fishin’ and obviously didn’t know what she was doin’, so old Stoke, he gave her some professional fishin’ lessons. Gal was in serious need of instruction. Girl caught herself a fine fish after that. Big damn fish.”
“How big?” Vicky asked, smiling.
He held his hands about two feet apart and Gloria laughed.
“Is Stokely a friend of yours?” Gloria asked Vicky, with the tiniest bit of suspicion in her eyes.
“Shoot, he’s a friend of everybody’s,” Vicky said, sipping her drink. “But I’m pretty sure he likes you a whole lot better than the rest of us.” She giggled at that, which was odd because it wasn’t even slightly funny.
“I work here,” Gloria said to Vicky. “Tonight’s my night off, but if there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
“I know what I need,” Stoke said. “I need to go fishin’ in the moonlight!” Gloria laughed.
“You tink they bitin’ tonight, Mr. Jones?” Gloria said.
“I hope so,” Stoke said. “Long as they ain’t bitin’ too damn hard.”
Laughing, the two of them quickly disappeared into the crowd.
“How about a dance, Constable?” Vicky said to Ambrose, who was swirling his drink around his glass with his finger.
“I have the notion under serious consideration. I was thinking of perhaps climbing up onto the bar,” Ambrose said, “and demonstrating the traditional Highland Fling. Do you think that’s unwise?”
She didn’t get around to answering because a very handsome boy, blond and deeply tanned, held out his hand to her and asked her, with his eyes, to dance. She smiled apologetically at Ambrose and plunged into the throbbing tumult holding the boy’s hand. She must have danced far too long with the pretty little boat boy, because when he returned her to the bar, Ambrose had deserted his post.
She finally spotted him in a far corner of the room, dancing with a tall blonde. Because of the press of bodies, it would take an hour to get over there and ask him to take her home.
She looked at her watch but somehow couldn’t see what time it was. Her watch seemed to be shimmering, hazy. Couldn’t be that late anyway, she thought, and called Amen over to order another of whatever they were called.
“Good evening,” a man said, suddenly appearing on the stool next to hers. “I buy you drink?”
He had a thick accent, Hungarian or something Slavic, she decided. Russian? Dark hypnotic eyes and long straight hair pulled back into a ponytail. Thin face, long nose, all dressed in black. Exotic. Interesting. A little scary, but interesting.
“I have one very strict rule,” Vicky said, smiling at her new friend. “I only drink when I’m alone, or with somebody. So, I guess I’ll accept.”
It was one of Alex’s old jokes and she laughed even though he didn’t. She thought she was funny and if nobody else did, so what? He just kept staring at her with those crazy eyes. Good thing she couldn’t focus very well because she’d swear he was trying to hypnotize her.
“What’s your name?” Vicky asked him.
“I’m Grigory.”
“Nice to meet you, Grigory. I’m drunk.” She giggled and stuck out her hand. He shook it and his hands were hot and moist.
“You stay here, on this little island?” he asked, leaning toward her. He was stirring his drink with his long white finger.
“Me? Oh, hell no. I’m on the QEII out there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Elizabeth, Mary, some old queen. See it out there, all lit up?”
“Oh. Such a beautiful yacht. To whom does it belong?”
“Oh, a friend of mine.”
“Not Alexander Hawke?”
“You know him?”
“Not well. Only by reputation, of course. He is famous, you know.”
“Really? For what? Oh, thanks, Amen. Cut me off after this one, okay? I’ve bagged my limit. Sorry, what did you say, uh, Grigory, is it?”
“Is not important. You and your friend are here long?”
“A week or two, I think.”
“That long? How boring. Whatever will you do all day?”
Boring? His eyes were boring into hers. Is that what he meant? Boring? No. He wanted to know what she was going to do all day. That was it. Well, something exciting and glamorous, that’s for sure. What? This European sophisticate expected something exotic, she was pretty sure about that.
“Well, I don’t know, exactly,” she said finally. She was having trouble remembering why she was even here. “Oh, I know! Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to a place called Hog Island. Doesn’t that sound like fun? There’s a blind pig there named Betty. Have you heard of her?”
“Oh yes, she’s quite famous in these islands. Well, good-bye. My pleasure speaking with you, Miss—”
“Sweet,” she said. “Like sugar.”
The strange man was gone. Poof, like in a horror movie.
She scanned the dance floor for Stoke, but everyone looked the same. She thought she saw Ambrose chatting up the blonde in the far corner but he was a bit blurry. She felt uneasy. She looked for Amen. Maybe some coffee would be good. She called him but he couldn’t hear her above all the hubbub.
Suddenly, she needed air.
She climbed off the stool, pressed herself into the writhing mass on the dance floor, and headed for the door, smashing through the bodies, desperate for a gulp of fresh air. She was outside. She seemed to have acquired a glass of delicious dark rum. The moon was so bright, it seemed like another day had begun.
Steps led down to the beach. She walked along the surf and found a little stand of palms with a great view of the harbor. Soft, powdery white sand in the moonlight. Blackhawke all ablaze out on the horizon. She sat beneath the whispering palms, sipping the rum, enjoying herself immensely, finally drifting into a lovely tropical dream.
Stokely and Ambrose, having searched most of the island, finally found her on the beach about half an hour later, sound asleep under a coconut palm. Stoke threw her over his shoulder and they carried her back to the waiting launch.
“Girl fell asleep,” he said to Brian, who was driving the boat. “Long day. Needs a good night’s rest and she’ll be good as new.”
Vicky woke briefly, said something incomprehensible, and then collapsed with her head on Ambrose’s shoulder. She snored deeply all the way across the bay.
Stoke was right.
It had been a long day. But the long days were really just beginning.
34
At eight o’clock in the morning, Commander Zukov was summoned to the main finca to breakfast alone with General Manso de Herreras. Two heavily armed guards posted outside the dining room waved him inside. Manso was seated at the huge table all alone, drinking a solitary glass of fruit juice. A place setting of solid gold had been set opposite the general and he motioned for Zukov to sit down. He did so, but waved away the approaching waiter. The general stared at him for an eternity before speaking.
“This fucking Russian who sold me the submarine. Golgolkin. You know him?”
“Yes, slightly,” Zukov said. “Black Fleet. Vladivostok. At one time, a promising officer.”
“Then?”
“The cliche Soviet scenario. Peace, vodka, and women. One night he surfaced without periscope surveillance and struck one of our own destroyers in the South China Sea. Considerable loss of life. That was it.”
“He has come here, the idiot, begging for his life.”
“General. Tell me. What has he done?”
“Done? Put everything in jeopardy! Everything! Met with some fucking Englishman named Hawke in the
