Congreve began translating and soon they were all chattering again in what was, to Hawke’s ear, still a most unlovely language.
The waitress arrived with a tray and placed a sweating bottle of Kalik in front of each man. Her angry eyes avoided those of the two Russians and her volcanic mood sent tremors to her fingers as she served them. Such a pretty girl, Hawke thought. Pity she was so unhappy.
As she handed Hawke his beer, he couldn’t help but notice the rough red abrasions around each of her wrists. A quick glance down at her bare feet and ankles revealed that they, too, were red and raw. This poor girl had recently been abused, and badly.
“What is your name?” Hawke whispered to the girl, taking her gently by the hand.
“Gloria,” she replied, her eyes downcast.
“Gloria,” he repeated, remembering it as the name of the woman Congreve had heard the Russians arguing over. “Yes, I might have guessed that.”
5
It was hard for Hawke to conceal his unbridled loathing for the two Russians. To think, just moments before, he’d actually been feeling sorry for these two sodden degenerates. Make that godless Commie sodden degenerates. In Alex’s world there was right. And there was wrong. And there were no shades of gray.
The kind of work Alex Hawke did, covert assignments for both the British and American governments, often meant dealing with cretins like these two. But Hawke was a man who loved his life’s calling deeply and passionately. He relished each and every assignment. Now, after the long, restless hiatus that had been January, he looked forward to this one with keen anticipation.
He stared at the two men sitting across from him. According to everything he’d learned from Cap Adams, the CIA station agent in Kuwait City, they were a pair of heartless pirates, perverse enough to make their fortunes selling weapons of mass destruction to the world’s terrorists. He’d gathered sufficient information from enough sources to suggest that these two just might be the ones to lead him to the disappearing Borzoi submarine. After that, he planned to put these two parasites out of business. Permanently.
Congreve said something briefly in Russian, and Golgolkin pulled a faded red leather folder from his satchel, pushing it toward Hawke. Embossed in gold on the cover was the old Soviet symbol itself, the hammer and sickle.
“Suggestion,” Hawke said, tapping the symbol with his finger. “You boys ought to find yourselves a new logo. When somebody’s sickle has been hammered as badly as yours has been, it’s time to move on.”
As Congreve translated this bit to the puzzled Russians, Hawke perused a stack of glossy eight-by-ten photos until a certain item caught his eye. It was a huge jet-powered hovercraft, capable of carrying at least sixty or seventy soldiers. Or, Hawke thought, passengers. He separated the photo from the stack and placed it on the table.
Hawke owned a handsome castle in Scotland. It was on a lovely rugged island in the Hebrides and he’d gotten his chum Faldo to build one of the most gorgeous links golf courses in all of Britain on it. Hawke was a terrible golfer, but his love of the game remained undiminished.
He didn’t get to use the Scotland property as much as he’d intended and was now thinking of converting it into a small hotel. This hovercraft would make a splendid way of transporting guests to and fro. The fact that it was ex-Soviet would only add to the cachet.
“How fast?” he asked.
Rasputin muttered something and Congreve translated, “On a calm day, flat, no wind, in excess of sixty knots.”
Hawke said nothing and continued to look through the pile of photos. It was an amazing assortment of weapons and military craft. Scud missiles and missile launchers, helicopter gunships, high-speed attack boats; indeed, just about everything except what Hawke was really interested in. He returned the photos to the folder, slid the red leather case across the table, and stood up.
“Well,” Hawke said, “you’ve piqued my interest. I’d like you to join me aboard the launch. We’ll continue this discussion at a more private location.”
The Russians were instantly all smiles, positively giddy at the sudden prospect of a major sale, and happy to go someplace less public. Getting to their feet, they extended their hands as if to seal some bargain already agreed to. Hawke ignored them and turned to Congreve.
“Ambrose, be so kind as to escort these two characters out to the launch. I’ll linger here a moment and take care of our tab.”
“So, this is what you meant by ‘shopping,’ eh?” Congreve leaned to whisper in Hawke’s ear. “You might have mentioned it sooner, and I could have had this pair of cads thoroughly checked out.”
“No need to bother you with it. I had Sutherland do it, before we left London. I told you, Ambrose, this is a holiday. Relax, get some sun, have a bit of fun. You’ve been quite morose since your Maggie died.”
Congreve looked away, sadness overtaking him.
“Mags was a fine old hound. I had a dog once,” Hawke said. “Scoundrel. I loved that dog so much, it frightened me to watch him grow old, knowing that he would die one day.”
“It’s so awful when they do,” Congreve replied. “But they do die. And then you are alone.” The older man turned away, squared up his shoulders, and hustled the two arms dealers out through the screen doors and into the afternoon sun.
I’ve always been alone, Hawke thought, looking after him. Always.
Hawke shook off the feeling and walked over to the bar. He took one of the many empty stools, smiled at the bartender, and said, “Lovely day for it, isn’t it?”
“The Lord has indeed blessed us once more, sir,” the bartender said with his big white smile. He stuck out his hand. “My name, sir, is Amen Lillywhite. Please call me Amen. We are honored to have you here at the club, Commander Blackhawke.”
Hawke nodded and took the man’s scrawny mahogany hand and shook it. “Rum, please, Amen. Neat. Gosling’s Black Seal 151 if you’ve got the stuff.”
“Not much call for it, but I do, sir!” he said. “Let me find it.”
Commander? Hawke was amazed. Commander had been his rank when, after a successful career, he’d retired from the Navy. Hardly anyone used it anymore.
And Blackhawke? Who knew how that had gotten started? No one, save perhaps Congreve, knew that Alex was indeed a direct descendant of the famous pirate. Perhaps it was a creation of the idiotic society reporters in London who relentlessly followed his every move and romantic misadventure. “Blackhawke’s Latest Bird Flies the Coop” was typical of the tabloid coverage he’d endured.
And there were more than a few captains of industry around the world who, having been broadsided by a Hawke hostile takeover, considered him somewhat piratical. In any event, the swashbuckling sobriquet had stuck, and it amused Hawke no end. He and Congreve alone knew that there was a very real Blackhawke perched atop the uppermost branches of the Hawke family tree.
“An honor to serve you,” Lillywhite said, placing a healthy tumbler of rum on the bar before him.
“I only drink on two occasions. When I’m alone or with somebody, Amen,” Hawke said, taking a sip of the dark liquid. “Will you join me in a glass?”
Amen smiled and shook his head.
“Haven’t had a drop since my first day here, near to fifty years now. Good Lord surrounds me with temptation, sees what I do. I sometimes imagine myself at the pearly gates. And maybe the Lord might say, ‘You’ve had a long trip, Amen. Would you like a drink?’”
Alex laughed and said, “I was wondering. Those pictures over there on that wall. How far do they go back?”