“Yeah. That’s another reason why Pelham feels bad, boss,” Stoke said.
“Your notion that Vicky’s murderer may be Cuban was spot on, Alex,” Sutherland said. “We have considerable evidence pointing that way.”
“Vicky’s murderer,” Hawke said getting to his feet. He threw another log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks shooting up the chimney, and then sank into one of the armchairs near the hearth. His face ashen, he looked like someone had just taken a razor to the carefully stitched sutures of his heart. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what’s happened,” Hawke said softly.
“Two things, sir,” replied Sutherland. “The cigar stub found at the base of the tree was Cuban. Domestic. Never sold for export.”
“Bought in Cuba,” said Alex. “Go on.”
“Two,” Sutherland continued. “Stokely determined the murder weapon left at the scene was Russian, but the scope was American. Very limited production. U.S. armed forces and law enforcement account for all of them. One such scope was stolen six weeks ago in Miami.”
“Good work, Stoke,” Alex said.
“Scope belonged to a murdered Dade County SWAT guy,” Stoke said. “Serial number on the stolen scope matches our murder weapon. Last thing, that guy who delivered your medallion? Pelham got a look at his eyes that night. Says he ain’t got no color in them.”
“Scissorhands,” Hawke said, anger flaring up in his eyes. “The bloody bastard in Cuba. The one who interrogated Vicky after she was abducted. What was his name, Stokely?”
“Rodrigo del Rio.”
“Del Rio. Right. Castro’s former Chief of State Security, until the coup.”
“That’s the one. The man with no eyes, boss,” Stoke said. “Just may be we got our shooter.”
“Not yet we don’t. But we will.”
“I got an idea,” Stoke said, “If he’s slipped back into Cuba, I know someone who would just love to tack his testicles to a palm tree. And that someone owes me a favor.”
“Who, Stoke?”
“Fidel damn Castro, that’s who. The rebel generals was fixing to murder his tired old Communist ass, you remember, and I got him out of there. El Jefe himself sent me this goddamn medal round my neck.”
“Yes, yes,” Hawke said. “The irony of your saving the skin of one of the last great Communist dictators on earth has not been lost upon me.”
“Well, hell, Alex, what was I s’posed to do? I know an evil dictator when I see one. But, them drug dealers were going to shoot that sick old fool just lying there in his bed. Cop instinct took over.”
“Don’t get defensive, Stoke. Terrible as he is, Fidel was far and away the lesser of two evils. The thugs who tried to overthrow him would have made the Saddam-era Baghdad or Kim’s Pyongang look like Disneyworld.”
“You right, Boss.”
“Scissorhands may well be back in Cuba, Stoke,” Alex said, “But Cuba’s a dangerous place for a high-ranking security officer who went with the losing side. We should start in south Florida, I think. If I were Cuban and on the run, that’s where I’d go. Calle Ocho. Little Havana. Great place to hide, Miami.”
“And where that gun sight was stolen,” Stoke said.
“At the very least, it would be a good place to begin looking for this fellow,” Hawke said. “Then, the islands.”
“Ain’t no place the man can hide from me, Boss,” Stoke said. “Look here, you got your hands full with these State Department assassinations. Why don’t you just let me and Ross go find this shithead by our ownselves?”
“I don’t let other men shoot my foxes, Stoke,” Hawke said quietly.
Hawke lowered his head and rubbed both eyes with the tips of his fingers. He was, Stoke knew, torn in half. Vicky was gone and wasn’t coming back. Hawke was a man with a vengeful spirit, and the urge to avenge his bride’s vicious murder was powerful. Tearing him apart. But so was his urge to do all in his power to help his old friend Conch.
In the end, the professional warrior inside him won. Out there somewhere was the man who had killed his beautiful bride. Perhaps the same man who had also just come very close to killing him. And Congreve. But that was personal. Another psychopath was targeting America’s diplomatic corps. And making the world far less stable in the doing. Perhaps the two were one and the same. Perhaps not.
A few moments later, Hawke looked up and stared hard at Stokely, then, finally, fixed his gaze on Sutherland. Ross could see that he’d made a decision.
“There is procedure, isn’t there, Ross?”
“Indeed there is, sir.”
“Shouldn’t you call your superiors at the Yard about this?” Alex asked. “You still officially report there, and they’ve got jurisdiction in this case.” Sutherland looked mutely at Hawke. It was the question he’d expected and one he did not want to answer.
“Galling, isn’t it, sir?” Sutherland managed.
“I’ll answer that one,” Congreve said. “The Yard have told Ross and me to stay completely away from this thing, Alex. Completely.” As Sutherland nodded his head in affirmation, Ambrose added, “By all reports, they’ve not made much headway so far.”
“Are you going, Ambrose? To Florida, I mean.”
“I’d recommend sending Ross and Stokely, Alex. I might be of more help in this other matter.” Hawke nodded assent.
“Good. Go find this son of a bitch, Stoke. You and Ross. Miami, Jamaica, Cuba, wherever the hell he is,” Hawke said. “Don’t kill him unless you have to. Bring him to me. I’d very much like a word with him before he gets turned over to the Yard. A private word.”
“Yeah,” Stoke said. “We can do that.”
“I’m going up on deck,” Hawke said. “I need some bloody air.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Nantucket Island
ALEX HAWKE, WEARING A FADED GREY ROYAL NAVY T-SHIRT and a pair of swimming trunks, was up on deck again in the wee hours, his faithful parrot Sniper riding easily on his left shoulder. He had a pocketful of Cheezbits, one of Sniper’s favorite late-night snacks.
He still needed air. Couldn’t seem to get enough of the stuff.
A fresh breeze had come up just after midnight and blown most of the fog offshore. A fingernail moon, little more than a sliver of ivory, hung above the horizon in a dark blue sky; there were a few stars, white as bone.
Cheeeez-us! Cheez-us! Sniper squawked, and Hawke popped another tidbit into the air. The parrot snagged it with her sharp beak and fluttered her wings in appreciation.
“Good bird, Sniper,” Hawke said. Slushy, the head chef down in the galley, had secretly taught the caviar and cheese–loving bird to say “Cheez-us” and Alex had been unable to cure her of the mildy sacrilegious new habit.
The recent cold front that had brought heavy rains to the Cape, Martha’s Vineyard, and the island of Nantucket had now gravitated northeast out over the North Atlantic. In its wake, only wispy remnants of misty vapor snaking through the silent streets of old Nantucket Town and wafting through dark forests of sailboat masts in the dead-quiet harbor.
The remaining heavy air left every surface cool and damp, and the broad teak decks of Blackhawke were slippery underfoot. She was anchored out in open water, a good distance from the harbor entrance as a security measure. Tom Quick wanted a lot of empty water around his boat at a time like this. Room to maneuver or get under way if she was threatened in any way. There wasn’t another yacht within half a mile of her anchorage out here.
The sharp tang of the breeze coming off the ocean was strong and antiseptic; it felt good as Alex filled his lungs with it. In the owner’s stateroom on the deck just below, he had tossed in his bed for hours, but any notion of
