“Fancha, you missed this morning’s presentation, but I assume you saw the model of the TSAR company’s new passenger liner in the forward lounge? The Pushkin?”
“Yes, I did. Beautiful.”
“I’ve been aboard her. Let me tell you, the Pushkin is the most luxurious passenger ship ever to sail the skies. Named in honor of the famed Russian poet. She will make her maiden voyage on December 15. She will sail from Miami on a transatlantic flight, arriving at Stockholm on December 17 in time for the Nobel Prize award ceremony that evening at the Stockholm Stadshuset. It may interest you both to know that the owner of this vessel himself is to be awarded a Nobel Prize for his work in astrophysics.”
“She’s going to sing at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” Stoke asked.
“No. She’s going to sing onboard the Pushkin on her first night. There will be a gala dinner that night honoring the owner and all of the other Nobel laureates and nominees who will be joining us for the inaugural crossing. Many distinguished guests will be aboard, including the presidents of the United States and Russia and the premier of China. Not to mention their royal highnesses the king and queen of Sweden.”
“I’m going to sing for the president?” Fancha said.
“Yes, Fancha, you are. You’re going to sing for the world before we’re done. Does that sound interesting to you?”
Fancha looked at Stokely. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Baby, I’d do this gig for free!”
Nick smiled and pulled another envelope out of his pocket.
“What’s next?” Stoke said.
“Yeah, what’s next?” Sharkey echoed, getting into it.
“I have here a letter of intent saying that Fancha agrees to enter contract negotiations to star as the female lead in the upcoming Miramar production Storm Front, directed by Ed Zwick and also starring Denzel Washington and Brad Pitt. Executive produced by yours truly, Nikita Duntov. Accompanying the letter is a certified check from Miramar Pictures for two million dollars.”
“Oh, baby,” Fancha said, grabbing Stoke’s hand. “Is this for real?”
“I don’t know, Boo,” Stoke said, looking hard at Nikita Duntov. “Is it real, Nick?”
“Take it to the bank and find out, Mr. Levy.”
“You want to do this, baby?” Stoke said, looking at Fancha. She looked as if she was about to come out of her shoes.
“Do I want to do this, baby?” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I was five years old!”
She jumped to her feet, grabbed Stoke’s head, and crushed it to her bosom. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“It’s happening, just like I always imagined it. It’s real, baby, can’t you feel it? It’s real!”
Stokely gently wiped away her tears, then held up his hand in front of Nikita’s face.
“What’s that wet stuff on my hand, Nick?”
“Teardrops?”
“Correct. Real tears, Nick. Remember the lady’s tears, what they look like. Remember what’s real and what isn’t. Because if you forget, Nick, forget what’s real, something bad is going to happen.”
“Tears dry, Mr. Levy.”
“Not these tears, Nick. Bet on it.”
27
The midnight-blue Gulfstream IV was cruising at 45,000 feet. She’d slowed a bit for initial descent and was doing 400 kilometers per hour with a good tailwind due to the prevailing westerlies. She was less than an hour from her destination, Bermuda. The cabin lights were dimmed, and the two passengers were sound asleep. The attendant, a pretty young woman named Abigail Cromie, was making tea preparatory to landing, when a yellow light flashed in the forward galley. The captain wanted a word.
“Yes, Captain?” she said, poking her head inside the dark cockpit.
“I’ve got Diana Mars calling for his lordship,” Captain Tanner Rose said, turning to look at her. The young Scotsman’s usual smile was missing. Something was clearly wrong.
“He’s sleeping, I’m afraid. He asked to be awakened a few moments before landing. I’ve just put the tea on.”
“Well, you’d best wake him up, Abby. Lady Mars sounds desperate. She’s calling from a sat phone aboard some sailing vessel. Tell him it’s an urgent call.”
“Right away, Captain.”
Miss Cromie, a woman with ginger-colored hair and a well-tailored pale blue uniform, went aft to where Hawke was sleeping. His seat on the aircraft’s port side was reclined to horizontal, and he was snoring lightly. Forward of him, on the starboard side, Harry Brock was snoring loudly.
“Telephone for you, m’lord,” she whispered into his ear, simultaneously patting him firmly on the shoulder.
“What’s that?” Hawke said, his eyes opening drowsily.
“Lady Diana Mars for you, sir. A sat-phone call from Bermuda. Captain says it’s most urgent, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” Hawke said, coming fully awake and bringing his seat upright. “Yes. All right, then, Abby, I’ll take it.”
There was a mounted telephone right beside Hawke’s seat. Abby pressed the flashing button and handed the receiver to Hawke.
“Alex Hawke,” he said.
“Thank God!” Diana said, her voice quavering.
“Diana, are you all right? What is it?”
“It’s Ambrose, Alex. Ambrose and David have gone missing. I’m afraid something terrible has happened. The two of them went ashore. Fifteen minutes later, I heard gunfire, and then-”
“Went ashore where?”
“Nonsuch Island. At the entrance to Castle Harbour. They decided to have a good look round. See what was going on with those damn Rastafarians, whatever they’re called.”
“Disciples of Judah. What happened, Diana?”
“They went ashore, as I said, whilst I remained aboard.”
“Aboard what?”
“Swagman. You know, my father’s old yawl. That’s where I’m calling you from now. She’s got a sat phone at the nav station, thank the good Lord.”
“They went ashore, and then what happened?”
“I watched them make their way east along the coast. I was desperately worried about Ambrose stumbling around in the dark on his bad leg. He’s only just got it working again, you know, after what that bastard did to him in the Amazon. Toward the southern end of the island, where we’d seen some lights in the interior, I lost track of them. They’d disappeared around the tip of the island, I imagine. There’s a dock over there, and we’d seen a launch headed that way with no navigation lights. Then, about ten minutes after I’d lost sight of them, I heard shooting.”
“Were they armed?”
“Sir David had his handgun. That’s it.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Half an hour ago, maybe forty-five minutes. I can’t stand it any longer, Alex, just sitting here. Should I go ashore and look for them?”
“No, Diana. Do not do that. Have you called the police?”
“Y-yes, of course, I did that first. I didn’t want to bother you with this. I mean, it may very well turn out to be nothing, you know, but still, I-”
“Diana, calm down. It’s going to be all right. Are the police coming?”
“I don’t know. The chap I spoke to sounded…indifferent. They said they’d send the marine unit around to investigate, but they didn’t sound any too urgent about it. It’s been more than twenty minutes, and no sign of them.”
Hawke looked at the digital map displayed on the small monitor beside his seat. It told him his location, air speed, and time to arrival and showed a real-time image of the plane’s eastbound position approaching Bermuda.
“Diana, listen, I’m about half an hour out from Bermuda right now. This time of night, there’s no other traffic, so I could be on the ground in less than twenty-five minutes. I’ll tell the pilot to push it. Can you pick me up at the airport?”