Hawke: A Novel (16 page)

There was nothing for it but to wade into the flames, grab the Halon extinguisher, and use it before he was incinerated. The legs of his vintage flight suit caught fire instantly, and he ripped the suit off with one hand while stretching out his other to grab the Halon.

He put out his flaming jumpsuit, then emptied the canister’s contents into the heart of the blaze. Wonder of wonders, it actually worked! The fire was out as quickly as it had started. Now all he had to do was open the cockpit windows on both sides and get all the bloody smoke out of the plane. And hope the fire hadn’t damaged any of his critical controls.

Climbing back into his seat he saw that, while all the hair on his legs was singed off, he wasn’t badly burned. He flipped off the autopilot and banked hard left. He’d make a pass over the island and see if he could spot the bastard who’d almost killed him.

Flames and black smoke from the crashed Stinger had already climbed into the sky, and a brush fire had started to spread at the heart of Hog Island. The Russian was nowhere to be seen. But Betty, thank God, was now safely offshore, swimming blindly around in a sea of apples.

Hawke allowed himself a deep sigh of relief.

Betty had saved his life. If she hadn’t knocked the little cretin down and he’d gotten that first shot off, Hawke would surely be a dead man.

“Toast,” as the Americans would have it.

“If you’ll join me in the library, Inspector Sutherland?” Congreve said, after Hawke was safely airborne and they had entered the hangar elevator. “Scotland Yard, Caribbean Section, namely you and me, suddenly has a great deal of work to do in the next few days.”

“Yes. These Russians are a bad lot, sir.”

“Oh, it’s not the Russkies we’re on to. That’s purely Hawke’s affair for the time being.”

“What then?”

Congreve touched the button for the main deck and said, “Oh, we’re on to much more thrilling stuff, I assure you.”

“Really? Such as?”

“Pirates. Golden doubloons buried under silver moons. Skulls. Crossbones, and dead man talk. All that sort of thing.”

“Sounds fairly exciting.”

“It does have that potential, yes.”

The elevator came to a stop and the door slid open. As the two men walked toward the ship’s library, Congreve said, “Do you remember hearing stories about Blackhawke the pirate in your childhood?”

“Of course. Everyone did. Silver skulls braided into his beard, as I remember. Fond of decapitating chaps and hanging their heads in the rigging as a warning sign.”

“That’s the fellow. It may surprise you to learn that our dear friend and benefactor Alex Hawke is a direct descendant of that notorious pirate. Alex has acquired a treasure map from his grandfather drawn by Blackhawke himself just before he was hung for piracy and murder.”

“Astounding! I like this already,” Sutherland said, following his superior into the library. He was literally rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“The map is in that box on the table. Have a look.”

Sutherland went to the table and peered into the open box. He pulled back a chair, sat, and stared at the contents for several long moments before speaking.

“Good Lord, Ambrose, you can still read the thing,” Sutherland said, excitement in his voice.

“Astounding, isn’t it? Over three hundred years old and entirely legible.” Congreve put his old leather satchel on the table beside the box and pulled out a thick file, yellowed with age.

“What’s that?”

“It’s an old CID file, Ross,” Congreve said, looking at the man thoughtfully. “A cold case, almost thirty years old now. Murder. An unsolved double homicide, in fact.” Congreve looked away, and pulled a pipe from his tweed jacket.

“Is something wrong?” Sutherland said, looking at his superior, for clearly there was.

“It’s a delicate matter,” Congreve said, tamping tobacco into the pipe’s bowl. “I’m probably one of the few people left alive who even know of this file’s existence.”

“Well, sir, if you’d rather I not—”

“No, no. Sit, please. I need your help here, Ross. But I must ask for your absolute assurances that this matter will not be discussed outside this room. And that includes the owner of this vessel. Am I clear?”

“Certainly. You have my word,” Sutherland said, puzzled. He simply couldn’t imagine any secrets between Hawke and his lifelong friend Congreve. “I will not discuss anything you share with me with anyone.”

Congreve looked at the man carefully. He was one of the best of the Yard’s new generation, that much was certain. And the young fellow had enormous respect for Hawke, his squadron commander in the Navy and the man who literally saved his life during the Desert Storm affair. Still, it was a risky business.

“Well, good,” Congreve said finally, and opened the file. “You see, Ross, I suspect that the contents in this file and the map in that box are connected in some way.”

“A three-hundred-year-old map and a thirty-year-old murder case? Connected?”

“Yes, I rather think they are.”

He pushed the file across the table toward Sutherland.

“You’re free to read it in its entirety after we’re done here. You will see that the murders took place aboard a yacht moored in these very waters.”

“And the victims?”

“The mother and father of Alexander Hawke.”

“Good Lord,” Ross said, taking a deep breath. “Any witnesses?”

“Just one. A seven-year-old boy. Alex Hawke himself.”

Well after midnight, Congreve and Sutherland were still in the ship’s library.

Three meals had been brought in, served, and removed. The desk and two tables were piled with books, folios, maps, and satellite photographs of the region. Ross had ordered the sat photos printed on the bridge that morning and delivered down to the library.

Ross had also scanned the pirate’s crude drawing of the island into his computer, enhanced it, and had it blown up. It was now taped to the wall above Hawke’s desk. The sat photos, too, were taped to the wall, surrounding the computer’s version of the pirate’s drawing.

He had been on his feet for hours, poring over the photos with a magnifying glass, comparing them to the three-hundred-year-old drawing. So far, he’d seen nothing in the Exuma chain of islands that remotely resembled the island in the drawing. He was exhausted, but determined not to give up until he’d cracked it, a trait that had stood him in good stead at New Scotland Yard.

Congreve, meanwhile, had pulled up a chair next to the gas fire that was lit in the small fireplace. The cold front he’d seen on the satellite that morning had moved down through the Bahamas to the Exumas. The fresh salty breeze now flowing through the open port-holes was actually chilly. Most refreshing, he thought. A welcome respite from the brutal heat he’d experienced since his arrival.

He was puffing contentedly on his old brier pipe, working his way through the voluminous notes relating to the search for the treasure. He was also combing a small stack of ancient and crumbling leather-bound ship’s logs and histories of the Caribbean. Occasionally, he would emit an “a-ha” or a “well, well, well,” but, to Sutherland’s frustration, he never elaborated on the source of these exclamations.

“Do you fancy some tea, Ross?” he asked as the ship’s clock on the mantelpiece struck one.

“Yes, please.”

Congreve pressed the button on the remote that summoned the steward and said “A-ha,” for perhaps the tenth time since supper. Ross sighed, put down the glass, and collapsed in the chair opposite Congreve.

“A-ha
what
exactly?” he asked.

“I am referring to this Spanish corsair that Blackhawke mentioned in his final message to his wife. This ‘Andrés Manso de Herreras’ specifically,” Congreve said. “I was beginning to doubt his existence, but here he is all right. He’s mentioned by name in this ship’s log. Penned by a contemporary of de Herreras. A Captain Manolo Caracol who was then sailing for the Spanish crown.”

“A-ha,” Ross said, peering excitedly at the ancient book written in a fine Spanish hand. “Well, that’s quite good progress, isn’t it, Chief? And what does it say exactly?”

“Well, according to Manolo Caracol’s log, this fellow de Herreras wreaked a good deal of havoc in these waters. He was a Spanish privateer, born in Seville, who lurked about in the Windward Passage. His specialty was intercepting his colleagues, those headed for Spain loaded to the gunwales with gold. He’d relieve them of their cargo, slit a lot of throats, set them afire, and send them to the bottom.”

“Testy bloke,” Ross allowed, feeling some excitement for the first time that evening. “Suddenly, Captain Blackhawke’s letter appears to be more than the rum-sodden ramblings of a condemned man. The thing actually smacks of authenticity now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes. Hmm. Let me quote this chap Caracol:

Congreve paused and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.

“Is that it?” Ross asked. “Read on, read on!”

“Yes, of course,” Congreve replied. “I was just thinking that if de Herreras was bound for England, why then would he—at any rate Caracol continues:

“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.”