Hawke

Congreve translated this to noises of amazement from the Russians. Hawke hated showing off, but with these two he had no qualms.

“Captain Robbie Taylor is normally in charge of this ship. I gave the captain the night off,” Hawke said, escorting the Russians into the room. “So the ship is essentially ru

“Frightfully boring conversation, I should imagine,” Ambrose whispered to Hawke, and then translated what Hawke had said to the Russians.

There was a sudden low screech in the darkness, and then a dark shape was darting toward the larger of the two Russians. The man cried out, more in fear than in pain, and Hawke quickly shouted, “Sniper! Release!”

The Russian—it was Golgolkin—was cursing loudly, and Congreve touched a wall panel that brought up a soft, diffused lighting from the domed ceiling.

Hawke’s beloved parrot had Golgolkin’s right wrist clamped in his sharp beak.

“Sniper!” Hawke shouted. “I said ‘Release’!”

When the bird still did not obey, Hawke said mildly, “Ambrose, Sniper has taken a strong dislike to this fellow. Ask our guest if he is carrying a weapon of some sort, won’t you?”

The Russian replied to Congreve’s question, and Ambrose said, “Pistol. Right pocket of his jacket.”

“Take it,” Hawke said, and Congreve pulled a small automatic pistol from the man’s pocket. He handed the weapon to Hawke. The parrot immediately released the Russian’s wrist and removed himself to perch on Hawke’s outstretched forearm.

“Mr. Golgolkin, I’m disappointed. I didn’t subject either of you to the ship’s metal detector out of common courtesy. And now I find that you come to my di

Ambrose questioned Golgolkin, who was grimacing, rubbing his wrist, and replied, “He says he always carries it. He has many enemies. He offers his deepest apologies.”

“These enemies,” Hawke said, stroking his parrot’s head, “trouble me. Are they the unhappy result of any recent transactions?”

Congreve asked, and said, “He says they are political enemies, not business enemies.”

“Mildly reassuring, I suppose,” Hawke said. “His gun will be returned to him at the launch. In the meantime, we’ll continue our little tour.”

After the translation, Congreve said, “He apologizes once more and hopes this unfortunate mistake on his part won’t have a negative effect on this transaction.”

Hawke waved the notion away.

“Come, gentlemen, I’d like to show you the view of the islands from the bow of the ship. It’s magnificent.”

Hawke touched a panel on the wall, and a giant gullwing section of the starboard-side bulkhead opened upward out into the night sky, silently above the deck. He stepped through and waited for the others to follow.

“This way, please,” Hawke said, striding briskly forward along the teak decks. The others had to hurry to keep up.

“They should know,” Hawke said over his shoulder, “that they are free to take five million dollars cash with them tonight when they leave the ship. In return, I want a written commitment for three things. A delivery date six months hence. The right to see the actual submarine prior to commissioning. And acknowledgment that the boat will be finished precisely to my personal specifications. Still with me, Ambrose?”

“Of course.”

“Splendid,” Hawke continued. “In addition, as I said earlier, I want to speak directly with their most recent purchaser. Assuming he’s a satisfied customer, and they fulfill the other obligations, they will receive my commitment for the balance. To be determined, of course.”

The foursome had reached the bow of the ship. There was a narrow bow pulpit extending some ten feet out over the water. The pulpit itself was some forty feet above the ocean’s moonlit surface.

“They agree to all conditions,” a slightly winded Congreve said, “save one. They ca

“Ah, well, progress of a sort,” Hawke said, extending his hand toward the pulpit. “In order to enjoy the full splendor of the view, they need to walk out on the pulpit to get out over the water. No need to fear, it’s quite sturdy.”

Congreve told them, and the two Russians, followed by Hawke and Congreve, walked out onto the narrow pulpit. Hawke removed a remote control device hanging from the pulpit’s stainless steel rail. He pushed a button, and the entire pulpit started extending silently forward from the bow of the ship.

“Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We use this as a gangplank for docking in the Mediterranean. When it’s fully extended, you’ll be able to look back and see the entire superstructure of the yacht. Quite a sight.”

The Russians said something and Congreve translated, “They say the great height makes them nervous.”

“To hell with height,” Hawke said. “Tell them to look at all the bloody sharks circling down below. And ask them if they’d like me to take a picture of them together. A souvenir of the evening. I brought a little camera.”

Congreve told them and both Russians were clutching each other in a boozy embrace and breaking into silly grins.

“What a fabulous photo op,” Hawke said, backing up and putting the small camera to his eye. “Splendid, but I’m a little too close. I’ve got to back up a few feet—hold that smile—yes, this is going to be brilliant. Hold it one more second—” Hawke and Congreve stepped off the pulpit and back onto the bow and the camera flashed.

And then he did something that struck terror into both the Russians’ hearts. He pushed another button on the remote that caused the steel guard railings ru

They were essentially standing at the end of a narrow diving board forty feet above shark-infested waters. They screamed something in Russian, but Hawke ignored them.

Instead, he drew his sword and walked toward them.

“How much for this Borzoi?” he asked.

“They say one hundred fifty million.”

“Done,” Hawke said. “And the owner of the other Borzoi? I want that name.”

The Russians said a few words.

“Impossible for them to reveal it,” Congreve said.

“Operation Invincible Sword,” Hawke said. “Remember that little fiasco in Bahrain, Comrade Golgolkin?” He flicked his sword tip across the fat man’s belly and said, “Welcome to the sequel.”

Congreve had to smile. Alex Hawke was nothing if not a shrewd negotiator.

15

Gomez looked at his watch. He was already half an hour late for the birthday party.

This was unfortunate because the party was in honor of Lucinda Nettles’s fourth birthday. Little Cindy was the only child of Admiral and Mrs. Joseph Nettles. And Joe Nettles was the commanding officer at the United States Naval Air Station, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. In other words, Joe was Gomez’s boss. El nacho grande here on Gitmo, as they called the joint.

Normally, of course, lowlife swabbies like Gomez didn’t get invited to the CO’s pad for parties, hang out, have a cold one, shoot the shit with the old man himself. But Gomez’s two girls, Amber and Tiffany, were in the same class as Cindy Nettles. And that was the only reason Joe’s wife, Gi

Fightin’ Joe ran a tight ship. The invitation with all the little balloons said three o’clock sharp. It had been right there on the refrigerator door all week. Three o’clock it said, and now it was three-forty. And Fightin’Joe didn’t like it when you were late.