Hawke

She didn’t get around to answering because a very handsome boy, blond and deeply ta

She finally spotted him in a far corner of the room, dancing with a tall blonde. Because of the press of bodies, it would take an hour to get over there and ask him to take her home.

She looked at her watch but somehow couldn’t see what time it was. Her watch seemed to be shimmering, hazy. Couldn’t be that late anyway, she thought, and called Amen over to order another of whatever they were called.

“Good evening,” a man said, suddenly appearing on the stool next to hers. “I buy you drink?”

He had a thick accent, Hungarian or something Slavic, she decided. Russian? Dark hypnotic eyes and long straight hair pulled back into a ponytail. Thin face, long nose, all dressed in black. Exotic. Interesting. A little scary, but interesting.

“I have one very strict rule,” Vicky said, smiling at her new friend. “I only drink when I’m alone, or with somebody. So, I guess I’ll accept.”

It was one of Alex’s old jokes and she laughed even though he didn’t. She thought she was fu

“What’s your name?” Vicky asked him.

“I’m Grigory.”

“Nice to meet you, Grigory. I’m drunk.” She giggled and stuck out her hand. He shook it and his hands were hot and moist.

“You stay here, on this little island?” he asked, leaning toward her. He was stirring his drink with his long white finger.

“Me? Oh, hell no. I’m on the QEII out there.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Elizabeth, Mary, some old queen. See it out there, all lit up?”

“Oh. Such a beautiful yacht. To whom does it belong?”

“Oh, a friend of mine.”

“Not Alexander Hawke?”

“You know him?”

“Not well. Only by reputation, of course. He is famous, you know.”

“Really? For what? Oh, thanks, Amen. Cut me off after this one, okay? I’ve bagged my limit. Sorry, what did you say, uh, Grigory, is it?”

“Is not important. You and your friend are here long?”

“A week or two, I think.”

“That long? How boring. Whatever will you do all day?”

Boring? His eyes were boring into hers.” Is that what he meant? Boring? No. He wanted to know what she was going to do all day. That was it. Well, something exciting and glamorous, that’s for sure. What? This European sophisticate expected something exotic, she was pretty sure about that.

“Well, I don’t know, exactly,” she said finally. She was having trouble remembering why she was even here. “Oh, I know! Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to a place called Hog Island. Doesn’t that sound like fun? There’s a blind pig there named Betty. Have you heard of her?”

“Oh yes, she’s quite famous in these islands. Well, good-bye. My pleasure speaking with you, Miss—”

“Sweet,” she said. “Like sugar.”

The strange man was gone. Poof, like in a horror movie.

She sca

Suddenly, she needed air.

She climbed off the stool, pressed herself into the writhing mass on the dance floor, and headed for the door, smashing through the bodies, desperate for a gulp of fresh air. She was outside. She seemed to have acquired a glass of delicious dark rum. The moon was so bright, it seemed like another day had begun.

Steps led down to the beach. She walked along the surf and found a little stand of palms with a great view of the harbor. Soft, powdery white sand in the moonlight. Blackhawke all ablaze out on the horizon. She sat beneath the whispering palms, sipping the rum, enjoying herself immensely, finally drifting into a lovely tropical dream.

Stokely and Ambrose, having searched most of the island, finally found her on the beach about half an hour later, sound asleep under a coconut palm. Stoke threw her over his shoulder and they carried her back to the waiting launch.

“Girl fell asleep,” he said to Brian, who was driving the boat. “Long day. Needs a good night’s rest and she’ll be good as new.”

Vicky woke briefly, said something incomprehensible, and then collapsed with her head on Ambrose’s shoulder. She snored deeply all the way across the bay.

Stoke was right.

It had been a long day. But the long days were really just begi

34

At eight o’clock in the morning, Commander Zukov was summoned to the main finca to breakfast alone with General Manso de Herreras. Two heavily armed guards posted outside the dining room waved him inside. Manso was seated at the huge table all alone, drinking a solitary glass of fruit juice. A place setting of solid gold had been set opposite the general and he motioned for Zukov to sit down. He did so, but waved away the approaching waiter. The general stared at him for an eternity before speaking.

“This fucking Russian who sold me the submarine. Golgolkin. You know him?”

“Yes, slightly,” Zukov said. “Black Fleet. Vladivostok. At one time, a promising officer.”

“Then?”

“The clichй Soviet scenario. Peace, vodka, and women. One night he surfaced without periscope surveillance and struck one of our own destroyers in the South China Sea. Considerable loss of life. That was it.”

“He has come here, the idiot, begging for his life.”

“General. Tell me. What has he done?”

“Done? Put everything in jeopardy! Everything! Met with some fucking Englishman named Hawke in the Exumas a week ago. Trying to peddle the second Borzoi, I hear. The Englishman apparently asks a lot of questions and Golgolkin gives a lot of answers. My sources in Washington say the Englishman was in the American capital the very next day! Bastard! I initiated reprisals against this Hawke, using Golgolkin’s contacts at the Russian embassy. But they, too, were disastrous.”

“What will you do?”

“What I always do. Go through, not around.”

“I will deal with Golgolkin. He is an embarrassment.”

“No. Bring him to me. I may have one last use for him.”

Zukov opened the door to the fat Russian’s room without knocking. There were three naked girls in his bed. One leapt up, a short, chubby little thing with enormous breasts bouncing, and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Zukov couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.

“The majordomo told me you were ill and could not come down for your breakfast,” Zukov said. “You were missed.”

“I am better now,” Golgolkin said, the two men speaking in Russian. Leaning back against the pillows, one fat pink arm around each of the two girls, he said, “Room service.”

“Fidel is scheduled to go before the cameras in three hours. He is refusing to step down. Two of the brothers want to shoot him.”

“I have bigger problems,” the Russian said, and drained a beaker of orange juice and vodka.

“Yes, you do, comrade. El nuevo comandante, General Manso de Herreras, wants to see you. Now.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m to bring you to him. You’d better tell your little playmates goodbye and come with me.”

“Comrade Zukov, I need help. I have made a mess of this. I am probably a dead man. But you owe me, Zukov. You have a submarine under your feet again, thanks to me.”