“Yes,” Congreve said, inhaling the sweet damp air, “It’s quite lovely in a haunting way, isn’t it? Too much money here now, I’m afraid, but not enough to drive the ghosts away.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the past is stronger than the present. Here on this island, at least. You see that rather imposing building over there? The Greek Revival temple?”
“I was just admiring it. The public library, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. The Athenaeum. I paid them a visit this afternoon. Fascinating. Full of beautiful whaling ship models and scrimshaw and such.”
“No books?”
“Of course, books. Melville, you may remember, was a whaler himself. He visited Nantucket with his father- in-law, an itinerant minister. Whilst here, he met with Captain George Pollard of the Essex. The tale of the great white whale is based on the true story of the whaler Essex. Rammed by a massive leviathan and went down with all hands save a few. Survivors resorted to cannibalism after a month or so drifting on the open seas; drove them all quite mad.”
Congreve expelled a billowing trail of smoke and caught his friend’s glance, saw his sad eyes return for an instant to the pleats of previous smiles. But Alex looked away, saying nothing. The two had paused on the steps of a lovely church to admire one of the grander captain’s houses across the way.
“Listen,” Hawke said, peering into the darkened doorway. Inside the candle-lit chapel, a choir was practicing a lovely song of prayer for ancient mariners—
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm does bind the restless wave,
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep,
O, hear us when we cry to thee,
For those in peril on the Sea…
“Ghosts,” Hawke said, gazing up at the widow’s walk atop the captain’s house, the words of the choir floating out into the drizzly churchyard. “You’re quite right about this place, old thing. Ghosts and angels behind every door.”
They turned into Federal Street and arrived at a restaurant that took its name from its address, 21 Federal. It was on the ground floor of an elegant white clapboard building built in the late eighteenth century. Sutherland and Stokely were waiting just inside, chatting with the amiable host, who introduced himself as Chick Walsh. Once the four men were all seated round a deep red leather banquette just off the bar, Alex looked around approvingly. Dark paneling, brass fixtures, lovely period marine art on the walls. Ambrose had chosen well.
The waiter brought two cocktails, a Diet Coke for Stokely, and a glass of red wine for Alex.
“To the bride,” Hawke said quietly, raising his glass and, one by one, looking each one of them in the eye.
“To the bride,” they all answered in unison.
There followed a period of silence, not at all uncomfortable. Reflective rather, each man alone with his thoughts and memories of Victoria Sweet.
Ambrose was the first one to break the silence.
“I wonder, Alex,” he said, “If you’d be so kind as to fill us all in on this apparently very nasty matter at the U.S. State Department.”
“Ah, yes,” Alex said, relief on his face. “Conch’s crisis du jour. Ratcheted up from ‘apparently very nasty’ to simply ‘very nasty’, I’m afraid. State’s DSS fellows have concluded that the death in Venice was an assassination.”
“DSS?” Stokely asked. “New one on me. I thought I knew all those spooks.”
“Don’t get a lot of publicity, Stoke. State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service. Responsible for protecting American diplomats and their families at embassies and consulates around the world.”
“Rather tall order lately, I’d say,” said Sutherland.
The waiter arrived with their food, and all conversation ceased until he left the table.
Congreve asked, “Counterespionage, are they, these DSS boys?”
“Some are,” Alex said, “But their primary mission is to act as America’s cops overseas. Brilliant track record. It was DSS who finally nabbed Ramzi Yousef, lovely chap responsible for the first Trade Towers bombing back in 1993. Friend of mine, a fellow named Tex Patterson, heads up some 1200 agents. Tex calls them the best-kept secret in American law enforcement, and he’d like to keep it that way. He lets Langley or the Bureau take all the bows.”
“This poor chap in Venice,” Ambrose mused. “Their new ambassador. Never did hear a satisfactory explanation of that one.”
“Most people never will,” Alex said, “Ambassador Simon Stanfield was tracked and killed by a miniature smart bomb.”
“Good Lord. You can’t be serious,” Congreve scoffed.
“Sounds preposterous, I agree. But that’s what happened. DSS discovered a tiny encrypted dot, a microchip transmitter planted in Stanfield’s billfold. Still broadcasting the GPS coordinates of the dead man’s precise location to a satellite.”
“A personal smart bomb?” Stokely asked. “Man, what the hell is that all about?”
“Divers found fragments of it in the muck at the bottom of the canal. Reconstructing them, it appears to have been a small titanium missile, perhaps twelve inches long. A tiny warhead at the nose, packed with just enough plastic explosive to blow a man to pieces upon impact.”
“Astounding,” Congreve said, after taking a forkful of his duck. “And what about this second chap in Riyadh? McGuire.”
“Even more bizarre,” Hawke continued. “Butch McGuire, U.S. ambassador to Saudi Arabia, keeled over at a table in his favorite restaurant in Riyadh, whilst having dinner with his wife. Looked like natural causes, Patterson said, except the man was in perfect health.”
Congreve sat back against the cushions, his interior wheels spinning soundlessly but obviously. He turned his deceptively innocent blue eyes towards Hawke.
“Another splash of wine, Alex? I see they have a good La Tour on the wine list. Excellent vintage.”
“Thanks, no,” he said, proud of his new regimen, and then he told them all about the strange demise of Butch McGuire.
“So that’s it,” he concluded a few moments later. “Patterson said that when they opened Butch up on the autopsy table, the entire thoracic and gastrointestinal organs were basically fried.”
“Fried?” Stoke asked, taking a big bite of his steak. “What you mean fried?”
“Cooked,” Hawke said. “Well done. Charred.”
“Good Lord,” Congreve said. “How on earth did—”
“He swallowed something,” Hawke said. “Small enough to go down with food unnoticed. Then, inside the stomach, a microburst of electricity. Either self-detonating or triggered from a remote location.”
“Ratchet up the terror level at every American embassy,” Ross said, shaking his head. “That’s the plan.”
“This is bad, Alex,” Ambrose said. “Two in two weeks? It’s just the beginning.”
Alex nodded. “I agree. Question, Constable. Do you think Vicky was actually first? Or, rather, a botched attempt on me? I have very close ties to the U.S. State Department’s counterterrorist operations. If this is some kind a plot to paralyze America’s worldwide diplomatic mission, I wouldn’t be a bad place to start.”
“Not beyond the range of possibilities, Alex. But a separate, personal, and unrelated attack on you is also quite possible, given the chart we just created.”
“A target under either scenario, then,” Hawke said. “Off the top of your head, Constable. These diplomatic assassinations. Initial reaction? Thoughts?”
