks cruising over the white sandy bottom, instantly rising to snap up his treats as quickly as they hit the surface.

  Hawke had met Sergeant Thomas Quick at the U.S. Army’s Sniper School at Fort Hood. Hawke had audited a course there one summer and successfully recruited the Army’s #1 sniper. Quick could easily see that working for Alex Hawke would be a far more exciting and lucrative career than anything the U.S. Army offered.

  The world knew Hawke as one of the world’s most powerful businessmen and head of a massive conglomeration of diversified industries. A very select group of people knew that he frequently did highly secret freelance work for the governments of the United States and Great Britain.

  Since joining Hawke, Inc., Quick had bought gold mines in South Africa, been in a room deep in the Kremlin while Hawke chatted with the Russian defense minister, and spent a long night helping Hawke attach limpet mines to the hulls of ships full of illegal weapons sitting in the bay off Bahrain. On the first anniversary of his employment, Quick had given Hawke a gift that the man still wore, an Army Sniper School T-shirt that read:

  You Can Run But You’ll Only Die Tired!

  The older crewman, Ross Sutherland, who was actually on permanent loan to Hawke from the Yard’s Special Branch, kept one eye on the two bickering Russians and one hand inside his shirt, lightly gripping the nine-millimeter Glock he always wore strapped under his arm. These Russians didn’t look like much, but, in his years spent protecting Hawke, he’d learned the hard way never to go by appearances.

  Sutherland was a man who’d think nothing of laying down his life for Alex Hawke. One night, in a makeshift prison some thirty miles south of Baghdad, Hawke had almost died saving Sutherland’s life.

  Somehow, Hawke managed to get the two of them safely out of the Iraqi hellhole where they’d been held for over two weeks after a SAM-7 brought their Tomcat fighter down. Ross had no memory of the escape. He’d literally been beaten senseless by the Iraqi guards.

  Both men had been brutally mistreated, especially Sutherland. If they had not escaped that night, Hawke knew it was doubtful Ross could survive another day’s “interrogation.” As it happened, Hawke had killed two guards with his bare hands and they’d fled south across the desert, using the stars for navigation.

  Ross had barely survived their endless trek across the scorching sands. For days and nights on end, Hawke had carried Sutherland on his back before an American tank command finally stumbled upon them. By this point, they were wandering in circles, staggering blindly up and down the endless sea of dunes.

  The Russians continued their tiresome squabbling and Ross knew Hawke must have been getting impatient. Idly, he flicked the Glock’s safety up and down beneath his shirt. Not that Sutherland was expecting trouble. The night before, he’d reread the Russians’ dossiers. They were both former Black Sea Fleet officers. Both had originally served at the sub base at Vladivostok. They’d been classmates at the academy and were surviving the end of the Cold War by peddling what remained of the Soviet navy.

  Ross allowed himself a smile at the sight of Congreve barging into the middle of the heated argument, barking at them in Russian. After a moment of stunned silence, the two nodded their heads. Ross opened the screen door and the two men meekly followed his colleague from Scotland Yard back inside.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy?” Hawke asked when they’d all been seated. “Refreshments? Vodka, I’d imagine. Get everyone in a festive mood.” He signaled to a waitress lingering in the doorway to the kitchen.

 
“I think perhaps beer might be a better choice,” Congreve said, giving Alex a meaningful kick to the shin under the table. Hawke understood immediately that the Russians’ vodka quota for the day had already been met and nodded his head.

  Ambrose was yammering away with the Russkies, so Hawke leaned back in his chair and took their measure.

  These two legionnaires of the former evil empire were bleary-eyed and a sickly gray beneath their suntanned exteriors. The heavy one had salt-and-pepper hair, cut short in the old Soviet military style. Steel-rimmed glasses completed the look. Long, greasy dark hair, tied loosely at the back, a pair of shiny black marbles for eyes, and a rather uncooperative black beard on the other chap. He bore, Hawke observed, an uncanny resemblance to the notorious Russian “Mad Monk,” Rasputin.

  Unlike the woolen suits Hawke had pictured them wearing, they were casually dressed in bathing suits, sandals, and sport shirts depicting multicolored billfish leaping gaily about.

  Looking at them, Hawke felt a twinge of pity. At one time, these two cold warriors had surely been formidable men, accustomed to a sense of purpose, power, and command. Now they had a dissolute air about them, stemming no doubt from too much sun, too much rum, too little self-respect. It was more than a little humbling, Hawke imagined, to be peddling the arsenal of your once vaingloriously evil empire.

  “Well,” Hawke said, suddenly restless. “I’m Alexander Hawke. My esteemed colleague, Mr. Ambrose Congreve, whom you’ve met, will be handling the translations. Ambrose, you have the floor.”

  As Congreve translated this bit, the waitress approached Hawke. Her flashing eyes and body language indicated that she was not in the best of moods. Surprising, since he’d heard so much about the sunny disposition of the people in these islands. This singular exception to that rule presented herself at the table.

  “Hello,” Hawke said, though his smile went unreturned. “Four Kaliks should do it, thanks.” Blackhawke’s crew drank nothing but the local Bahamian beer, and that was good enough for Alex. The girl nodded grimly and headed for the bar. Her walk did lovely things to the back of her shift.

  Congreve coughed discreetly to get Hawke’s attention.

  “May I present Mr. Nikolai Golgolkin and Mr. Grigory Bolkonski,” Congreve said to Hawke. “Golgolkin, the Russian bear with the steel glasses, seems to be the one in charge. The chap on the left, who is a dead ringer for Rasputin, is a former submarine designer and weapons expert from the Severodvinsk shipyard on the Kola Peninsula. Both are very pleased to meet the famous Hawke.”

  The little “mad monk” didn’t seem all that pleased. He turned his black eyes on Congreve, anger suffusing his face. He’d dearly heard the Rasputin reference and was not amused.

  “Lovely,” Hawke said, smiling.

  “They apologize for their rudeness in keeping you waiting and beg forgiveness. It seems they are uncomfortable having this discussion in such a public place, but they have brought a gift. Vodka.”

  “They certainly have a gift for drinking the stuff, judging by appearances,” Hawke said.

  Golgolkin produced a small, rectangular red velvet box, which he placed in front of Hawke. Hawke opened it and smiled. It was Moskoya Private Label. Quite rare. Bloody marvelous stuff after a few hours in the freezer.

  “Very kind,” Hawke said, looking from one Russian to the other. “A most generous gift. Let’s get to it. According to our mutual Syrian friend in Abu Kamal, they will have a portfolio of their wares with them, correct?”

  Congreve began translating and soon they were all chattering again in what was, to Hawke’s ear, still a most unlovely language.

  The waitress arrived with a tray and placed a sweating bottle of Kalik in front of each man. Her angry eyes avoided those of the two Russians and her volcanic mood sent tremors to her fingers as she served them. Such a pretty girl, Hawke thought. Pity she was so unhappy.

  As she handed Hawke his beer, he couldn’t help but notice the rough red abrasions around each of her wrists. A quick glance down at her bare feet and ankles revealed that they, too, were red and raw. This poor girl had recently been abused, and badly.

  “What is your name?” Hawke whispered to the girl, taking her gently by the hand.

  “Gloria,” she replied, her eyes downcast.

  “Gloria,” he repeated, remembering it as the name of the woman Congreve had heard the Russians arguing over. “Yes, I might have guessed that.”

  5

  It was hard for Hawke to conceal his unbridled loathing for the two Russians. To think, just moments before, he’d actually been feeling sorry for these two sodden degenerates. Make that godless Commie sodden degenerates. In Alex’s world there was right. And there was wrong. And there were no shades of gray.

  The kind of work Alex Hawke did, covert assignments for both the British and American governments, often meant dealing with cretins like these two. But Hawke was a man who loved his life’s calling deeply and passionately. He relished each and every assignment. Now, after the long, restless hiatus that had been January, he looked forward to this one with keen anticipation.

  He stared at the two men sitting across from him. According to everything he’d learned from Cap Adams, the CIA station agent in Kuwait City, they were a pair of heartless pirates, perverse enough to make their fortunes selling weapons of mass destruction to the world’s terrorists. He’d gathered sufficient information from enough sources to suggest that these two just might be the ones to lead him to the disappearing Borzoi submarine. After that, he planned to put these two parasites out of business. Permanently.

  Congreve said something briefly in Russian, and Golgolkin pulled a faded red leather folder from his satchel, pushing it toward Hawke. Embossed in gold on the cover was the old Soviet symbol itself, the hammer and sickle.

  “Suggestion,” Hawke said, tapping the symbol with his finger. “You boys ought to find yourselves a new logo. When somebody’s sickle has been hammered as badly as yours has been, it’s time to move on.”

  As Congreve translated this bit to the puzzled Russians, Hawke perused a stack of glossy eight-by-ten photos until a certain item caught his eye. It was a huge jet-powered hovercraft, capable of carrying at least sixty or seventy soldiers. Or, Hawke thought, passengers. He separated the photo from the stack and placed it on the table.

  Hawke owned a handsome castle in Scotland. It was on a lovely rugged island in the Hebrides and he’d gotten his chum Faldo to build one of the most gorgeous links golf courses in all of Britain on it. Hawke was a terrible golfer, but his love of the game remained undiminished.

  He didn’t get to use the Scotland property as much as he’d intended and was now thinking of converting it into a small hotel. This hovercraft would make a splendid way of transporting guests to and fro. The fact that it was ex-Soviet would only add to the cachet.

  “How fast?” he asked.

  Rasputin muttered something and Congreve translated, “On a calm day, flat, no wind, in excess of sixty knots.”

  Hawke said nothing and continued to look through the pile of photos. It was an amazing assortment of weapons and military craft. Scud missiles and missile launchers, helicopter gunships, high-speed attack boats; indeed, just about everything except what Hawke was really interested in. He returned the photos to the folder, slid the red leather case across the table, and stood up.

  “Well,” Hawke said, “you’ve piqued my interest. I’d like you to join me aboard the launch. We’ll continue this discussion at a more private location.”

  The Russians were instantly all smiles, positively giddy at the sudden prospect of a major sale, and happy to go someplace less public. Getting to their feet, they extended their hands as if to seal some bargain already agreed to. Hawke ignored them and turned to Congreve.

  “Ambrose, be so kind as to escort these two characters out to the launch. I’ll linger here a moment and take care of our tab.”

  “So, this is what you meant by ‘shopping,’ eh?” Congreve leaned to whisper
in Hawke’s ear. “You might have mentioned it sooner, and I could have had this pair of cads thoroughly checked out.”

  “No need to bother you with it. I had Sutherland do it, before we left London. I told you, Ambrose, this is a holiday. Relax, get some sun, have a bit of fun. You’ve been quite morose since your Maggie died.”

  Congreve looked away, sadness overtaking him.

  “Mags was a fine old hound. I had a dog once,” Hawke said. “Scoundrel. I loved that dog so much, it frightened me to watch him grow old, knowing that he would die one day.”

  “It’s so awful when they do,” Congreve replied. “But they do die. And then you are alone.” The older man turned away, squared up his shoulders, and hustled the two arms dealers out through the screen doors and into the afternoon sun.

  I’ve always been alone, Hawke thought, looking after him. Always.

  Hawke shook off the feeling and walked over to the bar. He took one of the many empty stools, smiled at the bartender, and said, “Lovely day for it, isn’t it?”

  “The Lord has indeed blessed us once more, sir,” the bartender said with his big white smile. He stuck out his hand. “My name, sir, is Amen Lillywhite. Please call me Amen. We are honored to have you here at the club, Commander Blackhawke.”

  Hawke nodded and took the man’s scrawny mahogany hand and shook it. “Rum, please, Amen. Neat. Gosling’s Black Seal 151 if you’ve got the stuff.”

  “Not much call for it, but I do, sir!” he said. “Let me find it.”

  Commander? Hawke was amazed. Commander had been his rank when, after a successful career, he’d retired from the Navy. Hardly anyone used it anymore.

  And Blackhawke? Who knew how that had gotten started? No one, save perhaps Congreve, knew that Alex was indeed a direct descendant of the famous pirate. Perhaps it was a creation of the idiotic society reporters in London who relentlessly followed his every move and romantic misadventure. “Blackhawke’s Latest Bird Flies the Coop” was typical of the tabloid coverage he’d endured.