Hawke

He unlocked the trunk and opened it.

That’s where he’d hidden the package that Julio and Iglesias had given him in Miami. The one they’d wrapped up in his own friggin’ T-shirts and jockeys and put inside his own friggin’ suitcase! Which they’d given back to him in the coffee shop the day he’d agreed to go along with the Big Plan.

The package was in there, right under the spare tire. Since he was the only one who drove the damn car, he figured it’d be pretty safe under there. And there it was, too, right where he stowed it soon as he’d returned from stateside. Man. When you got it going right, you got it going right.

It took him a few minutes to get the package open. First there was all this goddamn Cuban newspaper wrapped in twine. And then all this goddamn bubbly stuff wrapped around the box. And you get that off, then it was goddamn shrink-wrapped inside! Christ. They certainly weren’t making it easy for him. He probably should have done this earlier in the day. Before he’d gone to work.

So he was a little late. Shoot him.

He was curious to see the thing itself. He ripped at the bubble stuff, just throwing it on the floor, trying to get to the box inside. Then he had it. The box was made of some kind of heavy black plastic. High-impact stuff. It had latches on all four sides. He flipped them open, easy.

It was like Christmas. What was in the box?

Oh. A thermos bottle.

That’s what it looked like. A silver thermos with some kind of foam packing all around it. And two other little gizmos packed in the foam right next to it. Everything wrapped in newspaper with some kind of damn Arabic writing on it.

He lifted the thermos out very carefully because he knew what it contained of course. El Motel de los Cucarachas, baby. He set it down on the workbench next to his beer. Careful. Don’t want to knock either of these two babies over! Then he pried the first gizmo out and placed it next to the thermos thing.

The gizmo was round, and threaded inside. And, man, it was heavy. He could see that the threads inside matched the threads outside the bottom of the thermos bottle. He had a vague recollection of the Cubans showing him a drawing, telling him to screw the little gizmo on the—the—what the hell had they called it, the canister.

That’s it. It was a canister, not a thermos bottle. He picked up the gizmo and screwed it to the bottom of the canister. The thing made a little electronic noise that surprised him, but it sounded like a happy noise. Like he’d done it right. Surprise, surprise.

Piece of cake. Birthday cake, he thought, and laughed out loud. You weren’t supposed to laugh at your own jokes, but still.

He turned the whole thing upside down and looked for the switch they’d told him about. They were very nervous that he’d forget the switch, he remembered that. But he hadn’t forgotten to remember, had he? Even though he’d had a little buzz on all day.

The switch was under a little clear red plastic cover that you had to slide back. So far, so good. He slid the cover back and flipped the switch. He took a swig of beer. Then he held the thermos up and looked at the gizmo end. There was a digital readout window with red letters that had now appeared.

He liked the look of the word he saw blinking there. It was just the kind of word that got a whup-ass alpha male like himself hyper-jazzed. In bright red letters it said:

How awesome is that? Armed and extremely dangerous. He knew you weren’t supposed to laugh at your own jokes, but you had to chuckle at that one. Okay, now, by the book. Step one: Drink more beer. Step two: Put the thermos inside Mr. Bear, sew up his fat little tummy, and then wrap him all up in the pink paper and the big red ribbon. Put him very carefully into the car.

He’s shaking now, from the inside out. His whole body is thrumming like the frigging G-string on Axl Rose’s Fender Stratocaster.

Okay, the second little gizmo. What had they called it? A soda pop name. 7UP? No, RC. That was it. Leave the second gizmo, a little metal box with an ante

Time to amscray on over to the Moonman’s birthday bash.

Easy as peas.

When you’ve totally and completely got your shit together and know exactly what you’re doing, that is.

16

“Nothing stirs the human blood quite like the sight of large dorsal fins knifing through the water,” Hawke said, pointing his sword down toward the sharks circling below. “Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?”

Grigory and Nikolai looked ready to vomit.

“Can anyone identify the various species?” Hawke asked. “There are over three hundred and fifty, you know. Look. There’s a big bull for you. I saw a few tigers and even a white-tip earlier. Nasty fellows. Carnivores. Strictly the man-eating meat-and-potatoes type.”

The big Russian had started to edge his way gingerly back toward Hawke, who pointed his rapier directly at the man’s midriff. The man stopped short.

“Here’s my point, Nikolai,” Hawke said, pressing the sword’s sharp tip against the man’s stomach. “You want my hundred fifty million dollars. I want your nuclear sub. But I insist you give me the name of your last customer. All clear?”

Suddenly, Brian Drummond appeared at Hawke’s side carrying a large stainless steel pail. It was filled with two gallons of pulverized fish entrails, guts, gristle, and blood. What fishermen call chum.

“Ah,” Hawke said, “look, Nikolai. Here’s our steward Brian, who’s brought along his chum. Throw it overboard, please, Brian. Bit ripe for my taste.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.” Brian walked to the forwardmost part of the rail and flung the putrid contents of the pail overboard.

Seconds later the water below the extended pulpit was a churning pinkish froth as the sharks went into a feeding frenzy. The Russians looked down in horror.

“Speak up, boys,” Hawke said. “I’m ru

“They say revealing names is not only unprofessional; it’s suicide,” Congreve said. “To reveal any of their contacts’ identities would mean certain death for both of them.”

“Ask them what, at this point, they think not revealing those identities means.”

The petrified Golgolkin started talking very rapidly. Rasputin was cringing behind him, speechless with terror.

Congreve listened to all this and turned to Hawke.

“Here we go, Alex. He received a DHL parcel containing five million dollars cash and a telephone number,” Congreve translated. “When he called it, the party did not identify himself, but gave another number to call. After countless calls like this, he finally spoke to someone who claimed to be negotiating for a third party. This party wished to buy a Borzoi-class Soviet submarine. He was willing to pay the going price. He insisted on remaining anonymous.”

“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.