His own boat, Blackhawke, lay anchored in deep water a half mile from the harbor entrance. To all appearances, she was simply another rich man’s play toy in this glittering Cote d’Azur yacht harbor, a seagoing Mecca for the extravagantly wealthy. In reality, she was more of a small warship cleverly disguised as a megayacht by the Huisman Yard in Holland.
The yacht’s unusual name had not been chosen lightly. She was named in honor of Hawke’s notorious ancestor, the English pirate, Blackhawke. John “Black Jack” Hawke, born in Plymouth, had gone to sea as a cabin boy serving under the infamous “Calico Jack” Rackham. This worthy buccaneer was known as much for his colorful calico cotton clothes as for his beautiful pirate wife, Anne Bonny. Years later, Calico Jack was hanged for piracy in Port Royal. Young Hawke, already prized for his heroism and amazing luck, was the crew’s unanimous choice to succeed Rackham as captain.
“To whom does the sea belong?” he would ask.
“Blackhawke!” was the unanimous reply.
Over the years, as his reputation grew, Black Jack Hawke would come to be known by a shorter, more memorable name: Blackhawke. He operated in the Caribbean, commissioned by colonial authorities in Jamaica, preying on Spanish possessions. His hearty band became known as “the brethren of the coast.” Tens of millions in gold and booty buried by the brethren remain hidden to this day along the rocky coast of what was then the island of Hispaniola.
“Fortune favors the fast,” was the young pirate captain’s motto, and he made good on it. Blackhawke had light sloops called balandras specially built in his home port of Plymouth and rarely had trouble overtaking even the fastest quarry. Once he’d spied you, and his ship Revenge was bearing down, you’d do well to start making peace with your maker.
Ferocious and merciless in battle, Blackhawke was one of the very first to fly the Jolly Roger, a hand-sewn black flag emblazoned with symbols taken from old gravestones in his native land: skulls, crossed bones, and an hourglass to warn prey how rapidly their time was running out.
Blackhawke’s enormous success was later attributed by scholars to atypical pirate behavior. He was highly intelligent, drank only tea, never swore in front of women, and regularly observed the Sabbath. For all that, he was condemned to the gallows in the Old Bailey for striking a mutinous crewman on the head with a bucket and killing him. His corpse was hung on the banks of the Thames as a warning to all who would take up the pirate’s life.
It was a warning his bloodline had found difficult to heed.
Blackhawke had been steaming all day en route from Corsica. Hawke’s yacht had arrived on station according to schedule, just after nightfall. Hawke had spoken to his chief of security, Tom Quick, and ordered all unnecessary lights aboard doused. From Hawke’s luxurious perch at the hotel, her darkened silhouette resembled some hulking, uninhabited island lying just offshore.
The Star of Shanghai had arrived in Cannes harbor the afternoon before. Hawke had observed minor comings and goings aboard her, nothing too intriguing. She was now moored along the long narrow breakwater that curved out to sea from the eastern edge of the harbor. Hawke focused on the Star, swept the glasses back and forth, stem to stern.
From this cursory appraisal, he was surprised she was still afloat. What the hell were they loading? It looked like huge barrel-shaped sections of polished steel. According to his dossier, some kind of Renault factory assemblies. She was riding low in the water, down by the head. On the dock, more massive steel O-rings secured with bright orange tarps. Looked innocent enough but you never knew.
She wasn’t scheduled to sail for another hour. But schedules in French ports didn’t always behave properly. Time to go, at any rate.
Hawke lowered the glasses, noting the sudden lack of breeze on his cheeks. The wind had vanished just as capriciously as it had sprung up forty-eight hours earlier. And now, as the temperature rose perceptibly, a thick, viscous fog bank the color of charcoal was rolling in from the sea. Hawke turned and ducked back into his bedroom through the French doors, his brain ticking over rapidly now.
“What are you doing now?” Jet said with some annoyance, sitting up in bed and vainly attempting to cover her quite beautiful breasts with a corner of bedsheet.
“Sorry, dear girl. I’ve got a meeting,” Hawke said, stepping into his skivvies and then his black trousers. He pulled open a dresser drawer and removed the new nylon swivel holster that held his pistol. He’d spent long days down at Fort Monkton, the Royal Navy’s Field School near Portsmouth, assassinating video projections in the simulator. He could now comfortably draw and fire in no more than one-quarter of a second. It was his fondest wish to shave one-fifth off that. He had no urge to spend his last moments on earth counting the bullet holes in his tummy.
He wore the gun just behind the right hipbone, the position he’d found most suitable for the fastest draw. The gun was a lightweight Walther TPH only recently acquired and he hoped it was as effective as advertised. Tom Quick, a U.S. Army sharpshooter and weapons expert before joining Hawke’s security staff, had assured him it was good for close work. Assuming one used Quick’s own hand-loaded ammunition, which Hawke most assuredly did.
“So. You are some kind of spy, or counterspy. Is that it?”
“Over-the-counter spy would be more like it.”
“Meaning?”
“For sale without prescription,” he said, checking the heft of the fully loaded mag and sliding it with a satisfying click into the butt of the gun.
“What?”
“Readily available, you know, generic espionage. Mundane stuff, I’m afraid. Tedious corporate snooping and the like. A dull business, I assure you. Might as well have studied the law.”
“And the gun?”
“Strictly precautionary. Might encounter some archfiend of the industrial espionage world out there.”
“Bullshit.”
He cut his eyes toward her. The word didn’t fit the face. Women had every right to use the same language as men. He wasn’t being priggish. He just didn’t find it attractive.
“Really? How on earth do you know that, my dear?” he said, reaching behind his back and slipping the weapon into its high-tech scabbard. Then he reached for his knife.
It was an item acquired a few years earlier in Qatar. A long-bladed dagger called the Assassin’s Fist. He wore it strapped to the inside of his right forearm with a quick-release device his friend Stokely Jones had perfected in the Mekong Delta. The knife had seen a lot of use. He’d recently replaced the original blade with six inches of the finest Sheffield steel.
“So. You have a meeting?” the actress pouted. “At this hour? Ridiculous.”
“Yes. Quite sorry, darling,” Hawke said, pulling a thick black turtleneck jumper down over his head. “Offshore work, you see. That’s the problem with freelance. Dreadful hours.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek and withdrew his face before she could slap him.
“You’ll find my office number in London scribbled inside,” he said, handing her a gaudy matchbook from the Casino Barriere de Cannes. “I do hope we’ll see each other again. A quiet dinner at Harry’s Bar, perhaps.”
“You are the most—”
Hawke put his finger to his lips and then said, “I know, I know. Unbearable. A cad. A fiend. I can only hope you’ll forgive me. You see, my dear girl, nobody quite knows this yet, but there’s a war on.”
“War?”
“Hmm,” he said, and started to turn away. She grabbed his sleeve and put a small white card into his hand.
“What’s this?”
“An invitation. The baron is hosting a small private dinner party aboard Valkyrie tomorrow evening, Mr. Hawke. To celebrate the launch of his newest ship. An ocean liner. Perhaps you would like to come, yes? As my guest, of course.”
“On one condition. You must promise never to say that word again, darling,” he said. “‘Bullshit.’ It’s most unattractive coming from that pretty mouth.”
