Tsar (8 page)

Wing Block D, the toady warden, and all of the other illustrious doomed inhabitants no longer existed. It had been reduced to a pile of rubble by eight extraordinarily powerful ounces of Hexagon-based explosives carefully molded inside the hard drive of the Wizard computer Paddy had recently placed on Warden Garmadge’s desk.

“Pop goes the weasel,” Strelnikov said to himself, smiling.

Hexagon was another of the Wiz’s inventions, discovered when he was experimenting with the molecular structures of nonnuclear explosives. It was bright blue, had the consistency of putty, and one ounce packed a wallop one thousand times that of nitroglycerine. By sheer accident, the man had discovered the most powerful nonnuclear explosive on the planet.

To prevent discovery of the Hexagon bomb hidden inside every Zeta machine, the case arrived from the factory permanently sealed. Should hardware problems arise, the machines were simply replaced free of charge. Should someone try to force the computers open, the presence of air would immediately reduce the Hexagon inside to an inert powder.

Genius.

He pulled back out onto the highway and accelerated rapidly up the snaky black road. He had a plane to catch. He was going to L.A. and from there to some godforsaken burg in Alaska to get briefed on his next assignment. Something to do with fish, he’d heard. But first, and he’d put money on it, he’d be paying a little surprise visit to the governor of North Dakota. Sometime in the next hour, his cellphone would ring, and he’d be headed for the governor’s mansion. Can you say dead governor?

Fishing? In Alaska? What did he know from fishing? He was from Brooklyn, f’crissakes! But hey, a job was a job, right? Maybe he’d learn something.

Paddy smiled and turned the radio back on, looking for an oldies station. Life was pretty good, he had to admit. Yeah, his job kept him on the road a lot, but it was never, ever boring.

You kill three, four, maybe five hundred people over the course of a long and illustrious career, you think, well, it’s maybe going to get boring at some point, right? You say, you know, how many times can I do this and keep it interesting? It has to get old eventually, right?

It doesn’t.

It’s all about creativity, baby.

Bottom line? You have to find a new way through the woods every time out.

Name of the game.

H
awke gunned his motorcycle up the final hill before turning into a shady lane that wound its way down to Lady Diana Mars’s oceanfront property.

As part of his new program to simplify his life radically, Hawke had allowed himself only one toy on Bermuda, but it was perfection. The jet-black Norton Commando motorcycle, model 16H, had been built in 1949. The old bike had won the Isle of Man Race that year and had come fifth in the world championship. It was his favorite mode of transport and a perfect way to get around on the island’s narrow and sometimes traffic-clogged roads.

The roads could be dangerous. Native Bermudians, teenagers mostly, had affected a riding style of casual nonchalance. They sat sideways on the seat, like a woman riding side-saddle, and guided their bikes with one hand. They took insane chances on roads built for horses and carriages, overtaking on blind curves, racing wildly through traffic. Hawke himself had narrowly escaped disaster at their hands many times. The Wild Onions, he called them privately, rebels without a clue.

After crossing the narrow swing bridge, originally built to take the old Bermuda train over to St. George’s Island, he downshifted rapidly, delighting in the harsh
blat-blat
of the Norton’s exhaust. Royal poinciana trees on either side of the lane formed a tunnellike arch overhead, and the soft but fecund smell of dark earth and night-blooming flowers was almost overpowering in his flared nostrils.

The massive iron gates of the Mars estate were coming up quickly on his right, and he braked sharply.

He’d not visited Diana’s house yet and was exceedingly curious to see it. Vincent Astor had erected the legendary estate, called Shadowlands, in 1930. It was allegedly enormous, the house proper stretching out along a long, heavily wooded spit of parkland that ran parallel to the old, narrow-gauge railway tracks. In its heyday, Hawke had read, the house had boasted a large saltwater aquarium and Astor’s own private railway, a toylike train called the Scarlet Runner that ran around the property.

He leaned into the bike, accelerated hard, and crested the hill. As both wheels left the ground, Hawke got his first good look at Shadowlands. It was spread out along the coast, moon shadows turning the succession of white buildings magical shades of softest blue and white.

The house was not one building; it was more a cluster of connected houses, all white with white roofs. The complex included every possible style of “Bermuda roof.” He saw hipped roofs, fancy Dutch-influenced gable ends, raised parapets, shed roofs, and steep, smooth butteries. Various chimneys and towers completed the look. An architectural marvel, he had to admit.

Hawke smiled as he roared up to a covered portico, which he had to assume was the main entrance. He shut down his machine and climbed off, brushing the road dust from his white officer’s dinner jacket. He’d worn his Royal Navy Blue No. 2 regalia for the occasion, the Navy’s evening dress for formal dinners. It demanded a white waistcoat, miniature medals, and the three gold bands at the sleeves signifying his rank of commander.

Removing his helmet and straightening his thin, double-ended black satin tie, he took in Shadowlands with a sense of pure delight. This “house” Ambrose had invited him to looked more like a small fairy-tale village set along a cliff overlooking the sea.

Ambrose Congreve was suddenly standing at the opened door, bathed in buttery yellow light from inside the house. He was resplendent in beautifully tailored black evening clothes and shod in gleaming patent-leather pumps. He was still using his gold-headed ebony cane, Hawke was sorry to see, but the smile on his face and the angle of the well-used pipe jutting from one corner of his mouth told Hawke all was well with his oldest and dearest friend.

Hawke removed the key from his still-ticking machine and turned the bike over to a smiling young Bermudian in a starched white house jacket who promised not to run off with it. Hawke watched the young man wheeling it away and then turned to the legendary Scotland Yard detective.

“Hullo, old warrior,” he said to his friend. “Still using the swagger stick, I see.”

It was his leg. Ambrose had been tortured by a pair of Arab fiends in the Amazon jungle many moons earlier. They’d systematically broken most of the bones in his right foot, knee, and lower leg. Doctors at London’s King Edward VII Hospital who’d performed the knee replacement had originally thought he’d not regain use of the leg. But, not surprisingly, the tough old Scotland Yard copper had prevailed. After months of anguished therapy, with Diana’s love and encouragement at every painful step, he’d left the hospital for good. He’d walked out with a cane, but he’d walked out.

Hawke stuck out his hand, but Ambrose ignored it, stepping forward to embrace him. They stood that way for a moment, arms wound tightly around each other, neither saying anything, just two men exceedingly happy to see each other once more. Hawke, who was not normally given to leaky displays, had to use every ounce of his will to keep the tears that filled his eyes from spilling over.

“Alex,” Congreve said finally, clapping him smartly on the shoulder and stepping back to take his measure. “God, it’s good to see you looking so fit.”

“And you,” Hawke managed to croak as they entered the house side by side. “Where is everybody?”

“Diana will be down in a moment. She’s upstairs gilding the lilies. Let’s go out on the terrace, shall we, and have something lethal. What would you like, Alex?”

“Rum, please. Gosling’s if they’ve got it.”

Hawke followed Congreve through the main house, moving slowly down a long vaulted and torchlit hallway that led to the white marble terrace and the moonlit sea beyond. There seemed to be chaps in white jackets everywhere, all with shiny brass buttons and highly polished black shoes. Congreve had certainly landed himself in cushy surroundings, up a notch or two from his quaint cottage in Hampstead Heath.

“They’ve got it. You’re quite sure you don’t want a Dark and Stormy?” Ambrose asked.

“Never heard of it.”

“Really? Local favorite, practically the national drink of Bermuda. Rum, dark, of course, and ginger beer.”

Hawke nodded.

“Desmond,” Ambrose said to the lovely old fellow hovering nearby, “a pair of Dark and Stormys when you’ve got a moment…not too much ice. Ah, here we are! Lovely night for it, wouldn’t you say?”

The two men had arrived at the carved limestone balustrade surrounding a lower portion of the terrace, a curved patio directly on the sea. There was no wind tonight, Hawke noticed, and not a ripple on the ocean, all the way to the horizon. The light of the full moon on the glassy water was electric, producing an almost neon blue that was startlingly beautiful. A fishing boat lay at anchor, so still it might have been welded to the sea.

Desmond arrived with a silver tray, and each man took one of the icy sterling tumblers.

“Well,” Hawke said, taking a swallow of the potion, “let me raise a toast, then.” He lifted his drink and said, “To health. And to peace.”

“Peace and health,” Congreve said, lifting his own goblet. “Long may they wave.”

“Are you happy?” Hawke asked his friend, pretending to stare out to sea.

“I am,” Congreve said, his eyes shining. “Very.”

Hawke smiled. “Good. Then let’s get down to cases, shall we, Ambrose? Tell me, how does it look?”

“How does what look?”

“Come on. The bling-bling.”

“The
bling-bling?
” Congreve said, regarding Hawke as if he’d lost his mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The rock, the ice, the D flawless. Remember?”

“The
ring
, do you mean, for heaven’s sake? My mother’s diamond?”

“Yes, of course, the ring, Constable. The diamond engagement ring. Was she floored? KO’d in the very first round, I’ll wager.”

“Still upright, I’m afraid. I haven’t given the thing to her yet.”

“Not given it to her? Really? Based on our last dinner conversation at Black’s in London, I should have thought the presentation was imminent. That’s why you two were coming out to the balmy mid-oceanic isles. Seal the deal or do the deed or whatever.”

“Hmm.”

“So. Where does the thing stand now? Are you engaged or not?”

“Bit difficult to say, really, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. You proposed to the woman. She accepted. I was there at Brixden House the night you dropped a knee, remember? That orchestral proposal? Berlioz?”

“Ah, yes. That’s correct. But there have been…complications. Things have arisen since then.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Well, I mean to say, difficulties.”

“Difficulties with what?’

“Communication, apparently.”

“Communication?”

“Hmm.”

“What about it?”

“It seems we don’t.”

“Don’t communicate?”

“Precisely. Don’t communicate my deepest feelings.”

“You’re a man. You don’t have any deep feelings.”

“I keep saying that.”

“She loves you.”

“I know. And I her.”

“Well? Give her the bloody ring, and get on with it! Is there anything on earth more symbolic of one’s deepest feelings? I mean, a diamond is forever. Isn’t that what they say?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You brought the rock along to Bermuda, one hopes. Ideal setting to bestow precious stones upon females feeling insecure about a chap’s deepest feelings, much less his honorable intentions.”

“Yes, yes, of course I’ve brought it. It’s upstairs in my shaving kit, awaiting the ideal moment. Perhaps on a sail in the moonlight. Something along those lines.”

“In your shaving kit? You’re kidding.”

“No, no. It’s safe as houses. I’ve got an old can of
mousse a raser
with a false bottom. It’s in the bottom of the can.”

“I suppose that’s all right if you trust the staff. I’d hide it someplace more original were I you. When do you intend actually to bend the final knee, then, old fossil? Full moon tonight, you know. How those facets will sparkle. I could excuse myself early and—”

“Alex, please. These things take time. Planning. I alone will know when the moment is right. Now, then, what are you up to? You certainly look tan and fit. No hint of the dreaded
accidie
about you.”

“
Accidie?
Is that more of your bloody French lingo?”

“Boredom, Alex, in any language. You show no signs of it, dear boy. What accounts for that? Keeping busy, are you, you and Pelham in that cozy little cottage of yours? Bermuda’s own odd couple, I must say.”

“Pelham and I? We’re not odd at all. A trifle eccentric, perhaps, rough and ready, but hardly odd.”

“So, what do you two hardy boys do with yourselves all day? To keep you both from going barking mad?”

“Pelham has his needlework in the evening. He’s taken up fishing, too, uses a monofilament hand line and reels them in by the bucket-load. Many’s the evening he fries up something he’s hooked in our little lagoon. Rockfish à la Pelham with a Gosling’s Black Seal rum sauce. Bloody marvelous should you ever be lucky enough to receive a coveted invitation to Teakettle Cottage.”

“Diana and I would be delighted. What else?”

“Bit of Scrabble or Whist on rainy nights, the two of us. I’m reading a lot. I finished
Tom Sawyer
, and now I’m on to
Huckleberry Finn
. Bloody marvelous, Mark Twain, I never realized. Did you know Twain adored Bermuda? Came here scores of times.”

“I need hardly remind you your dear mother was born on the Mississippi, Alex. Small wonder you find Mr. Clemens’s marvelous books so appealing.”

“I suppose you’re right. I do get a sense of her in those pages of his.”

“So, in a nutshell, you’re reading Twain by the fireside while Pelham lurks about down by the lagoon, harrying the finny denizens of the deep. That about it?”

“What else? We’ve a small stable on the property, and I ride on the beach most mornings. Good strong black horse named Narcissus, loves to run. Swimming a good deal helps, I suppose. Six miles a day. Which reminds me. I must tell you about the most remarkable woman I met this afternoon and—”

Lady Diana Mars appeared at Hawke’s elbow, all gossamer and glittering stones at the neckline and sparkling in her swept-up auburn hair. She was a beautiful woman with a fine mind and a generous spirit, and Congreve was damned lucky to have found her, especially so late in his life. Alex, along with everyone else, had put the renowned detective down for a lifelong bachelor. Diana had changed all that.

“Alex, you darling boy,” she said, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s so very good to see you.”

“And you,” Hawke said. “You look lovely, Diana, absolutely radiant. And Shadowlands is wonderful.”

“I’ll give you the grand tour later if you’d like. We can even take the Scarlet Runner around the grounds. They’ve gotten the steam engine up and running again, apparently. But right now, I’ve got to go to the kitchen and see about dinner.”