Hawke

14

Hawke carefully folded his linen napkin and pushed himself back from the table. An hour ago, he’d been knocking on death’s door. Now, he felt bloody marvelous. His speedy recovery from the strange malady had been nothing short of miraculous. Whatever had gotten into him up on deck was gone.

“My compliments to the chef, Ambrose,” Hawke said. “What was in that sauce?”

“A simple blend of butter, lime juice, and a lot of Appleton rum. The one-fifty-one proof.”

“That explains it. Feeling tipsy and I’ve only had one glass of wine.”

He wasn’t tipsy at all, but the Russians were. At first, they’d been quiet, a little awed by their surroundings perhaps. But now, having imbibed large quantities of vodka and some of the flashiest wines in the ship’s cellars, they’d acquired a rosy glow and gone quite chatty.

The di

Hawke sat back and savored his surroundings, nursing his own small port wine. He loved this room and everything in it. The Minton china and porcelain currently gracing the table had been in the Hawke family for generations. White, with gold trim, each piece of china featured the same magnificent black hawk on a circular field of gold. The same symbol was on Hawke’s flag, the massive ship’s burgee, painted in gold leaf on Blackhawke’s twin smokestacks, and it adorned the crew’s uniforms. The symbol was even emblazoned on the cufflinks Hawke was wearing at this very moment.

But this room. He’d taken great pains with the room itself, making every effort to reproduce a small study at his grandfather’s home on Greybeard Island. This cabin was filled with artifacts from that very room. The paneled walls were of black walnut, hung with the tattered battle flags of regiments of yore.

In an illuminated corner display case were rows upon rows of lead soldiers, a collection Hawke had started as a boy. On occasion, even now, he would re-create famous battles on the dining room table, challenging Ambrose’s own formidable generalship.

There was, too, the magnificent sword collection that had been in the Hawke family for centuries. The swords were mounted everywhere, the most valuable of them locked up inside illuminated glass cases.

Hawke’s eye fell on one sword in particular. His favorite. It was an ornamental rapier with the most exquisite provenance. One of his ancestors had taken it from the body of Marshal Ney, the bravest of Napoleon’s generals. The sword had been in Ney’s hand when he led the last French charge at Waterloo.

His grandfather had taught him the art of fencing with it. Later, at Oxford, he’d mastered the sport and been thrice champion. He still practiced it fiendishly.

He rose from his chair and removed the sword from its pride of place above the small fireplace. Amusing himself, he made a few parries and thrusts.

“Brian,” Hawke whispered to the tall, sandy-haired steward hovering by the door, “that black case that Tom Quick stowed in the pantry? Would you mind?”

“Certainly, sir,” Brian said, with a smart salute, and pushed through the swinging door that led to the pantry.

Brian Drummond was only one of the many “stewards” aboard whom Hawke had recruited from various branches of the British military. Royal Navy, SAS, and the Special Boat Squadron, where Brian had served, an elite unit on a par with the Navy SEALs. The stewards on board Blackhawke were, in fact, a small, highly trained fighting force under the joint command of Brian Drummond and Tom Quick.

Hawke, in a jolly mood not to be knocking on heaven’s door, after all, raised the gleaming sword and pointed it directly at the bearded Russian called Golgolkin.

“Do you fence at all, comrade?” Hawke said to him, and Congreve, highly amused, translated.

“Nyet,” said Golgolkin, and that was good enough for Hawke.

“Pity, it’s my favorite sport,” Hawke said, and, drawing his di

“Everyone should wear one,” Congreve replied with a sly grin. “You never know when you might want to make a point.”

Standing at the stern just as the launch arrived, Congreve and Hawke had come up with a novel way of extracting the desired information should their guests prove less than forthcoming. Congreve could see that Hawke now felt it was time to put their plan in motion.

“Ambrose, please tell our guests that we’re about to serve dessert. Something I whipped up especially for them,” Hawke said.

The Russians, whose cheeks were flushed with vodka and wine, smiled broadly as Congreve spoke. They had never expected to be invited aboard the famous Blackhawke. And, now, to be served a dish created by the famous owner himself? Well, they’d be dining out on this tale back in Moscow for years to come, that much was certain.

Hawke pushed a button mounted under the dining table. In the pantry, Brian saw the flashing light above the door and entered the room, carrying the small Halliburton metal case. As Hawke had instructed, he placed it on the dining table in front of the two Russians and stepped back.

“Gentlemen,” Hawke said, walking around the table toward the Russians, “we have a special treat for dessert this evening. I think you’re going to enjoy it.”

As Congreve translated, Hawke reached across the table and released the two latches. The case lid cracked open.

“Tonight, we’re serving”—he opened the case with a flourish— “money.”

The Russians’ eyes went wide, startled at the sight of the neatly wrapped and arranged stacks of U.S. currency that filled the case.

“Not at all fattening,” Hawke said. “Only twenty million calories, after all.”

The Russians were speechless. They kept looking at each other, the money, and then each other again. This Hawke was unlike anyone else they’d dealt with. Neither was quite sure how to respond to a man so cavalier with his cash.

Hawke closed the case, locked it, and handed it back to Brian.

“Ambrose,” Hawke said, “our guests are invited to continue discussing this transaction up on deck. Perhaps a brief tour of the yacht while we talk.”

While the translation was in progress, Brian walked to the bookcase beside the small hearth and reached up to a large leather-bound volume, Life of Nelson, and pulled it halfway out. There was a faint whir somewhere, and the bookcase slid back and to one side, revealing a small elevator.

“This goes directly to the bridge, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We’ll begin our tour there.” He stood back and let the astonished Russians and Ambrose enter, then stepped inside and hit the button for the bridge deck. The elevator started up.

The door slid open to reveal the bridge, a massive room, inky black save for the vast array of multicolored display screens that filled an instrument panel stretching some thirty feet across. Above the screens, large black windows ran from one side of the room to the other. The windows were tinted, but you could see the starry skies beyond.

A single captain’s chair was mounted before the center of the panel.

A large screen just to the right of the chair seemed to show a live view from space. Through the moving cloud layers, you could see a scattering of small winking lights below in the darkness.

Hawke, seeing the guests eyeing the screen, said, “A live satellite view of our precise location. Were I to zoom in, we could see the lights of Blackhawke itself.”