“Can anyone identify the various species?” Hawke asked. “There are over three hundred and fifty, you know. Look. There’s a big bull for you. I saw a few tigers and even a white-tip earlier. Nasty fellows. Carnivores. Strictly the man-eating meat-and-potatoes type.”
The big Russian had started to edge his way gingerly back toward Hawke, who pointed his rapier directly at the man’s midriff. The man stopped short.
“Here’s my point, Nikolai,” Hawke said, pressing the sword’s sharp tip against the man’s stomach. “You want my hundred fifty million dollars. I want your nuclear sub. But I insist you give me the name of your last customer. All clear?”
Suddenly, Brian Drummond appeared at Hawke’s side carrying a large stainless steel pail. It was filled with two gallons of pulverized fish entrails, guts, gristle, and blood. What fishermen call chum.
“Ah,” Hawke said, “look, Nikolai. Here’s our steward Brian, who’s brought along his chum. Throw it overboard, please, Brian. Bit ripe for my taste.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.” Brian walked to the forwardmost part of the rail and flung the putrid contents of the pail overboard.
Seconds later the water below the extended pulpit was a churning pinkish froth as the sharks went into a feeding frenzy. The Russians looked down in horror.
“Speak up, boys,” Hawke said. “I’m running out of patience, and you are running out of time.” The two men started gibbering.
“They say revealing names is not only unprofessional; it’s suicide,” Congreve said. “To reveal any of their contacts’ identities would mean certain death for both of them.”
“Ask them what, at this point, they think not revealing those identities means.”
The petrified Golgolkin started talking very rapidly. Rasputin was cringing behind him, speechless with terror.
Congreve listened to all this and turned to Hawke.
“Here we go, Alex. He received a DHL parcel containing five million dollars cash and a telephone number,” Congreve translated. “When he called it, the party did not identify himself, but gave another number to call. After countless calls like this, he finally spoke to someone who claimed to be negotiating for a third party. This party wished to buy a Borzoi-class Soviet submarine. He was willing to pay the going price. He insisted on remaining anonymous.”
“Very good,” Hawke said. “Progress. What was the country code of the last number he called?”
Congreve asked, and said to Hawke, “There were so many numbers, so many different voices, he says he can’t remember. They were all cell phone numbers in various countries.”
“Did he receive the deposit?” Hawke asked.
“He says yes.”
“How did he receive it?”
“He says it was a wire transfer. Into his numbered account in Switzerland.”
“Excellent. And now, please, where was the money transferred from?”
“He says he can’t remember. He begs you to spare his life.”
“Pity. It’s always sad when memory fails us at just the wrong moment,” Hawke said. Sword extended, he walked out over the water toward the cowering Russians.
“Do you know our English expression ‘to walk the plank,’ Comrade Golgolkin?” Hawke asked.
“He says no,” Ambrose said.
“Really? It’s an old Hawke family tradition, invented a few hundred years ago by one of my more rambunctious ancestors, I believe.”
He flicked the sword’s point across the man’s belly.
“Ai-eee!” the Russian cried.
“Sorry, old chap, but this is how it works. You can talk. Or you can walk. Should you choose neither of the above, I can happily run you both through.”
The sword penetrated the man’s shirtfront, and a bright red flower of blood began to bloom on his belly. The Russian looked down at the blade in his stomach, horrified.
“Last chance, Golgolkin,” Hawke said. “Where was the money wired from?”
Rasputin was screaming something, undoubtedly encouraging his colleague to cough up the information. The fat Russian squeezed his eyes shut and uttered something between his clenched teeth.
Hawke turned to Congreve. “I’m sorry, Ambrose. What did he say?”
“The money was wired from a private account. A bank account. In Miami, he thinks.” Congreve said.
“And the name of the bank?”
Congreve translated. A huge sob escaped from the big Russian. “He’s praying,” Congreve said.
“His prayers will go unanswered. I want that bloody bank’s name! Now!” He twisted the sword blade.
“Sunstate Bank,” the Russian blurted out in English.
“Now for the hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar question,” Hawke said. “Who bought the bloody Borzoi? Who? Give me that name on the account in Miami or you’re a dead man!”
“Telarana,” the Russian finally cried. “Telarana!”
“That’s better,” Hawke said. “Such a relief when the truth comes out at last.”
Withdrawing his sword but keeping the tip poised at the man’s belly, Hawke said, “Bloody good show! Now, tell this fat bastard two things. If he’s lying, there’s nowhere in the world he can run. I’ll find him and slice him to bloody pieces with this very sword.”
Hearing this, the man shook his head violently. “He understands,” Congreve said. “He’s telling the truth. He swears it.”
“Good. Now that he’s in a talkative mood, I want to know when he received final payment for the Borzoi and when it’s scheduled for delivery. I also want to know how many subs he’s sold, the total number, and I want to know what type of boats they were. Diesel, nuclear, everything. Would you ask him that, please?”
Congreve extracted this information and relayed it to Hawke.
“And one more thing,” Hawke said. “Tell him that if either he or the little mad monk ever lay a hand on that poor girl Gloria again, the sharks will be eating their balls for breakfast.”
When the man shook his head again, Hawke withdrew his sword, wiped the bloody tip on the Russian’s trousers, and stuck it back in his cummerbund. Then he turned and walked toward the portside rail.
Brian was waiting with a glass of port and Hawke’s parrot resting on his forearm. The bird instantly flew to Hawke’s shoulder.
“Call me old-fashioned, Brian,” he said to his steward. “Politically incorrect, I’m quite sure. But, God, I hate dealing with Russians. They’re almost as bad as the French.” He took a swig of the ruby-colored wine.
“Bad as French!” Sniper screeched.
“Almost, Sniper old boy,” Hawke said. “I said ‘almost’ as bad, didn’t I, Brian?”
“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Brian said, discreetly checking the automatic weapon strapped to his shoulder.
“Would you mind seeing these two infections safely back to Staniel Cay? Keep a gun on them.”
“Will do, sir. I think—”
“Hawke! Hawke!” Sniper shrieked.
Hawke spun around. Rasputin, with a murderously mad gleam in his smoldering eyes, was plunging toward him. He had an ugly serpentine-shaped dagger raised above his head and he began screaming like a crazed banshee.
Hawke came close to freezing. Knives, he’d learned long ago, tend to have that effect on most people. But he feinted left and moved right with blinding speed.
He had exactly one second to get an arm up and ward off the downward slashing dagger. He felt the burn as the blade sliced his forearm open and saw bright blood splashing upon the teak decks. Ignoring the pain, he sucked in a deep breath and in an instant he had Rasputin’s knife hand in his grasp and had planted one foot solidly on the deck. He pulled Rasputin forward and pivoted on his one planted heel at the same time.
The Russian pitched forward, grunting, losing his balance, and Hawke gathered himself, using Rasputin’s own forward momentum to lift the shrieking Russian off the deck. Still gripping the knife hand, he pivoted once more and released his grip, flinging the man bodily into the air, out and over the yacht’s waist-high gunwale rail.
