Hawke

“Yes, and do me a small favor, would you?” Hawke asked, keying the code that would close the metal box. “Would you return this box to the library? I believe you know where it’s kept? And, also, there is a rather large black Halliburton travel case in the same locker.”

“Yes, sir. I know the one.”

“Please bring the case up to wherever Congreve has us dining this evening. And stow it out of sight.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll be in the small dining room, just off the library,” Quick said, and turned to go. He paused. “Sorry, the wine steward asked if you’d chosen a di

“Do we have any more of this sixty-four Montrachet left?”

“I’ll speak to the steward, sir.”

“Good. I hate to waste good wine on bad company, but perhaps it will loosen their tongues.”

“I’ve got the audio recording system set up in the dining room, sir.”

“Fine. Keep a close watch while these two redbirds are aboard, Tommy. I don’t want them going anywhere on the ship unaccompanied. Even if they need to use the head, someone stands outside.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Hawke rose and strolled over to the ship’s stern rail. He gazed out over the polished black ocean and breathed deeply. On the horizon, humped silhouettes of islands, bone-white in the moonlight, looked, in a trick of light, like a slouching white bear, sleeping. About half a mile out, he could see the launch approaching. Her bow was up on a plane, throwing white water to either side, red and green ru

Christ, it was beautiful. Was that why, since he’d arrived in these islands, he’d noticed this strange feeling, like a tug on his soul? He could have invited Victoria down here to share all this with him. Bad idea, he’d finally decided. The trip was, after all, strictly business. Sticky business, probably. Make that definitely. Maybe even risky business.

Vicky. The mental picture of her standing right here at the rail was so strong he felt he could almost reach out and stroke her lovely hair. It had been a long few weeks since she’d waved good-bye to him on a rainy afternoon outside his home in Belgrave Square.

Something caught his eye and he looked up just in time to see a flaming star’s brief arc across the deep blue bowl of the heavens.

So lovely here. A dusting of stars and a fat moon played hide-and-seek now among a few tattered clouds. The hearty salt tang in his nostrils smelled of seaweed and iodine. Something about the place was definitely tugging at his heart. Caribbean moons and stars were not the sort of thing a boy of seven or so would remember, of course. He had little memory of being here at all. Still, here he had been, and now his work had brought him back.

Gazing out, Hawke was astounded to find his eyes tearing up. What on earth? He was hardly the type to get all leaky about a pretty view or even a beautiful woman, was he? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something about this place that—

He had turned and started to go below when it hit him. A kind of chill ran through him, then a shudder so severe it rattled his bones. He staggered, reached out, and gripped the rail with both hands. He’d gone all lightheaded and short of breath. Seeing his knuckles go white on the rail, he realized he was literally holding on for dear life. Had he actually blacked out?

He managed a few deep, slow breaths and it seemed to calm him a little. Still, his heart was jackhammering in his chest. Was this what a heart attack felt like? A stroke? Good Lord, it couldn’t be! He was only thirty-seven years old. He exercised like a fiend, smoked only the occasional cigar, drank only the odd cocktail or two. He was fond of his wine, true, but that was good for you, wasn’t it? he asked himself, weaving his way over to the banquette where he collapsed.

If this was some severe illness a

He’d been thinking, while shaving just this very morning, that he’d never felt better in his life. In a world besieged by dirty little wars and full of evil, dangerous people, he was doing his duty. Work he felt was vitally important. At the same time, he’d managed to rebuild his family fortune and fund causes and charities he believed in.

And, at last, he’d met a beautiful woman he couldn’t get off his mind, Dr. Victoria Sweet. Doc, he’d taken to calling her. She wasn’t practicing much medicine anymore. She’d been a pediatrician, specializing in children’s neurological disorders. Then she’d published a children’s book called Whirl-o-Drome that had become an enormous success on both sides of the ocean. Hawke had adored the story. And so had the public. There was talk of Hollywood.

He leaned his head back on the cushion and looked up into the night sky. He remembered the rainy night Vicky had read the thing aloud. It was soon after they’d met. And he remembered telling her that such wonderful stories would probably do more, for far greater numbers of children, than her medical practice might ever accomplish. Especially Whirl-o-Drome.

It was a tale of a child’s enduring love. A young boy, whose father’s Spitfire has been shot down in flames during the Battle of Britain, is sent to live in a seaside village with his aunt. Every night, he goes down to an old amusement park by the sea and rides the Whirl-o-Drome, an ancient merry-go-round with toy airplanes secured at the ends of long poles. The little planes spin round and round, and climb or dive when the children use the airplane’s control stick.

One night, just before closing and after many, many rides, the boy’s little silver plane comes to life. The lights inside the cockpit suddenly illuminate. Needles are spi

“Climb, climb!” says the strangely familiar voice in his earphones, and the boy pulls back on the stick, soaring higher and higher. Finally, he bursts through a canyon of clouds into clear starlit air. He sees an old Spitfire doing barrel rolls in the moonlight. He races to catch up with the plane and sees the number on its wing.

Number Seven. His father’s number.

“Timmy? Is that you?” the voice in his earphones says. The voice sounds an awful lot like—

“Y-yes?”

“See that big bright moon on the horizon? You stay right off my starboard wing and follow me all the way there. There’s something I want you to see!”

“Are you really—Number Seven? Because Number Seven was my father’s plane and—”

“It’s me, Timmy,” the voice said. “It’s your father. You can find me up here most nights, if you’ll just believe in your little plane.”

It was a lovely tale.

“Skipper?” Tommy Quick said. “Sorry to bother you. But the guests have arrived.”

“Ah, yes. The guests. Thank you, Tom. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

He realized his heart was still racing. He willed the image of Vicky to appear out there before him. He let her smiling eyes finally cause the triphammer of his heart to slow gradually to a near normal pace. What on earth was the matter with him? He wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, but this wasn’t the first time he’d suffered one of these little, what did they call them, seizures. They’d begun shortly after Blackhawke had arrived in the Caribbean. Ironic. People came here to relax.