Hawke

“But,” said Sutherland, “according to Blackhawke’s document here, Manso de Herreras never made it to England. He was done unto as he had done unto others apparently.”

“Precisely.”

“And Blackhawke’s letter to his wife indicates he captured the de Herreras flagship and buried the plunder on something called Dog’s Island.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Congreve said, rubbing his chin. “I was just thinking that, in his letter, Blackhawke claims to have encountered de Herreras’s Santa Clara off the island of Hispaniola, am I right?”

“Yes,” Sutherland said, sipping the tea the steward had brought in. “That’s right. And if the Spaniard was bound from Havana for England, fully loaded, his fastest route would be to head straight for the Straits of Florida. Or take the safer route through the Windward Passage. So, what was he doing down off Hispaniola?”

“According to the letter, it was September,” Congreve said, taking a sip of tea.

“Hurricane season.”

“Hmm. The Spanish ship could easily have been blown off course and ended up down there. And Blackhawke only encountered him by sheer luck.”

“And,” Sutherland said, “once Blackhawke had claimed this prize, he would be carrying an enormous amount of booty around with him. One would think he’d want to get it ashore and buried as quickly as possible.”

“Exactly my thinking, Sutherland,” Congreve said, rising from his chair and going to one of the maps taped above the desktop. He stood there with his back to Sutherland, small puffs of white smoke rising above his head like Indian smoke signals. He seemed to stand there for hours, puffing away, hmm-ing and a-ha-ing till Ross could stand it no longer.

“Find anything?” Sutherland asked his colleague’s back.

“Perhaps,” Congreve said. “Do you play much golf, Ross?”

“Golf?” Sutherland was dumbstruck. He knew his boss at the Yard hated any physical activity. Still, he was a fanatic about the sport of golf. Ross couldn’t imagine a less appropriate time to discuss it. “Complete duffer, but I do enjoy an occasional round, Chief.”

“Pity. Marvelous old game. I myself am somewhat obsessed with it, I’m afraid. Having never managed a hole in one at my age often keeps me awake at night. I dream about … never mind. Come over here a second, will you?”

Sutherland went to stand beside Congreve. The chief was standing before the oversized printout of what historically had been the island of Hispaniola. Now, of course, the western end of the island was called Haiti. The eastern and much larger portion was the Dominican Republic.

“Alex, naturally enough, has been looking for a small island,” Congreve said, staring at the image on the wall. He had a small laser pointer in his hand.

“Yes, well, Dog Island would certainly lead one in that direction.”

“But I have a hunch we should be looking for a big island. This very one, in fact,” Congreve said, and the red pinpoint of light moved across the map. “Here, to be exact. This bit of coastline on the island of Hispaniola.”

“But Blackhawke called it Dog’s Island,” Sutherland said. “Wouldn’t he have called it by its name at the time? Hispaniola?”

“One would assume,” Congreve said. “But look. A careful reading of the passage has him saying ‘that Dog’s island’ and referring to its teeth as being ‘sharp enough to rip you to bits’ if you try to get ashore. He even gives his wife a stern warning. Cave canem!”

“Sorry, my Latin’s a little rusty.”

“Beware of the dog,” Congreve said. “I wonder if the ‘dog’s teeth’ might not be the vicious outcroppings of jagged coral along this coast. Sharp enough to rip the bottom out of any boat attempting to land there.”

Pointing his finger at the southeastern tip of the Dominican Republic, Congreve said, “I’m talking about this bit of coastline here, Ross. There’s a town here called La Romana. It’s a sugar town. Thousands of acres of sugar cane. A huge refinery. Some thirty thousand employees in the fields. All owned by one family, the Hillo family.”

“I’ve heard of them, certainly, but what does all this—”

“Please. Patience,” Congreve said. “Two brothers control this vast sugar empire. The world’s largest, in fact. Pepe and Paquiero Hillo. Both world-class sportsmen. Polo, hunting, and game fishing. And, of course, golf.”

“Golf.”

“Yes, golf. And here, just east of La Romana, they built one of the most famous golf courses in the world. It takes its name from the name the ancients gave to the rocks that line this treacherous stretch of coastline.”

Congreve turned to Sutherland and smiled, raising his teacup to the bewildered man standing beside him.

“They named their golf course Dientes de Perro,” Congreve said.

“Which means?”

“Which means, my dear Inspector Sutherland, the Teeth of the Dog.”

He picked up a black marker and put a large X on the Hillos’ golf course.

“By God, I think you’re on to something,” Sutherland said with a broad smile.

“Might be,” Congreve said, puffing away, his blue eyes alight with satisfaction. “Just might be.”

20

Stokely Jones was waiting for Hawke just outside customs. Stoke, a former NYPD cop, had been with him ever since Hawke’s kidnapping five years ago. Gangsters from New Jersey had carjacked Hawke’s Bentley at a stoplight on Park Avenue, shot his chauffeur, and abducted Alex at gunpoint. Stoke had climbed six flights of burning stairs to rescue Hawke from where the kidnappers had left him to die. The top floor of an abandoned warehouse, a blazing inferno in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn.

Thanks largely to Stoke’s determined police work, Hawke’s two kidnappers went off to spend life sentences in a maximum security New Jersey charm school, and the ten million in ransom was recovered from a motel room in Trenton.

Stoke was standing there, a huge grin on his broad face, holding up a sign that said “Dr. Brown.” It was their code at airports and hotels. “Dr. Brown” meant no immediate security issues.

“Dr. Brown has come to town!” Hawke said, dropping his small duffel bag and flinging an arm around the man’s massive shoulders. To say that Stoke was about the size of your average armoire would be an understatement.

Stoke had managed to have a fairly checkered career in his young life. A judge in the South Bronx had given him two choices. The slam on Riker’s Island or the U.S. Navy.

Stokely Jones had joined the latter, eventually winding up in San Diego at the Navy SEAL Training Center. Out on Santa Catalina, where the SEAL teams practiced using their munitions, he discovered a love of jumping out of airplanes, swimming huge distances underwater, and blowing things up. He became an expert in underwater demolition and search-and-seizure operations.