Hawke: A Novel (17 page)

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.”

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 chaffeur, 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.

Stoke ended up as the legendary leader of the legendary SEAL Team Six. Six was the most elite and deadly of the SEAL teams, a top-secret counterterrorist unit founded by another Navy legend, the baddest of the bad, Richard Marcinko.

Needless to say, when Stoke left the Navy and joined the NYPD, he was one of the toughest rookies ever to walk a beat. He was still massive, and still took exceedingly good care of himself. He worked for Hawke, but in his heart, he was and always would be a Navy man.

“My man,” Stoke said, “look at you! Got yourself a tan! Why, you brown as a berry! What you been doin’ down in them islands?”

“Let’s just say that in the course of my current assignment, I was able to catch the occasional ray,” Hawke said, laughing. He picked up his bag and followed Stoke through the revolving doors.

“Well, get ready for changes in latitude, bossman,” Stoke said over his shoulder, “’cause you ’bout to freeze your skinny white ass off!”

He knew it might be a bit cool, still the sting of icy air took his breath away. December in Washington was usually just wet and chilly, but this was seriously cold weather. Under his flight suit, which had burned up in the fire, he’d been wearing nothing but khaki shorts, a Royal Navy T-shirt, and flip-flops. Mistake.

Flip-flops weren’t all that ideal for icy puddle-hopping, Hawke discovered following Stoke through the maze of snow-laden cars in the parking lot.

“So. Tell me. How was your flight, boss?”

“A little unexpected turbulence on the first leg. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“So we going straight to the State Department,” Stoke said. “Conch called on the car phone and said it was urgent. Said bring your ass over there as soon as humanly possible.”

Stoke unlocked the doors to the beat-up black Hummer and climbed behind the wheel. For a Hummer, the car was deliberatelyun assuming. The fact that there was a turbocharged four-hundred-horsepower engine up front and that the entire body of the car was armor-plated was hidden by a disguise of dust and dents. The banged-up Virginia vanity plates on the Hummer read:

HUM THIS

Hawke opened the passenger side door and climbed in. He was hugging himself, shaking with cold. “Right, then. State Department,” he said, his words forming puffy white clouds of vapor that hung before his face. “And step on it.”

“You got it,” Stokely said, downshifting and roaring out of the parking lot.

“Any danger of getting some heat in here, Stoke?”

“Chill a minute, brother,” Stoke said.

“Oh, I
am
, I am chilling. I can assure you that much,” Hawke said, his teeth literally chattering.

“Hell happened to your arm?” Stoke asked, noticing the bandage.

“I cut myself shaving,” Hawke said, and Stokely just looked at him. Man said some crazy shit sometimes. Funny, but crazy.

“Good old Foggy Bottom, coming up,” Stoke said, stepping on the gas.

“Well,” Hawke said, settling back in his seat now that a blast of hot air was coming up from under the dashboard. “You look chipper, Stoke. Fine fettle, I must say.”

“Hell does that mean, ‘fine fettle’?”

“It means you look fit, Stoke, that’s all. In good form. Are the decorators all out of the new house?”

“Yeah, they out. None too soon for me, I’m telling you something. I ain’t had lots of experience with no decorators, but what I just had is plenty. Kinda shit we talk about at lunch? You ever heard of cerulean blue, boss? Me, either. But it’s serious blue. Nothing candy-ass like robin’s egg blue, you understand. Cerulean blue is darker, more like cobalt when it’s done. Anyway, that’s your bedroom.”

“Cerulean.”

“That’s it, boss. But this is one prime piece of real estate you got now. Man, wait till you see it. I still haven’t figured out all the security shit.”

“That’s reassuring. You being chief of security and all that.”

“No, man, I got most of it down. But this is some major high-tech shit you got goin’ on now. Hell, we got so many TV monitors ’round that house, our
monitors
has monitors! Know how they call the house The Oaks?”

“That’s been its name for two hundred years.”

“Well, my thought is we oughta change it. We oughta call it The Monitors. Got a hell of a lot more monitors than we got oaks.”

“It’s a thought.”

“So. Whassup? We chillin’ ’round here tonight or you flyin’ back to the Bahamas or wherever?”

“Spending tonight here,” Hawke said. “First night in the new house. I hope Pelham has seen to the flowers. Vicky will probably be—joining me there tonight.”

“Vicky? You still messin’ with that chick? Man, you are something else.”

“In what sense?” Hawke asked as Stoke turned into the underground garage. At the security booth, the guard leaned into the car, saw Hawke holding up his pass, and, smiling, waved them in.

“In the sense that you don’t ever understand nothing about women.” Stoke pulled the Hummer into a space and shut it down. “For instance, you got a perfectly good woman upstairs waiting for you, totally in love with your ass. Now, you chasing around with Vicky.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. What’s going on with Conch?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, well, maybe you still working in there, too, is all I’m saying.”

“I’d never do that, Stoke,” Hawke said, reaching for the door handle. “It wouldn’t be chivalrous.”

“Chivalrous? Oh, yeah. I forgot. Wouldn’t be chivalrous.”

“Are you coming in?”

“No, I ain’t coming in that building. That place spooks me. All them chivalrous white people running around wearing them little polka-dot bow ties and shit. Place is spooky.”

“Matter of fact, I’m meeting a couple of spooks. That’s why I’m here,” Hawke said, smiling at Stokely. “I’ll be about an hour, if you want to go get yourself something to eat.”

Stoke watched Hawke walk away.

Spooks?

Is that what the man said? Wasn’t very damn chivalrous, now, was it?

Spooks, here I come.

Hawke was still grinning at Stoke’s obvious misinterpretation of the word when the elevator arrived. He showed his badge to the stoic marine twins at the metal detector, and passed through into the elevator.

Reaching the top floor, the very kingdom of spookdom, Hawke returned the salutes of two more marines standing duty by the double doors to the secretary’s outer office. Both wore odd expressions, he thought, until he looked down at his own wardrobe.

Marines, apparently, were unaccustomed to visitors wearing flip-flops.

“Ah. Yes. Just flew up from the Bahamas,” he said as one of the marines pulled the door open. “Called the secretary from the plane. Wanted me to come directly from the airport. No time to change, you see.”

Entering the outer office, now feeling self-conscious about his appearance, he thought he saw a familiar face behind the reception desk.

“Sarah?” he said hopefully. Sarah? Sally? “It’s Alex Hawke. Remember me?”

A pretty, heavyset woman in her mid-forties looked up into his face. “Good Lord,” she said. “I mean, why, Lord Hawke! Well. What a surprise! I certainly don’t have you down in my book this early! Wonderful to see you, your lordship!”

Hawke started to say something, then bit his lip. He’d always found his title a little embarrassing and off-putting. He allowed no one to use his title except his butler, Pelham, who threatened to quit if he could not use his employer’s proper title. Still, this was hardly a time to press the issue.

“And you as well, Sarah,” Hawke said. “Now, look at you. You’ve changed your hair. It’s most becoming, I must say.”

“And look at
you,”
Sarah said, fighting the pink flush she knew was rising up her throat. “You look—”

“Dreadful,” Hawke said. “I know. Sorry. I just flew in, actually. Your boss insisted I come here straightaway so I had no time to, you know, tidy up.”

“They must be expecting you, Lord Hawke,” Sarah said. “Please go right in.”

The double mahogany doors swung open and Hawke strode into the secretary of state’s office.

“Hello, good looking!
Bienvenidos!”
the secretary said, moving toward him with her slender arms outstretched. She was tall and elegantly dressed. Something from Paris, Hawke guessed. Her glorious hair fell in a blue-black curtain to her shoulders.

Consuelo de los Reyes, only in office a few months, was already the most photographed secretary of state in history. You were just as likely to see her on the cover of
W
or
Vanity Fair
as on the cover of
Time.
Alex embraced his old friend and inhaled the familiar perfume.

“The new secretary, herself. You look absolutely gorgeous, Conch,” Alex said.

“And you look absolutely ridiculous, Hawke.”

Despite the wardrobe, she still found him impossibly attractive. Six-three and right around 180 pounds. The wavy black hair, going the slightest bit gray at the temples. The bushy black eyebrows over those intense blue eyes. The imperiously straight nose above the firm lips, the constant hint of mischief in the grin lurking around the mouth. In that cursory appraisal, she instantly remembered why she’d fallen so hard.

“Reporting as ordered, sir.” Hawke grinned, executing a snappy salute. “Straightaway from the airport. Your assistant said you told her to, quote, ‘get his ass over here.’”

“Yeah, well, pardon my effing French. I haven’t got all that bureaucratic protocol crap down yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Suggestion. Don’t ever get it down.”

Conch smiled. “Bingo. So you flew up here in that get-up?”

“The marines outside considered it quite a fashion statement. Not the foggiest what that statement is, nonetheless a statement.”

“Let’s see,” she said, rubbing her chin and eyeing him carefully. “I would call it Haute Margaritaville, as a matter of fact. Cute. Wildly inappropriate, but cute.”

The secretary was a huge fan of the American singer Jimmy Buffett. She’d gotten Alex hooked on him to the point where he now played Buffett CDs aboard his yacht and in his planes constantly. His current favorite, he noticed, was now playing softly in her office. “Beach House on the Moon.”

“Do me a small favor, Conch?”

“Name it.”

“Turn up ‘Beach House’ just a smidge?”

“No way,” she whispered. “And, please. I know it’s difficult but try and act professional. I’m the secretary of state now, Alex.”

Hawke smiled at her. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

“Yeah, well. Next time you see your pal the president, tell him to stop playing grabass with me every time I’m alone with him in the Oval Office, okay?”

“Yes, Madame Secretary.”

The secretary’s family, de los Reyes, was one of the oldest sugar families in Cuba. They’d lost thousands of acres when Fidel entered Havana, and the secretary’s father had moved his whole family to Key West. Bought a large Victorian just across the road from Truman’s Little White House. Consuelo had grown up a true citizen of the Conch Republic, bonefishing, drinking beer, swearing like a sailor.

After earning her doctorate in political science at Harvard, and before entering politics, Conch had taken a few years off. Returning to her beloved Florida Keys, she’d become one of the best bonefishing guides in the islands. Hawke had spent a week under her tutelage at Islamorada Key and fallen for her almost immediately.

In addition to being the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, she could spot the mere shadow of an elusive bone sliding over the shallows at sixty yards. After a glorious week in the Keys, fishing the flats, drinking beer, and listening to Buffett while the sun went down, he was hooked. That was all long ago, but it was a time neither of them had forgotten, nor were they likely to forget.

Conch took Hawke by the hand and led him across an expanse of richly colored Aubusson rug to the large windows overlooking the Lincoln Memorial. It was still snowing, but you could see the majestic structure where Lincoln sat.

“I see you’ve moved your office,” Hawke said.

“I did,” she replied. “To be able to see my hero over there. He helps me, Alex, I promise you. Now, let me introduce you to my colleagues.”

They entered a small anteroom the secretary often used for meetings like this one. On a large silk brocade sofa, two men unfamiliar to Hawke were seated, sipping coffee. Both stood up as they approached, and Consuelo did the introductions.

“This is Alexander Hawke, gentlemen. An old fishing buddy of mine. Alex, this is Jeremy Tate from the CIA and Jeffrey Weinberg, the deputy secretary of defense for nuclear matters. Both of them have been wetting their pants at the idea of meeting you.”

Both men uttered small coughing noises at this remark and stuck their hands out.

Alex shook hands with Weinberg, then Tate. The CIA chap had small eyes set in a porcine face. Aggressive type, Hawke thought, withdrawing his hand from Tate’s grip before any fingers were broken. Weinberg was tall, thin, and bushy-browed, looked like a rumpled academician from Harvard come to Washington with the new administration. Which is exactly what he was.

“What’s this? The latest from Savile Row?” Tate said, smirking at Hawke’s odd outfit. “I’ve always admired the British flair for understated elegance.”

Hawke had taken an instant dislike to the man. He ignored the comment and turned to Weinberg.

“What, exactly, do you do, Mr. Weinberg?”

“He’s a bomb baby-sitter,” Tate said.

“That’s not far from the truth,” Weinberg said, smiling. “I keep track of all our nuclear weapons, making sure every single one is under the command and control of the president.”

“Don’t fall for this false modesty bullshit, Alex,” Consuelo said. “He also monitors every single nuclear weapon possessed by any nation on earth. It is his primary task to identify and locate any weapon that may have fallen into the hands of terrorists. He’s the one that noticed a Borzoi had disappeared.”

“And once you’ve located them, what then?” Hawke asked Weinberg.

“I develop techniques and strategies to seize or neutralize such weapons. I believe the use of a nuclear weapon is a sin against humanity. I’m the lucky guy in charge of global sin prevention.”

“I think I may have found you a whole boatload of sinners, Mr. Weinberg,” Hawke said. “Shall I begin?”

“Yes, of course,” Secretary de los Reyes replied. “Sit down, please, everyone. Coffee, Alex?”

“This Fiji water is fine, thank you,” Hawke said, pulling up a side chair and sitting down. He looked at each of them in turn before he started speaking.

“Yesterday afternoon, on Staniel Cay in the Exumas, I met with two Russian arms dealers. Based on information I’ve gathered since receiving the assignment, I felt they might be very helpful,” Hawke began. The CIA fellow pulled out a notebook and pen and started noisily turning the pages of his book. Hawke stared at him until he looked up. “Ready?” Hawke asked.

“Sure. Sorry,” Tate said, but he didn’t look it.

“Their names are Golgolkin and Bolkonski. The former being the one who did all the talking. Both are ex-Navy, Soviet Submarine Command at Vladivostok, childhood friends, classmates at the Academy. Am I going too fast for you?”

“No, no,” Tate said. “Go ahead.”

“I was shown a portfolio of weapons for purchase which I can describe in detail should anyone want to hear it. Soviet scuds, scud launchers, SAM-7’s, hovercraft. All the usual hardware and materiel, I can assure you.”

“Submarines?” Weinberg asked.

“No. I had to make that request specifically,” Hawke replied. “I told them I was interested in purchasing an Akula-class bomber.”

“You mean ‘boomer,’” Tate said.

“No. I mean bomber. You call them boomers. In the Royal Navy, we call them bombers.”

“Whatever. And what did the Russkies say?” Tate asked.

“They said they had an Akula. 1995-vintage Typhoon. Fifty million, half up front, half on delivery. Six months to get the vessel seaworthy and assemble a trained crew. Then delivery to the specified location.”

“I’m wondering,” Weinberg said. “Did you get any sense at all for whom they might be working?”

“None,” Hawke said. “I got the feeling they were independent agents. Of course, I could be wrong. Obviously, there’s some kind of infrastructure behind them. What they do is a bit more complicated than selling used autos.”

“What happened next, Alex?” the secretary asked.

“I told them I really wasn’t interested in the Akula I. I really wanted a Borzoi. They denied any knowledge of such a craft. After a bit of unpleasantness, they admitted the possibility that such a submarine might be purchased. I invited them aboard
Blackhawke
to continue negotiations. You’re looking for a Borzoi, these are your guys, all right.”

There was a heavy silence in the room. The secretary of state looked at Weinberg and mouthed the word
bingo.

“Blackhawke?”
Tate asked.

“My yacht,” Hawke said.

“Of course,” the CIA man said. “Your
yacht.”

“Quite. I invited them to join me for dinner. I showed them the money provided me by your CIA station man in Nassau. After dinner, I invited them on a tour of the yacht. It was then that I offered them an immediate five million in earnest money if they met my conditions.”

“Good strategy, Alex,” the secretary said. “Bait the hook immediately.”

“Thank you. I told them I wanted a guaranteed six-month delivery. I wanted to personally inspect the boat before any commissioning took place. And, finally, as the secretary and I discussed, I said that I wanted to speak directly to their last purchaser as a confirming reference.”

The two men and Consuelo de los Reyes leaned forward to hear what he had to say next.

“How did they respond?” the secretary asked.

“They refused to reveal any names, of course. But, after a little, how shall I put it,
prodding,
they reconsidered.”

“Tell me. What did you find out, Alex?” the secretary asked, lines of anxiety forming around her eyes.

“That payment for the last submarine Mr. Golgolkin sold was wire-transferred to Golgolkin’s numbered account in Switzerland—”

“When would that have been?” Weinberg asked.

“He claims about six months ago.”

“Shit,” Tate said. “It’s on its way.” “Maybe,” Weinberg said. “Maybe not. Things happen to schedules. Anyway, please continue, Mr. Hawke. This is very good stuff indeed.”

“According to our boy, Golgolkin,” Alex continued, “the money was wired from a bank in Miami. The Sunstate Bank.”

“Were you able to get the account name?” Weinberg asked. He was leaning forward, excitement plain on his face.

“As a matter of fact, I was. The money was wired from an account in the name of
Telaraña.”

“Telaraña,”
the secretary said, standing and moving to the window. “Unbelievable!” She gazed out at the swirling snowfall. “Look out this window, Mr. Tate. See it? There goes your pan–Islamic jihad theory.”