Hawke

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.

And there were more than a few captains of industry around the world who, having been broadsided by a Hawke hostile takeover, considered him somewhat piratical. In any event, the swashbuckling sobriquet had stuck, and it amused Hawke no end. He and Congreve alone knew that there was a very real Blackhawke perched atop the uppermost branches of the Hawke family tree.

“An honor to serve you,” Lillywhite said, placing a healthy tumbler of rum on the bar before him.

“I only drink on two occasions. When I’m alone or with somebody, Amen,” Hawke said, taking a sip of the dark liquid. “Will you join me in a glass?”

Amen smiled and shook his head.

“Haven’t had a drop since my first day here, near to fifty years now. Good Lord surrounds me with temptation, sees what I do. I sometimes imagine myself at the pearly gates. And maybe the Lord might say, ‘You’ve had a long trip, Amen. Would you like a drink?’ ”

Alex laughed and said, “I was wondering. Those pictures over there on that wall. How far do they go back?”

“ ’Bout fifty years or so, sir,” Amen said. “To the club’s most early days, I think, right after the war. I started working here, let me see, in forty-nine.” Hawke nodded silently, gazing at the wall. Strange, but he found himself studying the jumble of old photographs with solemn intensity. Almost as if he expected to find an old friend or relative amongst the countless strangers.

He caught Gloria’s eye. She had been standing at the window, watching Congreve and the two Russians stroll down the dock. She walked over, keeping her eyes on the floor, and handed him the handwritten chit. Hawke didn’t even look at it. He took her hand and pressed a folded hundred-pound note into it. He caught her gaze and held it.

“I don’t know what happened to you last night. But I’m the one who invited those two men to your island and so I feel responsible. I promise you this. They will never, ever bother you again.”

She looked up at him with gleaming eyes. “You’ll keep them away?”

“Actually, I plan to put them away,” Hawke said with a smile. “Now, you take care of yourself. Cut some fresh aloe and rub it into those abrasions.”

“I will,” she said, not looking up into his eyes.

Hawke paused once more before the wall of photographs on his way to the door. Spying a tiny Polaroid amidst the jumble, he found himself unthinkingly reaching up and plucking it from the wall. Without even looking at it, he stuck it in the breast pocket of his shirt, then walked out into the heat of the tropical sun.

At the end of the dock, the launch’s powerful twin engines rumbled in the somnolent afternoon. Congreve had raised the hydraulic engine hatch cover and was busy showing off the twin supercharged Rolls-Royce power plants to the Russians. Rasputin had climbed down into the engine room for a closer look.

“Giving away the latest of Her Majesty’s technology for free, eh, Constable?” Hawke said, looking down from the dock. Congreve guiltily pushed a button, and the big hatch cover started to close with a hydraulic hiss. The sight of the Russian scrambling out in the nick of time delighted Hawke.

“Everything shipshape?” Hawke asked Tommy Quick after he’d climbed down the ladder and stepped aboard.

“Aye, Skipper,” Quick said. “I’ve got snorkels, fins, and masks for everybody. Tide’s full in now, so the entrance to the grotto is submerged. About six feet below the surface. A few sharks milling about in the vicinity, but I shouldn’t worry about them, sir.”