“Splendid yarn!” Congreve exclaimed just as the heavily armed steward came to stand beside Hawke. “For God’s sakes, man, don’t stop now!”
“Sorry for the interruption, sir,” Tom Quick said. “But the stern watch just rang up to say the launch has left the dock and your guests are on their way.”
“Thank you, Tommy.”
Ambrose slapped his knee in delight. “Astounding. Really quite remarkable!”
“What do you mean?” Hawke asked.
“Well, I mean to say it gave me goose pimples. The ‘skulls stove in with spades.’ All that blood and thunder sort of thing.”
Hawke smiled at his friend. He had to admit he had gotten rather caught up in the telling of the tale.
“So what happened next, old chap?” Ambrose asked. “You’ve certainly captured my imagination!”
“Well, I’ll continue it later, if you insist. I’m not much of a storyteller, but I must have made Grandfather tell it a hundred times. I’ve been anxious to tell you the story, and show you the map, ever since we got down here to the tropics. Get your old brain working on the thing. I’ve been chewing at that map all my life and made a little progress, of course, but I’ve only gotten so far.”
“It’s fascinating. Once I’ve examined the document more closely, I’ll compare it to some of the older maps in the ship’s library. First thing tomorrow and—heavens—look at the time! I’d better get hopping. I’ve got a few very nervous crustaceans awaiting me in the kitchen and I think it’s time to get them into a nice hot bath.” Congreve got to his feet.
“It’s called a galley, Constable. How many times must I remind you? On a boat, the kitchen is the galley.”
“In my view, a kitchen by any other name is still a kitchen.”
“I give up,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Show those lobsters no mercy.”
“Yes, once the lobsters have been murdered in cold blood, I’ll rejoin you and your new comrades in arms,” Congreve said. He wandered off, cocktail in hand, pipe between clenched teeth.
Hawke noticed Quick coming up the steps with a bottle of Chateau Montrachet on ice.
“Love a splash of that, Tom,” he said.
“Pleasure,” Tom said, and poured him a glass.
“These two men coming for dinner,” Hawke said. “Russians, as you know. Arms dealers, in fact. Highly untrustworthy. Has Sutherland alerted the crew and staff remaining on board tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t expect trouble. A fairly pathetic duo. But keep your eyes open all the same, Tom. You look a proper steward, but you’re armed to the teeth, I suppose?”
Quick opened his loose-fitted starched white jacket to reveal twin holsters strapped across his chest, a pair of nine-millimeter automatics in each one. There was a bandolier of extra magazines around his waist.
“Ah, good. I wonder. Do you find yourself missing good old Fort Hood much, Sergeant Quick?”
“Every minute of every day, sir,” Tom said, smiling.
“Good lad. I’m grateful to have you aboard.”
“Shall I escort the guests up here when they arrive?”
“Yes, and do me a small favor, would you?” Hawke asked, keying the code that would close the metal box. “Would you return this box to the library? I believe you know where it’s kept? And, also, there is a rather large black Halliburton travel case in the same locker.”
“Yes, sir. I know the one.”
“Please bring the case up to wherever Congreve has us dining this evening. And stow it out of sight.”
“Yes, sir. You’ll be in the small dining room, just off the library,” Quick said, and turned to go. He paused. “Sorry, the wine steward asked if you’d chosen a dinner wine.”
“Do we have any more of this sixty-four Montrachet left?”
“I’ll speak to the steward, sir.”
“Good. I hate to waste good wine on bad company, but perhaps it will loosen their tongues.”
“I’ve got the audio recording system set up in the dining room, sir.”
“Fine. Keep a close watch while these two redbirds are aboard, Tommy. I don’t want them going anywhere on the ship unaccompanied. Even if they need to use the head, someone stands outside.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hawke rose and strolled over to the ship’s stern rail. He gazed out over the polished black ocean and breathed deeply. On the horizon, humped silhouettes of islands, bone-white in the moonlight, looked, in a trick of light, like a slouching white bear, sleeping. About half a mile out, he could see the launch approaching. Her bow was up on a plane, throwing white water to either side, red and green running lights winking. A long trail of frothy wake streamed behind her in the moonlight.
Christ, it was beautiful. Was that why, since he’d arrived in these islands, he’d noticed this strange feeling, like a tug on his soul? He could have invited Victoria down here to share all this with him. Bad idea, he’d finally decided. The trip was, after all, strictly business. Sticky business, probably. Make that definitely. Maybe even risky business.
Vicky. The mental picture of her standing right here at the rail was so strong he felt he could almost reach out and stroke her lovely hair. It had been a long few weeks since she’d waved good-bye to him on a rainy afternoon outside his home in Belgrave Square.
Something caught his eye and he looked up just in time to see a flaming star’s brief arc across the deep blue bowl of the heavens.
So lovely here. A dusting of stars and a fat moon played hide-and-seek now among a few tattered clouds. The hearty salt tang in his nostrils smelled of seaweed and iodine. Something about the place was definitely tugging at his heart. Caribbean moons and stars were not the sort of thing a boy of seven or so would remember, of course. He had little memory of being here at all. Still, here he had been, and now his work had brought him back.
Gazing out, Hawke was astounded to find his eyes tearing up. What on earth? He was hardly the type to get all leaky about a pretty view or even a beautiful woman, was he? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something about this place that—
He had turned and started to go below when it hit him. A kind of chill ran through him, then a shudder so severe it rattled his bones. He staggered, reached out, and gripped the rail with both hands. He’d gone all lightheaded and short of breath. Seeing his knuckles go white on the rail, he realized he was literally holding on for dear life. Had he actually blacked out?
He managed a few deep, slow breaths and it seemed to calm him a little. Still, his heart was jackhammering in his chest. Was this what a heart attack felt like? A stroke? Good Lord, it couldn’t be! He was only thirty-seven years old. He exercised like a fiend, smoked only the occasional cigar, drank only the odd cocktail or two. He was fond of his wine, true, but that was good for you, wasn’t it? he asked himself, weaving his way over to the banquette where he collapsed.
If this was some severe illness announcing itself, the timing couldn’t be worse. He clasped his hand to the back of his neck, squeezing hard, feeling the spike of panic abate just a bit.
He’d been thinking, while shaving just this very morning, that he’d never felt better in his life. In a world besieged by dirty little wars and full of evil, dangerous people, he was doing his duty. Work he felt was vitally important. At the same time, he’d managed to rebuild his family fortune and fund causes and charities he believed in.
And, at last, he’d met a beautiful woman he couldn’t get off his mind, Dr. Victoria Sweet. Doc, he’d taken to calling her. She wasn’t practicing much medicine anymore. She’d been a pediatrician, specializing in children’s neurological disorders. Then she’d published a children’s book called Whirl-o-Drome that had become an enormous success on both sides of the ocean. Hawke had adored the story. And so had the public. There was talk of Hollywood.
He leaned his head back on the cushion and looked up into the night sky. He remembered the rainy night Vicky had read the thing aloud. It was soon after they’d met. And he remembered telling her that such wonderful stories would probably do more, for far greater numbers of children, than her medical practice might ever accomplish. Especially Whirl-o-Drome.
It was a tale of a child’s enduring love. A young boy, whose father’s Spitfire has been shot down in flames during the Battle of Britain, is sent to live in a seaside village with his aunt. Every night, he goes down to an old amusement park by the sea and rides the Whirl-o-Drome, an ancient merry-go-round with toy airplanes secured at the ends of long poles. The little planes spin round and round, and climb or dive when the children use the airplane’s control stick.
One night, just before closing and after many, many rides, the boy’s little silver plane comes to life. The lights inside the cockpit suddenly illuminate. Needles are spinning on the dials. Tiny red lights are winking out on the wing tips. Suddenly, the boy hears static and a faint voice. It’s coming from the headphones of an old leather flying helmet that has somehow appeared between his feet. He places the helmet on his head and pulls the goggles down over his eyes. Suddenly, a button he’s never seen before begins to glow bright red at the center of the console. The voice in the headphones tells him to push the red button in front of him. He does, and the little airplane disengages from the arm of the ride, and the boy soars out over the sea.
“Climb, climb!” says the strangely familiar voice in his earphones, and the boy pulls back on the stick, soaring higher and higher. Finally, he bursts through a canyon of clouds into clear starlit air. He sees an old Spitfire doing barrel rolls in the moonlight. He races to catch up with the plane and sees the number on its wing.
Number Seven. His father’s number.
“Timmy? Is that you?” the voice in his earphones says. The voice sounds an awful lot like—
“Y-yes?”
“See that big bright moon on the horizon? You stay right off my starboard wing and follow me all the way there. There’s something I want you to see!”
“Are you really—Number Seven? Because Number Seven was my father’s plane and—”
“It’s me, Timmy,” the voice said. “It’s your father. You can find me up here most nights, if you’ll just believe in your little plane.”
It was a lovely tale.
“Skipper?” Tommy Quick said. “Sorry to bother you. But the guests have arrived.”
“Ah, yes. The guests. Thank you, Tom. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
He realized his heart was still racing. He willed the image of Vicky to appear out there before him. He let her smiling eyes finally cause the triphammer of his heart to slow gradually to a near normal pace. What on earth was the matter with him? He wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, but this wasn’t the first time he’d suffered one of these little, what did they call them, seizures. They’d begun shortly after Blackhawke had arrived in the Caribbean. Ironic. People came here to relax.
After a little while, he felt somewhat like his old self once again. He sprang from the banquette and headed for his stateroom to shower and dress for dinner. He looked at his watch on his way down the aft stairway. He had maybe ten minutes to collect himself before it was time to go down and suffer his insufferable guests.