Hawke

“Do you know our English expression ‘to walk the plank,’ Comrade Golgolkin?” Hawke asked

“He says no,” Ambrose said.

“Really? It’s an old Hawke family tradition, invented a few hundred years ago by one of my more rambunctious ancestors, I believe.”

He flicked the sword’s point across the man’s belly.

“Ai-eee!” the Russian cried.

“Sorry, old chap, but this is how it works. You can talk. Or you can walk. Should you choose neither of the above, I can happily run you both through.”

The sword penetrated the man’s shirtfront, and a bright red flower of blood began to bloom on his belly. The Russian looked down at the blade in his stomach, horrified.

“Last chance, Golgolkin,” Hawke said. “Where was the money wired from?”

Rasputin was screaming something, undoubtedly encouraging his colleague to cough up the information. The fat Russian squeezed his eyes shut and uttered something between his clenched teeth.

Hawke turned to Congreve. “I’m sorry, Ambrose. What did he say?”

“The money was wired from a private account. A bank account. In Miami, he thinks.” Congreve said.

“And the name of the bank?”

Congreve translated. A huge sob escaped from the big Russian. “He’s praying,” Congreve said.

“His prayers will go unanswered. I want that bloody bank’s name! Now!” He twisted the sword blade.

“Sunstate Bank,” the Russian blurted out in English.

“Now for the hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar question,” Hawke said. “Who bought the bloody Borzoi? Who? Give me that name on the account in Miami or you’re a dead man!”

“Telaraсa,” the Russian finally cried. “Telaraсa!”

“That’s better,” Hawke said. “Such a relief when the truth comes out at last.”

Withdrawing his sword but keeping the tip poised at the man’s belly, Hawke said, “Bloody good show! Now, tell this fat bastard two things. If he’s lying, there’s nowhere in the world he can run. I’ll find him and slice him to bloody pieces with this very sword.”

Hearing this, the man shook his head violently. “He understands,” Congreve said. “He’s telling the truth. He swears it.”

“Good. Now that he’s in a talkative mood, I want to know when he received final payment for the Borzoi and when it’s scheduled for delivery. I also want to know how many subs he’s sold, the total number, and I want to know what type of boats they were. Diesel, nuclear, everything. Would you ask him that, please?”

Congreve extracted this information and relayed it to Hawke.

“And one more thing,” Hawke said. “Tell him that if either he or the little mad monk ever lay a hand on that poor girl Gloria again, the sharks will be eating their balls for breakfast.”

When the man shook his head again, Hawke withdrew his sword, wiped the bloody tip on the Russian’s trousers, and stuck it back in his cummerbund. Then he turned and walked toward the portside rail.

Brian was waiting with a glass of port and Hawke’s parrot resting on his forearm. The bird instantly flew to Hawke’s shoulder.

“Call me old-fashioned, Brian,” he said to his steward. “Politically incorrect, I’m quite sure. But, God, I hate dealing with Russians. They’re almost as bad as the French.” He took a swig of the ruby-colored wine.

“Bad as French!” Sniper screeched.

“Almost, Sniper old boy,” Hawke said. “I said ‘almost’ as bad, didn’t I, Brian?”

“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Brian said, discreetly checking the automatic weapon strapped to his shoulder.

“Would you mind seeing these two infections safely back to Staniel Cay? Keep a gun on them.”

“Will do, sir. I think—”

“Hawke! Hawke!” Sniper shrieked.

Hawke spun around. Rasputin, with a murderously mad gleam in his smoldering eyes, was plunging toward him. He had an ugly serpentine-shaped dagger raised above his head and he began screaming like a crazed banshee.

Hawke came close to freezing. Knives, he’d learned long ago, tend to have that effect on most people. But he feinted left and moved right with blinding speed.

He had exactly one second to get an arm up and ward off the downward slashing dagger. He felt the burn as the blade sliced his forearm open and saw bright blood splashing upon the teak decks. Ignoring the pain, he sucked in a deep breath and in an instant he had Rasputin’s knife hand in his grasp and had planted one foot solidly on the deck. He pulled Rasputin forward and pivoted on his one planted heel at the same time.

The Russian pitched forward, grunting, losing his balance, and Hawke gathered himself, using Rasputin’s own forward momentum to lift the shrieking Russian off the deck. Still gripping the knife hand, he pivoted once more and released his grip, flinging the man bodily into the air, out and over the yacht’s waist-high gunwale rail.

With an inhuman wail, the man went pinwheeling into space, finally hitting the water some forty feet below with a great splash.

Hawke leaned against the bulkhead, calmly tying his pocket handkerchief around his blood-soaked forearm. “Cut me to the bone, the bloody bastard,” Hawke said.

“Shall I ring the ship’s surgeon, sir?” Brian asked, returning his weapon to its holster. Hawke had dispatched the Russian with such alacrity he hadn’t needed it.

“Not now. I’ve suffered worse in a nasty badminton match. Ambrose, please ask Mr. Golgolkin if his comrade down there can swim.”

Ambrose and Golgolkin had their backs to Hawke, both peering down over the side of the yacht. Someone flipped on a spotlight and trained it on the Russian. They could see him thrashing about in the water and the disturbance was attracting the attention of the sharks congregated at the bow.

“I say, did he survive the fall?” Hawke asked.

At the sight of the fins slicing through the water in his direction, the floundering Russian started screaming.

“Apparently, he did,” Hawke said, answering his own question. He stepped to the rail and glanced down. He was pleased to see all the dorsal fins, circling, closing.

“Brian, let the sharks get a little closer and then have someone open the closest starboard hatch and pull the little bugger in.”

“They’re pretty close right now, Skipper,” Drummond said. “Especially that big white-tip.”

“Not close enough,” Hawke replied. He turned to Congreve.

“Ambrose, perhaps someone could give Comrade Golgolkin here a towel or something to press against his wound. It’s nothing serious, unfortunately, just a scratch. And I suppose we can return this to him now.”

Hawke pulled the confiscated automatic pistol from his pocket, released the cartridge magazine, and tossed the clip overboard before handing the empty gun to Golgolkin.

“You’re quite welcome, I’m sure,” Hawke said, having heard no expression of thanks for his kindness.

The bearded Russian was speechless. Goggle-eyed, he was leaning over the varnished teak rail, watching the sharks circling ever closer around his hapless colleague.

“Will that be all, Skipper?” Brian asked.

“I think that’s quite enough excitement for one evening, don’t you? If our chief bosun is still sober when he returns to the boat, you might ask him to have my seaplane fueled and ready for me first thing. File a flight plan to Nassau, I want to be airborne by dawn’s early light.”

“Aye, sir.”

“After you’ve seen our guests safely ashore, you might call my pilots in Miami and tell them I want the Gulfstream to meet me in Nassau, tanks topped off and ready for wheels-up at noon. I’m taking her into Reagan Washington.”

“Aye, aye.”

“Aye, aye!” squawked Sniper.

“Ah, Sniper, my brave fellow. You deserve a treat. Brian, a lid of our best Beluga for old Sniper?”

“Done,” Brian said, smiling.

“Oh. And tell Miss Perkins down in the ship’s office to have Stokely pick me up in D.C., and book me a quiet table for two at the Georgetown Club at eight.”