“Good evening, sir,” he said, straightening up. “Mr. Alex Hawke?”
“Indeed I am,” Hawke said, smiling at the young man, Russian by the sound of him.
“May I trouble you for some identification, sir?”
“You must be bloody joking. I’m an invited guest.”
“Sorry, sir. House rules. We’ve had some problems.”
“All right, then,” Hawke said, opening his wallet to reveal the Florida driver’s license he sometimes used. The address listed belonged to Tactics International. It was a company he partly owned in Miami, run by his good friend and comrade-in-arms Stokely Jones. “Happy?”
“Would you mind turning around and putting your hands above your head?”
“Of course not. Would you care to see my Highland Fling? It’s legendary.”
The man ignored this and went over every inch of Hawke’s body with a handheld metal detector.
“Nothing personal, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. All right, if you’ll step aboard, we’ll shove off.”
“Hello, Hoodoo, I’m Alex Hawke,” he said, grabbing one of the gleaming brass handholds and offering his other hand to the helmsman.
“Sir. Nice to have you aboard. We’ve met before, you say?”
“Just in passing. You probably don’t recognize me with my clothes on.”
Hoodoo, puzzled, smiled and shoved the throttles forward. Stubbs had not overstated the ferocity of the riptide currents roaring through the channel. Powder Hill was a fortress with a very intimidating moat.
“We don’t get many visitors here,” Hoodoo said, smiling at him.
“I imagine not. Few people would have the temerity to drop in unexpectedly.”
Hoodoo’s smile was enigmatic as he put the wheel over and headed for what appeared to be a large boathouse on the distant shore.
Ten minutes of rough water later, they arrived at the Powder Hill dock. At the far end was a block house that was clearly a security office. On the narrow paved road above, there was a dark green Land Rover waiting, the Defender model, all kitted out in brush bars, searchlights, and a siren mounted on the bonnet. Two men sat up front, a driver in khakis and another fellow in mufti wearing a sweat-stained straw planter’s hat.
Hawke bid farewell to Hoodoo, stepped ashore, and made his way up to the waiting vehicle.
“Mr. Hawke,” the passenger said as Hawke climbed into the small rear seat, “Welcome to Powder Island. My name is Starbuck. I’m the general factotum around here, prune the bougainvillea, keep Miss Anastasia’s place looking good. Miss Anastasia asked me to fetch you and bring you round to her house.” He had a broad black face and a beaming white smile. Hawke liked him immediately.
“This is a working banana plantation, Starbuck?” Hawke asked. They’d been winding up a hill through a dense, well-kept grove.
“Very small operation, sir. But yes, we turn a tidy profit every year. This island is self-sufficient. We grow all of our own vegetables, catch our own fish.”
Hawke smiled. A few minutes later, they emerged from the gloom of the grove. They were atop a hill with great views in all directions. In the distance was St. George’s. To his right, Hawke could see the main house. It was an eighteenth-century British fort that had seen a lot of restoration. There were a few cars parked on the gravel. To the right was the marina, with a very large yacht, more than three hundred feet, moored at the outer wharf.
To his left, the road wound down to a small bay on the far side. There was a two-story house by the water, lovely colonial architecture, enshrouded in bougainvillea. That, he assumed, would be Anastasia Korsakova’s studio.
Between the two descending roads was a wide meadow of manicured grass. In the middle of that stood a steel tower about a hundred feet tall.
“Starbuck, tell me about the tower. For broadcasting?”
“No, sir, Mr. Hawke. That tower is a mooring station.”
“Mooring? For what?”
“An airship, sir.”
“Good Lord, still?” Hawke said. Airships had played a huge role in Bermuda’s early aviation history, but he had no idea any of them still were in operation.
“This is a new one, sir. Built by the owner of Powder Hill. Before that, the last famous ones we had here on Bermuda were the Graf Zeppelin and the Hindenburg, both of which stopped here to drop off mail on the way to the United States. The owner of Powder Hill is building a fleet of airships for transatlantic passenger travel. Here we are, sir.”
The driver pulled to a stop in front of the house, and Hawke climbed out, saying good-bye to Starbuck, who promised to return for him in an hour or whenever he called security.
THE LOVELY OLD house had a wide covered verandah that wrapped all the way around the second floor. Hawke looked up to see Asia Korsakova standing at the bougainvillea-covered rail, smiling down at him. Her dark blonde hair was pulled up on top of her head, and she was wearing a pale blue linen smock spattered with paint.
“Mr. Hawke,” she said, “you did come after all.”
“You had doubts?”
“I thought you’d lose your nerve.”
“There’s still time.”
She laughed and motioned him inside. The wide front door was open, a dark foyer inside lit with guttering candles in sconces on the wall.
“Come straight up the stairway. My studio’s up here.”
The studio was a large space, a square, high-ceilinged room filled with the typical artist’s chaos-easels, brushes, paint pots, and very large canvases stacked against the walls everywhere. Paddle fans revolved slowly overhead. What remained of the day streamed through the opened French doors and the big skylight overhead with filtered shades of rosy, buttery light.
There was a large open-hearth fireplace with a Bermuda cedar mantel. Above it hung a marvelous portrait of an inordinately handsome man in a splendid dress military uniform, standing beside a magnificent white stallion in battle livery. Hawke moved to study the work more closely. The effect was stunning, a powerful subject and a deeply heroic treatment, beautifully painted.
Anastasia appeared from a small adjacent room, carrying a tall drink on a small silver tray. He took it, and it was delicious.
“Welcome to Half Moon House,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Cheers,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Lovely painting over the fireplace, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Your work?”
She nodded. “I’ve always reserved that spot for the man I love. That’s my father.”
“Handsome chap.”
“Comes from inside, you know. Always.”
She looked even more luminously beautiful than the picture of her that he’d been carrying in his mind ever since that afternoon on the beach.
“Please sit over there in that wicker chair. I want to take a few photographs while we still have this beautiful light.”
It was a long wicker chaise with a huge fan-shaped back and great rolled arms. The entire thing was beaded with beautiful shells of every color. There were deep cushions covered in rose-colored silk. It looked like the throne of some Polynesian king. Hawke removed his navy linen jacket, dropped it to the floor, and lay back against the cushions. She leaned in with the camera and began clicking away, shooting close-ups of his face.
“So, you do portraits.”
“Yes.”
“Judging by the one, you’re quite good.”
“Some people think so.”
“Are you famous?”
“Google me and find out.”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“Are you so desperately poor, Mr. Hawke?”
“Why do you ask? Is it important?”
“No. I’m simply curious. Your accent is very posh. Yet you live in this crumbling ruin. With your, what’s the current expression, partner. He sounds a trifle old on the phone. Do you like older men, Mr. Hawke?”