the old boy and he wouldn’t touch it.”
“I have to say I’m overwhelmed by the image of your taking a tray up to him.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s sweet. A girl thing, maybe. Where are the limes? And you better tell me you’ve got key limes, Sugar.”
“In that big fridge over there. I’ll fetch the tequila from the drinks table. Back in a tick.”
Conch pulled open the stainless steel door and stood staring into the refrigerator, not seeing anything.
God. She was glad to see Alex’s stiff upper lip was still intact; and the startlingly blue eyes above his jutting cheekbones were clear. But strangely hollow. Filled with pain and yet so terribly empty. She could see the hurt in them, and it was all she could do to keep the silly smile plastered on her face, keep her hands to herself, keep her mouth shut. She wanted to run to him, hold him, tell him it was going to be all right, tell him a thousand things, the truth about how she still felt, how much it hurt to see him in so much pain.
Since she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ever, do any of those things, she took the white porcelain bowl full of limes out of the refrigerator, put the bowl on the counter, found a knife, and began slicing the tiny green limes and squeezing the tart juice into the mixer.
Hers was a dark, secret love. She had learned, somehow, to live with it.
They sat on the floor in the library before the fire Alex had built and they were halfway through the small pitcher of Margaritas before either of them could say anything.
“Well, you’ve still got it, kid,” he said to her, staring into the flames. “Just might be the meanest Margarita ever created by man or woman.”
“Alex?”
“Yes?”
“What are you going to do? I mean—”
“Me? Oh, gosh. I have no immediate plans. Beyond finding the bloody bastard who murdered my wife, I mean. Finding him and ripping his bloody heart out. Beyond that, I—”
“Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. So—”
“Let’s not do this, Conch. I can’t talk about me. Let’s talk about you. What’s going on in the world? I haven’t been there much lately. I haven’t a clue.”
“You really want to know?”
“I do. Really.”
“Okay. You asked. As a matter of fact, the world crisis du jour happens to be resting squarely on my frail shoulders.”
“Tell me.”
“Somebody seems to have decided it’s a good idea to pick off a couple of our ambassadors, Alex. Two of them have been assassinated in the last two weeks.”
“Christ. I was in Louisiana when I got the news about Stanfield’s murder in Venice. Sorry I didn’t call you. Quite the lady-killer, old Simon Stanfield was. I shouldn’t be surprised if one of them returned the favor. There’s been another?”
“Tonight. About six hours ago. Butch McGuire. Our ambassador to Saudi Arabia. You’ve met him. He was having dinner with his wife Beth at their favorite restaurant in Riyadh. According to Beth, he suddenly went very rigid for a moment, looked at her with wide eyes, and then simply keeled over halfway through the meal. No apparent cause of death. He was only forty-five years old, Alex. Excellent health. I’ve ordered an autopsy.”
“An aneurysm. Stroke?”
“Maybe. Two ambassadors in two weeks. I’ve put the worldwide Diplomatic Security Service on full alert. Could be a coincidence. Or, it could be just the beginning of something worse. Langley and the Bureau are picking up a lot of increasingly interesting cellular traffic. Can’t go into any details, but something big is brewing, Alex. Jack Patterson himself is running this show for me.”
Alex Hawke looked over at her. “Tex?” he said.
Jack Patterson, the legendary chief of the Texas Rangers, now with State, was one of the finest men Hawke had ever known. Coming from a long line of Texas lawmen, Patterson was a direct descendant of the early Texas Ranger, John “Jack” Patterson. A Comanche Indian who’d switched sides and rode with Patterson in 1840 had given the young Ranger captain the name Brave Too Much.
Bravery was a quality that still ran in the family. Like most everyone in Washington, Alex called the Ranger captain’s descendant, the man now in charge of the DSS, ‘Tex.’
“I did a little duet with Tex once. There was that embassy that did not get blown up in Morocco, remember?”
“Right. He still gives you all the credit, Alex.”
“Yeah, well, he’s still a liar. Splendid guy. Superb criminal intelligence officer,” Alex said.
There was light in his eyes. The first light she’d seen there since she’d seen him standing at the altar two weeks earlier watching his bride-to-be walk down the aisle.
“Tex could use your help again, Alex. He told me so himself. Hell, we all could. The president himself is asking for you. They both also told me not to tell you that. They know you’re hurt. What Tex said was, ‘I can’t call Alex, Conch, that boy, why, he’s on the bench.’ He also knows you have some huge personal scores to settle.”
“Yeah. Spot on, in that regard.”
“Alex, I know you must be suffering terribly.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“I have—a place. Where you could go for a while. In the Keys.”
“Go?”
“Be alone. It’s not much. Just a glorified fishing shack down on Islamorada. But it’s on the water. You could fish. Watch the sunsets. Pull yourself together.”
“Very kind. Pull myself together.”
“Sorry.”
“Not at all. It’s me, Conch, not you.”
“Alex, we’re in grievous trouble. Without compromising my government, I can tell you we’re seeing some kind of Armageddon scenario coming together.”
Alex and his old friend stared at each other for a few moments. In his eyes, she saw his heart and mind tugging at each other. Saw them going in opposite and equally powerful directions. One way lay vengeance. The other, his highly developed sense of duty.
“Give me a week,” he finally said, poking at the fire. “You tell Tex that for me. I’m sick to death moping around feeling sorry for myself. One week. Tell him I’ll be off the bloody bench so fast he’ll never know I was there.”
Conch smiled and reached out to stroke his cheek.
Alex jabbed the logs with the poker again and a shower of sparks rose up the chimney.
He’d avenge Vicky’s death somehow. Somebody would pay. Pay dearly, and, soon. Like the much-vaunted Royal Navy battleships his ancestors had sailed through two world wars, Hawke’s mission in life was to give, not to receive.
For now, duty had won.
Chapter Seven
Mozambique
BIN WAZIR, IN THE YEARS BEFORE HE ACQUIRED GREAT wealth and notoriety, had fallen deeply in love with one of the world’s wealthiest women. Her father, who was known throughout the Middle East simply as the Emir, had vast reserves of oil as well as minerals, uranium, and gold inside the forbidding mountain ranges of his small country. Despite his enormous wealth, the deeply religious Emir lived the life of an ascetic, shunning all accoutrements of luxury. But, when it came to his only daughter’s happiness, his generosity knew no bounds.
Snay bin Wazir was just twenty years old and the son of a modestly successful jeweler. He lived where he’d
