“I’ve been a naughty girl, Nicky.”
“Yeah, baby. Just like that.”
“I don’t know anybody here.”
“Count yourself lucky. I know everybody here.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
“Who’s who?”
“That tall one over there. The incredibly good-looking one with the curly black hair. He looks bored. I like that in a man.”
“Good eye, my dear girl. That is Alexander Hawke. One of the richest men in Britain, or so everybody says. He’s got a title, too, a good one. Not a ‘Your Grace’ or anything, but still. Christ, I hope I get old enough and rich enough to look down on new money some day.”
“My God. Beautiful. Is he married? Say no. Who is he talking to and why isn’t it me?”
“Want to meet him?”
Ten minutes later, Lily found herself alone with the most attractive man she’d ever seen. He asked her if she’d like to join him for a drink at the bar.
“I drink too much at these damn things,” he said, “Everything I say bores me to tears. I’m having a spot of rum, Goslings Black Seal. Bermudian. Quite good, if you’ve never tried it.”
“Just a glass of white wine would be fine.”
“Pisse-de-chat,” Hawke said, “Try the rum.”
“Oui, c’est bon. Merci.”
Hawke nodded at the barman who came right over and took the order. A minute later, the drinks arrived. He raised his glass to her and smiled.
“You look familiar. Are you?”
“Pardon?”
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours. Sorry, I didn’t stick around for all the closing credits.”
“Lily Delacroix, Monsieur Hawke, une plaisir.”
“Pleasure,” Hawke replied, and realized he had nothing to add. He looked around the massive room, having no idea where to take this. He was slightly amused with his situation. This little red-headed starlet wasn’t much over twenty, he was sure. What on earth was he thinking when he—
“I don’t know anyone here, I’m so sorry,” she finally said.
“Don’t be sorry. I’ll fill you in. That group over there, for instance. Finance men from the City. The fat one doing all the talking is Lord Mowbray. The others are Barings, Rothschild, Hambro. The one who’s laughing at whatever Mowbray just said is Oppenheimer. Diamond chap from South Africa. Throw in a couple of wealthy dukes and you’ve got the whole lot.”
“Merci.”
“Je vous en prie, mademoiselle.”
“You speak French.”
“Not if I can help it. There are one or two French idiomatic expressions I find amusing. A way of describing a woman with a figure like this latest Hitchcock Girl, for instance. Francesca something or other.”
“D’Agnelli. What is the expression, Monsieur Hawke?”
“Il y a du monde au balcon.”
“Everyone is seated in the balcony,” she said, laughing. “Big bosoms.”
“Precisely. Now, my dear girl, if you’ll excuse me, here comes young Tom Jefferson, an old American friend of mine. I must—”
“Hello, Hawke, old buddy. Helluva movie, wasn’t it? The boys loved it. And this pretty young lady was in it if I’m not mistaken. How do you do, I’m Patrick Kelly. What’s your name?”
“Back off, Brick. I saw her first. Don’t pay any attention to him, Lily, he’s married.”
“Bonsoir, monsieur l’Ambassadeur. I am Lily.”
“Now, how in God’s name do you all know what I do for a living?”
“Because my closest friend, she told me you might come tonight. I will tell you a secret. She hopes to get a chance to speak with you, monsieur, if you still remember her.”
“All right, now you’ve piqued my curiosity, mademoiselle. Who is this mystery woman?”
“Francesca d’Agnelli.”
“Francesca?” Brick said. “Good lord!”
“Leave me out of this,” Hawke said, and sipped his rum.
“Where is she? I’d love to say hello.” Brick said.
“She’ll be so happy. I just saw her walk out onto one of the balconies over there. For a cigarette, I’m sure.”
“Which one?”
“By that bar. Come along, I’ll take you to her.”
“Alex, you hold down the fort,” Kelly said. “Order me a Ketel One on the rocks with a twist. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Miami
STOKELY WOKE UP WHEN A RAINDROP BOUNCED OFF HIS forehead. He opened his eyes. Chalky dust made them sting. He blinked out tears to clear them, and did a quick survey. What hurt and what did not. His nose still hurt like hell, inside the left nostril where the guy had stuck his trademark silver scissors. Legs hurt too, like a weight on them. It was, shit, a big chunk of plaster on top of him. Heavy mother, too. Pinned his arms and legs both. Oh, right, the ceiling fell down when the bombs went off. And now it was dark clouds up above, crackling with lightning, spitting out rain, and there were guys with flashlights climbing all over the rubble. Rescue team. Hey, over here, he almost said.
No. This wasn’t Dade County EMS on the scene. These guys were all shouting in Spanish. That wasn’t the thing, though; the thing was they were all in black and had camo paint and all had automatic weapons. He heard one go off. A Chinese guy, had to be one of Don Quixote’s guards, screamed in pain, another burst, quiet once more. They were shooting the survivors.
He closed his eyes. Dead again. Listening.
You spend enough time, like he had, standing on street corners in Spanish Harlem selling product, you’re bound to pick up a lot of espanol. And Stoke had. Donde esta del Rio? He heard one say. Where’s the river?
They were shining flashlights all around him, now. They were looking for a river? Calling out the name, over and over. Del Rio! Del Rio! The river, right? No.
Don Quixote. The star formerly known in Cuba as Rodrigo del Rio. This blown-up museum used to be his house. These guys, Cuban forces most likely, were the ones who’d knocked it down. The guy they were looking for had a pair of scissors up Stoke’s nose when the lights went out. Where was he now? Stoke’d like a piece of this action. Only he couldn’t move.
He was wondering about Ross, too. Ross, just before lights out, saying get down, Stoke. Was Ross dead or just playing possum again? He heard another guy scream, not Spanish, Chinese again, and then a burst of automatic fire. Shut the guy up. He could see it now, even with his eyes closed. A blind man could see it. They were going through the rubble, looking for del Rio, and shooting anybody who didn’t fit the description.
He had to get to Ross, help him before they found him and shot him. Trying not to make any noise, he got his hands and knees pushing up against the plaster. Didn’t move more than half an inch but something slid off, glass most probably, least it sounded like glass when it broke.
Instantly, a guy was shining a light in his face. Another guy kicked him in the head with the toe of his boot. Stoke’s eyes popped open and he looked into the flashlight, smiling even though he couldn’t see anything but a ball of fire that made him squint. Jesus. Hurt like hell.
“Buenas noches,” Stoke said, “Americano. Amigo.”
