“Tell me.”
“This Gomez, he is…more than a mole. I have ordered Rodrigo to make arrangements for Gomez to smuggle a weapon inside the U.S. base. A biological weapon. A bomb containing a completely new strain of weapons-grade bacteria developed by the Iraqis. The bacteria are only a diversion. In addition to the bacteria, the bomb contains an indescribably powerful nerve toxin. With a delivery system also created by the Iraqis unlike anything seen before. Expands to cover any predesignated area, kills, and then expires.”
Castro looked stricken. His face suffused with blood as the enormity of what he’d just heard sank in. He turned in his seat and glared at his trusted friend and comrade.
“You? You ordered such a thing without my consent?”
“Si, Comandante. I ordered it. The Cuban people have suffered the indignity of the Americans on their sovereign soil for over forty years. And you allowed them to do it! I intend to rectify this insult!”
“And Rodrigo? Don’t tell me the deputy chief of Secret Police has complicity in this? Rodrigo has aided you in this madness?”
“I have his support, yes.”
“Have you both gone insane?”
“Comandante, it is you who has allowed the American presence on our island! You should have forced them out decades ago!”
“Your ignorance of political realities would be laughable if it were not so pathetic.”
“There is a new political reality, Jefe.”
“Yes. You and your fellow traitors would rain fire down upon our heads, just like the Al Qaeda brought to Afghanistan!”
“No, Comandante. It is a brilliant plan. We will give the gringos forty-eight hours to evacuate. If they do not —well, once exploded, this bomb will kill every man, woman, and child inside the American compound within hours. Then, it simply expires.”
“My God, Manso,” Castro said, collapsing back against his seat.
“What drives you to this?”
“Vengeance, my comandante. I watched Escobar. I watched you. I spent my life watching two magnificent performances. I was inspired, but I was patient. I saw how brilliantly you picked your enemies. How you would toy with them and bring the spotlight upon yourself. But this humiliation at the hand of the fucking yanquis must end. It’s my time, now. I feel this.”
“You feel it? Your time? To do what? You’re a madman! You have no credible support around you. No political infrastructure. You can’t even control your two brothers! Carlitos is totally unstable. A borderline psychotic. The state will spin out of control!”
“I will deal with my brothers when the storm subsides. I have assembled a cadre of young and trustworthy advisers. As for now, I am ready to wreak havoc and seek vengeance. I am ready to fulfill my destiny.”
“It is not vengeance you seek, Manso,” Castro said with a bitter laugh. “It is only the limelight.”
“Be careful what you say, Jefe.”
“You are beyond transparent. You think you are unique? You have a destiny? You are nothing but a pathetic cliche! You merely want the world to see your face on CNN! Once a man has all the money and power in the world, the only thing left for him to seek is fame.”
“I learned from the master, Comandante.”
“And once you blow up your little bomb, Manso, what then? What’s to stop the Americans from obliterating our country in the space of an hour?”
“They won’t lift a finger, Comandante.”
“You will not succeed, Manso.”
“I think I will. Have you ever heard of the submarine the Russians call Borzoi, Comandante?
14
Hawke carefully folded his linen napkin and pushed himself back from the table. An hour ago, he’d been knocking on death’s door. Now, he felt bloody marvelous. His speedy recovery from the strange malady had been nothing short of miraculous. Whatever had gotten into him up on deck was gone.
“My compliments to the chef, Ambrose,” Hawke said. “What was in that sauce?”
“A simple blend of butter, lime juice, and a lot of Appleton rum. The one-fifty-one proof.”
“That explains it. Feeling tipsy and I’ve only had one glass of wine.”
He wasn’t tipsy at all, but the Russians were. At first, they’d been quiet, a little awed by their surroundings perhaps. But now, having imbibed large quantities of vodka and some of the flashiest wines in the ship’s cellars, they’d acquired a rosy glow and gone quite chatty.
The dinner, from Hawke’s point of view, had gone off well. There’d been no talk of business, and Ambrose had carried on the bulk of the conversation completely in Russian, with only the odd “I say” or “Hear, Hear!” necessary on Hawke’s part. As the steward cleared the table, Congreve refilled the Russians’ glasses with vintage Sandeman port, saying something or other which they found amusing.
Hawke sat back and savored his surroundings, nursing his own small port wine. He loved this room and everything in it. The Minton china and porcelain currently gracing the table had been in the Hawke family for generations. White, with gold trim, each piece of china featured the same magnificent black hawk on a circular field of gold. The same symbol was on Hawke’s flag, the massive ship’s burgee, painted in gold leaf on Blackhawke’s twin smokestacks, and it adorned the crew’s uniforms. The symbol was even emblazoned on the cufflinks Hawke was wearing at this very moment.
But this room. He’d taken great pains with the room itself, making every effort to reproduce a small study at his grandfather’s home on Greybeard Island. This cabin was filled with artifacts from that very room. The paneled walls were of black walnut, hung with the tattered battle flags of regiments of yore.
In an illuminated corner display case were rows upon rows of lead soldiers, a collection Hawke had started as a boy. On occasion, even now, he would re-create famous battles on the dining room table, challenging Ambrose’s own formidable generalship.
There was, too, the magnificent sword collection that had been in the Hawke family for centuries. The swords were mounted everywhere, the most valuable of them locked up inside illuminated glass cases.
Hawke’s eye fell on one sword in particular. His favorite. It was an ornamental rapier with the most exquisite provenance. One of his ancestors had taken it from the body of Marshal Ney, the bravest of Napoleon’s generals. The sword had been in Ney’s hand when he led the last French charge at Waterloo.
His grandfather had taught him the art of fencing with it. Later, at Oxford, he’d mastered the sport and been thrice champion. He still practiced it fiendishly.
He rose from his chair and removed the sword from its pride of place above the small fireplace. Amusing himself, he made a few parries and thrusts.
“Brian,” Hawke whispered to the tall, sandy-haired steward hovering by the door, “that black case that Tom Quick stowed in the pantry? Would you mind?”
“Certainly, sir,” Brian said, with a smart salute, and pushed through the swinging door that led to the pantry.
Brian Drummond was only one of the many “stewards” aboard whom Hawke had recruited from various branches of the British military. Royal Navy, SAS, and the Special Boat Squadron, where Brian had served, an elite unit on a par with the Navy SEALs. The stewards on board Blackhawke were, in fact, a small, highly trained fighting force under the joint command of Brian Drummond and Tom Quick.
Hawke, in a jolly mood not to be knocking on heaven’s door, after all, raised the gleaming sword and pointed it directly at the bearded Russian called Golgolkin.
“Do you fence at all, comrade?” Hawke said to him, and Congreve, highly amused, translated.
“Nyet,” said Golgolkin, and that was good enough for Hawke.
“Pity, it’s my favorite sport,” Hawke said, and, drawing his dinner jacket aside, he slid the rapier through his cummerbund so that he was now wearing it on his hip. “Rather rakish, don’t you think, Ambrose?” Hawke had donned black tie and evening clothes, a tradition he kept whenever company came to supper.
