“Depends on if we catch ’em at home, boss. They on business trips mostly. Frequent fliers, frequent drinkers, frequent headbands.”
“Stoke, they’re our only hope.”
“Soon as that little Danish pastry doctor lets my ass out of this sickbay, I’ll get on it.”
“You’re out and on it, Stoke,” Hawke said. “Head up to the bridge and try to raise these guys on the sat phone. We can fly down there as soon as Kittyhawke’s been refueled.”
“Thunder and Lightnin’, boss, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Stoke said, throwing back the covers, and literally leaping out of bed. “Boom! Crash! Bang!”
Alex found Ambrose on deck just outside the man’s personal cabin. He was standing at the portside rail, watching the gulls dive, and puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. He was wearing a monogrammed navy silk bathrobe with red piping and mismatched red and blue leather slippers.
His hair was standing straight up as if he’d just climbed out of bed, which in fact he had.
Hawke crept silently across the teak decks and joined his friend at the varnished mahogany rail.
He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, which made him jump almost a foot in the air. “Hullo, old thing,” Hawke said.
“Good Lord! Alex!” Ambrose exclaimed.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me land a little while ago?”
“Well, I, er, just woke up and—” He pulled two wads of yellow beeswax from his ears. “I, er, use these at night. My own snoring, you see, is so dreadfully loud that it wakes me up.”
“Aha,” Alex said. “I just came from seeing Stoke down in sickbay. I can’t tell you how I feel about what you and Stokely did. It’s just too—”
“You’re not upset?”
“Good God, no! Ambrose, listen to me. There are simply no words in my mind to describe what’s in my heart. To say that I am deeply and profoundly grateful is so woefully inadequate, I can’t even say it.”
“Since we never discussed the matter, I mean, well, frankly I always felt a little guilty about—”
“There is no vocabulary, Ambrose, that can convey enough to thank you for what you’ve done.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a police officer, Alex. Just doing my duty. The truth is you solved the case yourself, whether you realize it or not.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It was all your hard work that—”
“The photograph you spotted, Alex. The old Polaroid. It was the critical piece of inductive information that made all the other pieces of the puzzle fit.”
“I couldn’t see it. You did.”
“You saw it, Alex. Your mind just wasn’t ready for it yet.”
“Yes. I’ve had some kind of a—breakthrough. I’ve never felt better. Hard to describe the feeling. Clarity, perhaps.”
Alex put his hands on both of Ambrose’s shoulders and squeezed. Congreve saw tears threatening, but Alex blinked them back and smiled.
“Ambrose, time is short and I’ve some incredible news to tell you. But first, how are you? Ross said you were hit?”
“Oh, good Lord, I’m fine. Just a wee bruise over my heart is all. Ouch, yes, right there. I’d be dead, certainly, had not Stokely made me wear his perfectly hideous vest. Most unattractive.”
Hawke laughed, and said, “Ambrose, Vicky is alive.”
“What!” Ambrose exploded. “You can’t mean it! I mean to say, how on earth—”
“Don’t ask me how, I don’t know. Nor have I time to speculate. All I know is that she’s alive and being held hostage by the Cubans. By General Manso de Herreras.”
“The brother of Admiral Carlos de Herreras, the man I arrested.”
“Exactly,” Alex said. Taking his friend by the arm, Hawke said, “Come for a quick stroll around the decks, and I’ll tell you my immediate plans. God willing, I’m off again within the hour.”
Alex recounted the whole thing: his meeting aboard the JFK, his conversation with the secretary of state, Vicky’s cassette, and his most recent chat with Stokely. They reached the stern, and both settled into the comfortable banquette.
“Thunder and Lightning?” Ambrose said, relighting his pipe. “I certainly like the sound of that.”
“Let’s hope they live up to their celestial billing, old boy.”
“Yes,” Ambrose said. “We should drink a toast.” Picking up the nearest phone, he said, “Congreve here, sorry to trouble you. I’d like two very spicy Bloody Marys, please? Fine. That will be all, thank you.”
“I’d love to join you,” Alex said, “but Stokely and I are taking off for Martinique as soon as Kittyhawke’s tanks are topped off and we’ve loaded all of Stoke’s SEAL equipment.”
“I’m very glad for you, Alex,” Ambrose said. “You’ve made a great leap forward, you know, coming to grips with the past. And, of course, it’s splendid news about Vicky. If anyone can save her, you two can.”
“We’ll get her out,” Hawke said, his jaw set. “I’m going to make a copy of the treasure map in case I need a bargaining chip for Senor de Herreras.”
“I must say, Alex, I’ve never in my life seen you happier.”
“I admit I’ve never felt quite this way before. I always imagined I was a fairly happy-go-lucky sort of fellow. But now—look, here comes Sniper!”
The steward had arrived with Ambrose’s cocktail order, and the parrot was perched on the man’s shoulder. Upon seeing Alex, the big bird immediately flew to its owner’s outstretched forearm.
“Good fellow. Look at you, Sniper, you’ve grown fat. What have they been feeding you?”
“I saw him eat an entire tin of Beluga last evening,” Ambrose said.
“Well, he deserves it. Don’t you, Sniper? Speaking of which, I think you deserve something as well, Constable.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’ve had enough excitement for one voyage. While Stokely and I are gone, I want you and Sutherland to go somewhere and relax. Perhaps play a little golf. I know how you love it and I feel guilty keeping you cooped up on the boat for so long.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Alex,” Ambrose said. “I’ve enjoyed every second of it! Bloody marvelous expedition. One of our best!”
“I insist, old thing. There must be someplace here in these islands with a golf course worthy of your mighty swing and delicate touch around the greens.”
“Well, in that case, there is one course that Sutherland and I have been looking into. On the odd chance that we might have a little free time, of course.”
“Well, there you have it. Pack up your bags and sticks and go enjoy yourselves. It will do you a world of good. Send me the bill.”
“Very generous, Alex, I must say.”
“Nonsense. What’s the name of the course, by the way? The Lyford Cay Club in Nassau, I imagine.”
“No, no. A lovely old course down in the Dominican Republic, actually. Blessed with a rather poetic name. It’s called Dientes de Perro.”
“Translation?” Alex asked, getting up and stretching his legs.
“I’ll send you a postcard.”
“Well, keep your head down, old boy. Godspeed.”
Ambrose watched his friend saunter away, the parrot bobbing on his shoulder. The tune Hawke was whistling floated back to Ambrose. It had to be thirty years old, but he recognized the lovely melody instantly.
It was the famous theme song from Lady Catherine Hawke’s last film, Southern Belle, the marvelous story of Abigail Lee, a beautiful woman who is killed defending her Low Country South Carolina plantation against a marauding Union army. Coming back from the dead as a ghost, she bedevils and haunts the rapacious Union general who now occupies her beloved ancestral Barnwell Island home.
In a most surprising way, Ambrose thought, sipping his Bloody Mary, Alex Hawke seemed to be coming back from the dead, too. For the first time since he’d met the boy, long ago on Greybeard Island, he could actually say
