“Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We use this as a gangplank for docking in the Mediterranean. When it’s fully extended, you’ll be able to look back and see the entire superstructure of the yacht. Quite a sight.”
The Russians said something and Congreve translated, “They say the great height makes them nervous.”
“To hell with height,” Hawke said. “Tell them to look at all the bloody sharks circling down below. And ask them if they’d like me to take a picture of them together. A souvenir of the evening. I brought a little camera.”
Congreve told them and both Russians were clutching each other in a boozy embrace and breaking into silly grins.
“What a fabulous photo op,” Hawke said, backing up and putting the small camera to his eye. “Splendid, but I’m a little too close. I’ve got to back up a few feet—hold that smile—yes, this is going to be brilliant. Hold it one more second—” Hawke and Congreve stepped off the pulpit and back onto the bow and the camera flashed.
And then he did something that struck terror into both the Russians’ hearts. He pushed another button on the remote that caused the steel guard railings running along either side of the pulpit to withdraw into the hull. The two arms dealers shouted and clung to each other for dear life, staring down at the sea far below.
They were essentially standing at the end of a narrow diving board forty feet above shark-infested waters. They screamed something in Russian, but Hawke ignored them.
Instead, he drew his sword and walked toward them.
“How much for this Borzoi?” he asked.
“They say one hundred fifty million.”
“Done,” Hawke said. “And the owner of the other Borzoi? I want that name.”
The Russians said a few words.
“Impossible for them to reveal it,” Congreve said.
“Operation Invincible Sword,” Hawke said. “Remember that little fiasco in Bahrain, Comrade Golgolkin?” He flicked his sword tip across the fat man’s belly and said, “Welcome to the sequel.”
Congreve had to smile. Alex Hawke was nothing if not a shrewd negotiator.
15
Gomez looked at his watch. He was already half an hour late for the birthday party.
This was unfortunate because the party was in honor of Lucinda Nettles’s fourth birthday. Little Cindy was the only child of Admiral and Mrs. Joseph Nettles. And Joe Nettles was the commanding officer at the United States Naval Air Station, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. In other words, Joe was Gomez’s boss. El nacho grande here on Gitmo, as they called the joint.
Normally, of course, lowlife swabbies like Gomez didn’t get invited to the CO’s pad for parties, hang out, have a cold one, shoot the shit with the old man himself. But Gomez’s two girls, Amber and Tiffany, were in the same class as Cindy Nettles. And that was the only reason Joe’s wife, Ginny, had even invited them to this damn party, he knew that much for sure. Also, Gomez’s wife, Rita, had gotten pretty palsy-walsy with Mrs. Nettles lately. Went to some friggin’ card game there every week.
Fightin’ Joe ran a tight ship. The invitation with all the little balloons said three o’clock sharp. It had been right there on the refrigerator door all week. Three o’clock it said, and now it was three-forty. And Fightin’ Joe didn’t like it when you were late.
Joe went to Annapolis, but, face it, he was still a damned redneck. Hell, he used go up on those watchtowers sometimes, the ones looking out over no-man’s-land, the minefield around the base perimeter. His friend Sparky Collins was a guard up there. Sparky told him Joe would climb up and say to the guys on guard, bored shitless, “Hey, watch this, boys!”
Joe, knowing the Cubans—the Frontier Guards, they called themselves—were up in their own towers, had their scopes trained on him, goes up there, turns his back on ’em and drops trou! Moons them, for chrissakes. The friggin’ CO of the whole friggin’ outfit! The Marines all went apeshit and everybody started calling him the Moonman.
And then one day he has this fancy-ass barbeque for some big shots from the State Department and he’s laughing, telling them all about mooning the Cubans, and this wise guy from the Cuban Desk says, “But, Admiral, you obviously don’t understand Cuban culture. In Cuba, they don’t see your action as an insult. They see it as an invitation!”
Whoa.
Everybody within hearing range was smart enough not to laugh right out loud except Gomez, who doubled over with tears in his eyes.
Gomez had never been invited back to the CO’s house, which caused his wife Rita to pitch a shitfit every time the Nettleses had a party and they didn’t make the cut. That’s why she was so hopped up about this damn birthday party. Maybe they’d gone from the shitlist to the A list.
Rita and their two daughters had gone straight to the party from school. The party was going to be out around the pool in the CO’s backyard. Man. He could see it all now. All those screaming kids running around with ice cream and Oreos all over their faces. He hoped they’d be serving something besides Kool-Aid for the grown-ups. Maybe he’d stick a couple of his little airplane Stolis in his pockets for insurance.
Gomer, as his buddies on the base called him, had called his wife and explained that he might be a little late getting to the party. He was stopping by the house to finish wrapping a special present for little Cindy. That’s what he was doing now, at the workbench out in his small garage.
He placed a large box on the bench, opened it, and pulled out a teddy bear. One big teddy bear. The biggest, fluffiest one he could find at the base exchange. Thing had to be at least three feet tall. The tag around its neck said it was a Steiff, imported from Germany or somewhere. Expensive, but, hell, he could afford it. He was a goddamn millionaire!
The bear was snow white. And nice and plump, with a big fat belly too, which served his purposes. The idea for the birthday present had come to him over a few too many beers one recent afternoon in the PX. One minute he’d been mulling the whole thing over. The next minute he had it. It was just the way his brain worked. It was an ability that had brought him a long way from the barrios of Miami.
A long way from the gusanos of Little Havana, senor.
Los Gusanos. That’s what Fidel called his people. The Worms. Like his father and all his aunts and uncles. The ones who’d abandoned their homeland and tried to make a better life in America. The worms. He couldn’t decide who was worse, the fidelistas or the americanos. They were all shit, weren’t they? The Cuban people deserved better, he knew that much.
Castro? America? He could give a shit. That’s why he’d agreed to go along with the Million-Dollar Plan, right? No shit, Sherlock.
A toy. He’d been sitting there at the bar, and whammo! The idea had just popped into his brain. Poof! But not just a toy. A toy inside the home of Guantanamo’s commanding officer. A toy in the room of the CO’s little girl. It was perfect. He had actually started giggling when he thought of it, and his buddies at the bar had looked at him funny.
Damn, he was good, though. You had to admit.
He stopped giggling and started gulping. He’d noticed he was drinking a lot of beer lately. Beer and tranks and, at night, cold potato juice, Vitamin V, right out of the freezer. Then a couple more beers before bedtime. It seemed to help. Bam, he was out like a light. Gonzo. Up at six and he never missed a day of work, did he? Hell, he still pumped iron at the gym. He was doing just fine.
But Rita didn’t think so, obviously. She was ragging his ass day and night. Still bugging him about the goddamn initials on his left hand. A tattoo, he’d told her. It just looked a little weird ’cause it had gotten infected. Then of course she has to know whose initials. Whose? Whose? Some little whore in Havana he’d gotten drunk with? Some AIDS-infected puta?
At that exact moment, a moment when most guys he knew would have lost it, what’s new, he’d nailed it. Just looked her right in the eye and hung it out there.
“MM. ‘My Mother,’” he said.
