“Everyone should wear one,” Congreve replied with a sly grin. “You never know when you might want to make a point.”
Standing at the stern just as the launch arrived, Congreve and Hawke had come up with a novel way of extracting the desired information should their guests prove less than forthcoming. Congreve could see that Hawke now felt it was time to put their plan in motion.
“Ambrose, please tell our guests that we’re about to serve dessert. Something I whipped up especially for them,” Hawke said.
The Russians, whose cheeks were flushed with vodka and wine, smiled broadly as Congreve spoke. They had never expected to be invited aboard the famous Blackhawke. And, now, to be served a dish created by the famous owner himself? Well, they’d be dining out on this tale back in Moscow for years to come, that much was certain.
Hawke pushed a button mounted under the dining table. In the pantry, Brian saw the flashing light above the door and entered the room, carrying the small Halliburton metal case. As Hawke had instructed, he placed it on the dining table in front of the two Russians and stepped back.
“Gentlemen,” Hawke said, walking around the table toward the Russians, “we have a special treat for dessert this evening. I think you’re going to enjoy it.”
As Congreve translated, Hawke reached across the table and released the two latches. The case lid cracked open.
“Tonight, we’re serving”—he opened the case with a flourish—“money.”
The Russians’ eyes went wide, startled at the sight of the neatly wrapped and arranged stacks of U.S. currency that filled the case.
“Not at all fattening,” Hawke said. “Only twenty million calories, after all.”
The Russians were speechless. They kept looking at each other, the money, and then each other again. This Hawke was unlike anyone else they’d dealt with. Neither was quite sure how to respond to a man so cavalier with his cash.
Hawke closed the case, locked it, and handed it back to Brian.
“Ambrose,” Hawke said, “our guests are invited to continue discussing this transaction up on deck. Perhaps a brief tour of the yacht while we talk.”
While the translation was in progress, Brian walked to the bookcase beside the small hearth and reached up to a large leather-bound volume, Life of Nelson, and pulled it halfway out. There was a faint whir somewhere, and the bookcase slid back and to one side, revealing a small elevator.
“This goes directly to the bridge, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We’ll begin our tour there.” He stood back and let the astonished Russians and Ambrose enter, then stepped inside and hit the button for the bridge deck. The elevator started up.
The door slid open to reveal the bridge, a massive room, inky black save for the vast array of multicolored display screens that filled an instrument panel stretching some thirty feet across. Above the screens, large black windows ran from one side of the room to the other. The windows were tinted, but you could see the starry skies beyond.
A single captain’s chair was mounted before the center of the panel.
A large screen just to the right of the chair seemed to show a live view from space. Through the moving cloud layers, you could see a scattering of small winking lights below in the darkness.
Hawke, seeing the guests eyeing the screen, said, “A live satellite view of our precise location. Were I to zoom in, we could see the lights of Blackhawke itself.”
Congreve translated this to noises of amazement from the Russians. Hawke hated showing off, but with these two he had no qualms.
“Captain Robbie Taylor is normally in charge of this ship. I gave the captain the night off,” Hawke said, escorting the Russians into the room. “So the ship is essentially running itself. There are twenty-two mainframe computers monitoring every system aboard and talking to each other twenty-four hours a day.”
“Frightfully boring conversation, I should imagine,” Ambrose whispered to Hawke, and then translated what Hawke had said to the Russians.
There was a sudden low screech in the darkness, and then a dark shape was darting toward the larger of the two Russians. The man cried out, more in fear than in pain, and Hawke quickly shouted, “Sniper! Release!”
The Russian—it was Golgolkin—was cursing loudly, and Congreve touched a wall panel that brought up a soft, diffused lighting from the domed ceiling.
Hawke’s beloved parrot had Golgolkin’s right wrist clamped in his sharp beak.
“Sniper!” Hawke shouted. “I said ‘Release’!”
When the bird still did not obey, Hawke said mildly, “Ambrose, Sniper has taken a strong dislike to this fellow. Ask our guest if he is carrying a weapon of some sort, won’t you?”
The Russian replied to Congreve’s question, and Ambrose said, “Pistol. Right pocket of his jacket.”
“Take it,” Hawke said, and Congreve pulled a small automatic pistol from the man’s pocket. He handed the weapon to Hawke. The parrot immediately released the Russian’s wrist and removed himself to perch on Hawke’s outstretched forearm.
“Mr. Golgolkin, I’m disappointed. I didn’t subject either of you to the ship’s metal detector out of common courtesy. And now I find that you come to my dinner table with a gun in your pocket. What were you planning to do with it?”
Ambrose questioned Golgolkin, who was grimacing, rubbing his wrist, and replied, “He says he always carries it. He has many enemies. He offers his deepest apologies.”
“These enemies,” Hawke said, stroking his parrot’s head, “trouble me. Are they the unhappy result of any recent transactions?”
Congreve asked, and said, “He says they are political enemies, not business enemies.”
“Mildly reassuring, I suppose,” Hawke said. “His gun will be returned to him at the launch. In the meantime, we’ll continue our little tour.”
After the translation, Congreve said, “He apologizes once more and hopes this unfortunate mistake on his part won’t have a negative effect on this transaction.”
Hawke waved the notion away.
“Come, gentlemen, I’d like to show you the view of the islands from the bow of the ship. It’s magnificent.”
Hawke touched a panel on the wall, and a giant gullwing section of the starboard-side bulkhead opened upward out into the night sky, silently above the deck. He stepped through and waited for the others to follow.
“This way, please,” Hawke said, striding briskly forward along the teak decks. The others had to hurry to keep up.
“They should know,” Hawke said over his shoulder, “that they are free to take five million dollars cash with them tonight when they leave the ship. In return, I want a written commitment for three things. A delivery date six months hence. The right to see the actual submarine prior to commissioning. And acknowledgment that the boat will be finished precisely to my personal specifications. Still with me, Ambrose?”
“Of course.”
“Splendid,” Hawke continued. “In addition, as I said earlier, I want to speak directly with their most recent purchaser. Assuming he’s a satisfied customer, and they fulfill the other obligations, they will receive my commitment for the balance. To be determined, of course.”
The foursome had reached the bow of the ship. There was a narrow bow pulpit extending some ten feet out over the water. The pulpit itself was some forty feet above the ocean’s moonlit surface.
“They agree to all conditions,” a slightly winded Congreve said, “save one. They cannot divulge the names of any prior purchasers. It is, apparently, a no-no in their trade.”
“Ah, well, progress of a sort,” Hawke said, extending his hand toward the pulpit. “In order to enjoy the full splendor of the view, they need to walk out on the pulpit to get out over the water. No need to fear, it’s quite sturdy.”
Congreve told them, and the two Russians, followed by Hawke and Congreve, walked out onto the narrow pulpit. Hawke removed a remote control device hanging from the pulpit’s stainless steel rail. He pushed a button, and the entire pulpit started extending silently forward from the bow of the ship.
