by Ted Bell
“Very good,” Hawke said. “Progress. What was the country code of the last number he called?”
Congreve asked, and said to Hawke, “There were so many numbers, so many different voices, he says he can’t remember. They were all cell phone numbers in various countries.”
“Did he receive the deposit?” Hawke asked.
“He says yes.”
“How did he receive it?”
“He says it was a wire transfer. Into his numbered account in Switzerland.”
“Excellent. And now, please, where was the money transferred from?”
“He says he can’t remember. He begs you to spare his life.”
“Pity. It’s always sad when memory fails us at just the wrong moment,” Hawke said. Sword extended, he walked out over the water toward the cowering Russians.
“Do you know our English expression ‘to walk the plank,’ Comrade Golgolkin?” Hawke asked
“He says no,” Ambrose said.
“Really? It’s an old Hawke family tradition, invented a few hundred years ago by one of my more rambunctious ancestors, I believe.”
He flicked the sword’s point across the man’s belly.
“Ai-eee!” the Russian cried.
“Sorry, old chap, but this is how it works. You can talk. Or you can walk. Should you choose neither of the above, I can happily run you both through.”
The sword penetrated the man’s shirtfront, and a bright red flower of blood began to bloom on his belly. The Russian looked down at the blade in his stomach, horrified.
“Last chance, Golgolkin,” Hawke said. “Where was the money wired from?”
Rasputin was screaming something, undoubtedly encouraging his colleague to cough up the information. The fat Russian squeezed his eyes shut and uttered something between his clenched teeth.
Hawke turned to Congreve. “I’m sorry, Ambrose. What did he say?”
“The money was wired from a private account. A bank account. In Miami, he thinks.” Congreve said.
“And the name of the bank?”
Congreve translated. A huge sob escaped from the big Russian. “He’s praying,” Congreve said.
“His prayers will go unanswered. I want that bloody bank’s name! Now!” He twisted the sword blade.
“Sunstate Bank,” the Russian blurted out in English.
“Now for the hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar question,” Hawke said. “Who bought the bloody Borzoi? Who? Give me that name on the account in Miami or you’re a dead man!”
“Telaraña,” the Russian finally cried. “Telaraña!”
“That’s better,” Hawke said. “Such a relief when the truth comes out at last.”
Withdrawing his sword but keeping the tip poised at the man’s belly, Hawke said, “Bloody good show! Now, tell this fat bastard two things. If he’s lying, there’s nowhere in the world he can run. I’ll find him and slice him to bloody pieces with this very sword.”
Hearing this, the man shook his head violently. “He understands,” Congreve said. “He’s telling the truth. He swears it.”
“Good. Now that he’s in a talkative mood, I want to know when he received final payment for the Borzoi and when it’s scheduled for delivery. I also want to know how many subs he’s sold, the total number, and I want to know what type of boats they were. Diesel, nuclear, everything. Would you ask him that, please?”
Congreve extracted this information and relayed it to Hawke.
“And one more thing,” Hawke said. “Tell him that if either he or the little mad monk ever lay a hand on that poor girl Gloria again, the sharks will be eating their balls for breakfast.”
When the man shook his head again, Hawke withdrew his sword, wiped the bloody tip on the Russian’s trousers, and stuck it back in his cummerbund. Then he turned and walked toward the portside rail.
Brian was waiting with a glass of port and Hawke’s parrot resting on his forearm. The bird instantly flew to Hawke’s shoulder.
“Call me old-fashioned, Brian,” he said to his steward. “Politically incorrect, I’m quite sure. But, God, I hate dealing with Russians. They’re almost as bad as the French.” He took a swig of the ruby-colored wine.
“Bad as French!” Sniper screeched.
“Almost, Sniper old boy,” Hawke said. “I said ‘almost’ as bad, didn’t I, Brian?”
“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Brian said, discreetly checking the automatic weapon strapped to his shoulder.
“Would you mind seeing these two infections safely back to Staniel Cay? Keep a gun on them.”
“Will do, sir. I think—”
“Hawke! Hawke!” Sniper shrieked.
Hawke spun around. Rasputin, with a murderously mad gleam in his smoldering eyes, was plunging toward him. He had an ugly serpentine-shaped dagger raised above his head and he began screaming like a crazed banshee.
Hawke came close to freezing. Knives, he’d learned long ago, tend to have that effect on most people. But he feinted left and moved right with blinding speed.
He had exactly one second to get an arm up and ward off the downward slashing dagger. He felt the burn as the blade sliced his forearm open and saw bright blood splashing upon the teak decks. Ignoring the pain, he sucked in a deep breath and in an instant he had Rasputin’s knife hand in his grasp and had planted one foot solidly on the deck. He pulled Rasputin forward and pivoted on his one planted heel at the same time.
The Russian pitched forward, grunting, losing his balance, and Hawke gathered himself, using Rasputin’s own forward momentum to lift the shrieking Russian off the deck. Still gripping the knife hand, he pivoted once more and released his grip, flinging the man bodily into the air, out and over the yacht’s waist-high gunwale rail.
With an inhuman wail, the man went pinwheeling into space, finally hitting the water some forty feet below with a great splash.
Hawke leaned against the bulkhead, calmly tying his pocket handkerchief around his blood-soaked forearm. “Cut me to the bone, the bloody bastard,” Hawke said.
“Shall I ring the ship’s surgeon, sir?” Brian asked, returning his weapon to its holster. Hawke had dispatched the Russian with such alacrity he hadn’t needed it.
“Not now. I’ve suffered worse in a nasty badminton match. Ambrose, please ask Mr. Golgolkin if his comrade down there can swim.”
Ambrose and Golgolkin had their backs to Hawke, both peering down over the side of the yacht. Someone flipped on a spotlight and trained it on the Russian. They could see him thrashing about in the water and the disturbance was attracting the attention of the sharks congregated at the bow.
“I say, did he survive the fall?” Hawke asked.
At the sight of the fins slicing through the water in his direction, the floundering Russian started screaming.
“Apparently, he did,” Hawke said, answering his own question. He stepped to the rail and glanced down. He was pleased to see all the dorsal fins, circling, closing.
“Brian, let the sharks get a little closer and then have someone open the closest starboard hatch and pull the little bugger in.”
“They’re pretty close right now, Skipper,” Drummond said. “Especially that big white-tip.”
“Not close enough,” Hawke replied. He turned to Congreve.
“Ambrose, perhaps someone could give Comrade Golgolkin here a towel or something to press against his wound. It’s nothing serious, unfortunately, just a scratch. And I suppose we can return this to him now.”
Hawke pulled the confiscated automatic pistol from his pocket, released the cartridge magazine, and tossed the clip overboard before handing the empty gun to Golgolkin.
“You’re quite welcome, I’m sure,” Hawke said, having heard no expression of thanks for his kindness.
The bearded Russian was speechless. Goggle-eyed, he was leaning over the varnished teak rail, watching the sharks circling ever closer around his hapless colleague.
“Will that be all, Skipper?” Brian asked.
; “I think that’s quite enough excitement for one evening, don’t you? If our chief bosun is still sober when he returns to the boat, you might ask him to have my seaplane fueled and ready for me first thing. File a flight plan to Nassau, I want to be airborne by dawn’s early light.”
“Aye, sir.”
“After you’ve seen our guests safely ashore, you might call my pilots in Miami and tell them I want the Gulfstream to meet me in Nassau, tanks topped off and ready for wheels-up at noon. I’m taking her into Reagan Washington.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Aye, aye!” squawked Sniper.
“Ah, Sniper, my brave fellow. You deserve a treat. Brian, a lid of our best Beluga for old Sniper?”
“Done,” Brian said, smiling.
“Oh. And tell Miss Perkins down in the ship’s office to have Stokely pick me up in D.C., and book me a quiet table for two at the Georgetown Club at eight.”
“Done,” Brian said. “And your usual suite at the Hay-Adams overlooking the White House?”
“Not necessary, thanks. I spoke with Pelham. Apparently the new house is ready for occupants.”
Brian saluted and headed aft to make the arrangements.
Hawke noticed that the fat Russian, still looking down over the rail, appeared to have been eavesdropping on his conversation with young Drummond. Nosy, he decided, very nosy.
“Ambrose, do you have a second?” Hawke asked, and he and Congreve walked to the top of the steps leading down from the bridge deck, moving out of earshot of the Russian.
“Well done,” Congreve said softly. “He wants his money.”
“He’s bloody lucky he’s got his life,” Hawke said. “Tell that socialist disease that anyone who lines his pockets putting nuclear weapons in the hands of terrorists takes his chances with me. He’s already used up one. And one is about all he gets. Bagged his bloody limit.”
“We’ll get them off the boat, Alex. But I would definitely increase the security on and around the yacht, starting tonight. Round the clock. These chaps are beyond unsavory.”
“I agree. I’ll have a word with Tommy Quick. Double the watch. This Telaraña. I seem to have heard the name. Spanish, isn’t it? Something to do with spiders?”
“The spider’s web, actually.”
“I’ve always been petrified of spiders,” Hawke said, shuddering. “Strange, isn’t it? Ever since I was a boy. No idea why, of course. Spiders. Horrid little buggers.”
“Let’s have a nightcap up on deck, shall we?” Ambrose said. “And you can finish the gripping saga of that scourge of the Spanish Main, the blackguard Blackhawke.”
“Pirates’ lore. Most appropriate after a splendid evening of saber-rattling and plank-walking,” Hawke said. Motioning his friend up the stairs, he said, “After you, Constable.”
17
Once Hawke and Ambrose had made themselves comfortable up on deck, Hawke continued the story of his illustrious ancestor.
The old pirate, upon hearing that the king’s men were in the courtyard, now knew he was not to be spared the hangman’s noose. Collapsing back upon his tattered cot, he uttered one word, “Lost.”
The parson knelt on the cold stone beside him and put his hand out to the man. “Repent with me now, and make your final journey with peace in your soul. I beg of you to—”
“Innocent!” Blackhawke bellowed. “How does an innocent man repent? The king himself long encouraged piracy to fill his coffers. Now that damnable East India Company decides pirates are discouraging the mercantile trades, and suddenly our heads are on the block!”
“Alas, ’tis true.”
“My friends at court, my crew, one and all betray me to save their own skins! It’s these foul traitors must repent their treachery, not Captain Blackhawke!”
“Alas, ’tis true twice over,” the parson said. “Let us go now, and speak with the Lord.”
On their way to the courtyard, the parson took the hapless pirate into the prison chapel for one last chance at redemption. They sat for a moment in the gloom on a long hard pew facing a single coffin draped in black. As was tradition, the doomed prisoners had been forced to sit before the symbolic coffin, quite empty, for hours each day, supposedly doing their penance.
Thick incense floated to the high, vaulted ceilings, but it couldn’t mask the pervasive stench of urine rising in every dark corner; nor could the chants and mournful prayers of the condemned hide the sounds of those wretched souls fornicating on the back benches.
Blackhawke stared silently at the draped coffin, quietly sipping his grog.
“It’s no use, Parson,” he said finally. “It ain’t in me, repentance. Nary a bit of it. I’ll step off into the next world and take me chances as I am.” He pulled the spyglass in which he’d hidden the map from his cloak and slipped it into the parson’s hands.
“This glass is all that’s left to me in this world,” Blackhawke rasped. “ ’Twas a gift from my wife when first I went to sea. Now I want her to have it as a poor remembrance of her husband. I beg you to see that it makes it safely into her hands. I’ve four gold doubloons sewn into me coat here that are yours, if you’ll give me no more than your sacred word. It’s my last wish.”
“Consider it done, Captain,” the parson said. And Blackhawke ripped open the seam in his coat, withdrew the doubloons, and slipped them to the fellow.
The parson and the pirate emerged into the courtyard.
“I warn you, Parson,” Blackhawke said, angrily eyeing the crewmen who’d betrayed him, some of whom were already in the cart. “I warn you this. An unarmed man full of vengeance is the most dangerous of men. I warrant I’ll rip their treacherous hearts out!”
But in the event, riding in the king’s cart, Blackhawke merely drank grog all the way to the dock. He was simply too tired and too weak and too full of rum to wreak his vengeance. He was thus oblivious to the merry shouts and taunts of the crowds lining the streets leading to the River Thames. By the time he and the other condemned arrived at the place of execution, the parson had to help the old man stagger up the steps to where the hangman waited. The notorious pirate captain would be the first to go.
He stood, with the noose finally around his neck, and looked out over the noisome crowd. He had arranged for some few remaining friends to stand below the gallows and witness his departure. Theirs was a mission of mercy. Since the drop itself seldom did the job, his mates were there to leap up, grab his heels, and yank down to end Blackhawke’s agony quickly.
As it happened, the rope parted, and Blackhawke tumbled to the ground with little more than a bad rope burn round his neck. The dazed man had to be carried once more up the steps to repeat his agonizing departure.
By now, however, the rum fog had dissipated a bit, and it was a much-sobered Blackhawke who had one final revelation. Standing once more upon the precipice, he felt suddenly alive, breathing, conscious. Even the sting of the rope burning around his neck was something to be cherished, and, oddly, the crowd ranged below him now seemed to be cheering. A joyous sendoff for one last epic and uncharted voyage! Yes!
His mind allowed him to stand once more on his quarterdeck, shouting orders fore and aft. Lines cast off, sheets loosed, sails filled with an evening breeze. Bound for the far horizon. Men scrambling like monkeys in the rigging, all color and glory. Bound for that fat yellow moon floating just over that far, far horizon.
Farewell.
Well. This is it then. Torches burning along the riverbanks. The dusky glow of London Town shimmering across the water. Lovely night. Been a good life, hasn’t it, after all? Strongly lived. Well fought and well rewarded. Left the treacherous Caribee and tedious humdrum of the New World’s penny-pinching merchants far astern, hadn’t he?
Been a young man then, still, when he’d taken up the pirate’s adventuresome ways. Loved the endless roll of the boundless blue sea, he had, really. Loved every league and fathom of her, for all his life.
A small sigh escaped his lips and his mates below drew forwar
d, hushed now. All the crowd below quiet now. He would go into the next world unarmed. But he was unafraid and had no doubt he’d conquer the next as he’d done the present.
He’d given some serious thought to his parting shot, looking for a defiant farewell, and he uttered those words now, raw and raspy, but still strong.
“The man without sword is oft the deadliest enemy,” Blackhawke bellowed. “Hear me, Death, and lay on!”
There was a resounding huzzah from below.
He brought the curtain down on this world, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering just as hard as he could:
And the cannons’ thunder, too, and the blood, and the plunder. Loved it all and no regrets now, none save the sweet wife’s face hanging out there in mid-air now, beckoning, all her tears falling like soft rain on the upturned faces below. His wife, his children, lost to him, too, and all that buried booty and—
He sucked one last draught of sweet air into his lungs and then—stepped off into forever.
The next morning they hung Blackhawke’s corpse from a post on the riverbank, in plain view of the passing river traffic. It rotted there for some months, sloughing off flesh, blacker and smaller with every sunrise, a stern and daily reminder of the fate awaiting those foolhardy enough to consider the pirate’s adventuresome ways.
In the end, there was little left of Blackhawke but legend. That, and his sun-bleached bones, tinkling gaily in the wind off the river.
Hawke was silent a moment, having finished his tale. He drained his port, then he stood and raised the empty glass to his friend.
“Hear me then, Death, and lay on!” Hawke said, and flung his glass far out into the nighttime sky.
“Hear! Hear!” Ambrose said, and, getting to his feet, he flung his glass over the rail as well. “Now we’ve sent Captain Blackhawke off to his reward, I’m for bed myself. Good night, Alex. Sleep well.”
