to cut up people with a pair of silver scissors hung round his neck.”
Stokely slapped his forehead hard enough to send the average man crashing to the floor.
“Ross? That SWAT guy got whacked down in Miami? Like I was saying, Dade County Medical Examiner said somebody drove a sharp object into his brain. Through his eyes. The M.E. said the object was probably a pair of very sharp scissors.”
“Stoke,” Ross said, trying to sound calm, “The serial number on the scope in the tree. He’d filed it off, right?”
“I was saving that part for last,” Stoke smiled. “No, he didn’t. I read that serial number off to my new best friend at Leupold. Identical match. All they scopes now officially accounted for.”
Chapter Fourteen
London, December 1999
TWILIGHT ON THE THAMES. IT WAS ALEX HAWKE’S FAVORITE time of day and he stood, hands clasped behind his back, at one of the broad glass windows of his fifteenth-floor office. He was gazing at, mesmerized by would be more accurate, both the river traffic and the motor traffic criss-crossing Waterloo Bridge. There was a fine misty rain falling and it made that late December evening shimmer and glow like one of Turner’s luminous paintings of the palaces of Westminster.
Fin de siecle, Hawke thought, last one I’ll ever see.
The year was 1999, in the waning days shortly before the turn of the century, and Alex Hawke was thinking at that moment of calling the beautiful woman he’d met at a pre-New Year’s fete just the night before. An American doctor named Victoria Sweet who’d written a wonderful children’s book called, what was it, The Whirl-o-Drome. She was perhaps the loveliest—
There was a quiet knock at his half-opened door.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Ambassador Kelly is on the line. I thought you might like to speak to him, sir.” Alex turned from the window and saw his secretary of many years, the exquisitely formed Sarah Branham, framed in the doorway.
He smiled at her and said, “Yes, Sarah, thank you, I would. Put him through straightaway.”
She pulled the door closed and Alex collapsed his lanky frame deep into one of a semicircle of large leather club chairs overlooking the river. He propped his feet on the round table. It was a three-foot-high, six-foot cross section of an ancient, fluted, marble column.
“Hello, Brick,” he said, picking up the phone. “Lovely soiree last night. Thanks for including me.”
“You certainly seemed taken by the guest of honor.”
“She’s stunning.”
“Why do you think I sat you next to her?” Kelly asked in his soft Virginia accent. “Now, tell me. What lean and hungry young lioness awaits the pleasure of your company at supper this evening?”
“I only wish,” Hawke said. “Truth be told, I’ve asked the lovely Sarah to fetch me up the dreaded Omelet du jour from our third-floor eatery. I plan to down it at my desk over the Times crossword, actually.”
“Horrible idea. Here’s an alternative plan of action you might consider. Last minute, but what the hell. Might just lift your spirits. Seeing as how you’re the chair and I sit on the admissions committee at Nell’s, I couldn’t resist calling you.”
“You’re calling about Nell’s? Must be an extremely slow day in diplomatic circles.”
Nell’s was perhaps the poshest, most glamourous private nightspot in all of London. Dark and clubby, one would imagine it stuffy, but it had retained its alluring aura since the Swinging Sixties. The four imperious and haughty gentlemen in boiled shirts and stiff white ties who guarded the door might give the newcomer the impression of high propriety. But, on the contrary, Nell’s snug bar and miniscule disco dance floor had been the scene of some of the wildest nights on record during the booming eighties and, even now, in the late nineties.
It remained a members-only sanctuary where royalty, the aristocracy, and the well-heeled ladies and gentlemen of society could let their hair down, bare their souls, and, rumor had it, sometimes my lady’s breasts as well. Unsurprisingly, it had long been one of Alex’s favorite haunts, and he’d recently accepted the job of chairing the admissions committee.
“Cough it up, Brick,” Hawke said, intrigued. Anything to escape these bloody markets and the dreaded Omelet du jour.
“Well, here’s the drill, Alex. You probably don’t remember Sonny Pendleton?”
“I do. Your second in command in the desert.”
“That’s him. Anyway, he’s ascended to the role of a rather large cheese at the Defense Department now and he’s in London on business this week and just called to ask a favor. I was inclined to turn him down, but the more I thought about it, the more amusing I thought it might be. Especially if I could cajole you into joining me.”
“Spill the beans, Brick. What’s up?”
“See, Hawke? Despite your best efforts, you are gradually picking up the Yank lingo. Anyway, Sonny called to see if I’d have dinner tonight. Meet this guy he’s doing some business with who is extremely determined to become a member of Nell’s. Quid pro quo situation. The guy’s putting a lot of pressure on Sonny, who’s putting a lot of pressure on me since he knows I’m on the committee.”
“I give up. Who’s the guy?”
“You’re not going to believe it. It’s the notorious Mr. bin Wazir, who just reopened Beauchamp’s Hotel under a new spelling.”
Hawke laughed. “The Pasha of Knightsbridge? You’ve got to be joking.”
“Formerly the Pasha of Knightsbridge,” Brick said. “Now, after the Beauchamps fiasco, the Pariah of Knightsbridge.”
“Bin Wazir? At Nell’s? What’s Sonny smoking these days?” Alex asked. “Does he think this lunatic has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting past Nell’s admissions board after that Beauchamps debacle?”
“I know, I know. Christ. But Mr. bin Wazir, as you well know, is in cahoots with Mr. al-Nassar. And Defense wants very much to lean on al-Nassar. Get to him through bin Wazir. I can’t really say any more than that.”
“What do I get out of this, Brick?”
“A free dinner at the Connaught Grill with your old buddy Brickhouse, courtesy of the United States State Department. Name a wine.”
“Chateau Margaux. Fifty-four.”
“Done.”
“You’re just lucky I had a date with an omelet instead of the beauteous Dr. Victoria Sweet.”
“Luck of the Irish.”
“What time?”
“Eight in the p.m.”
“Count me in.”
Alex Hawke was early, arriving at the Connaught Bar at seven forty-five. The hotel’s quiet, understated lounge was one of his favorite watering holes and, besides, it would give him a chance to catch up with the barman, a thoroughly amusing fellow named Duckworth, an old chum. The small, beautifully paneled bar was empty save an elderly couple seated at a window table, sipping sherry and silently watching the rain spatter against the glass.
“Lord Hawke himself,” Duckworth whispered, when Alex Hawke walked in and took a seat at the bar. “Must say I haven’t seen much of you lately, sir. On the wagon, m’Lord?”
“I was, Ducky, but we hit a ditch and I was thrown off,” Hawke said, smiling at the plump, rosy-cheeked, bespectacled man. “By the time I got up and dusted myself off, the bloody wagon was half a mile down the road.”
Duckworth smiled, wiping a goblet, and said, “What will it be, sir? Goslings? The Black Seal, as I recall.”
“Yes, thank you. Neat.”
As the barman poured his dark Bermudian rum, Alex said, “Awfully quiet tonight, Ducky.”
