“H-A-L-L-A-F-O-L-L-I-W.” Top entered.
“Access Granted.”
Will of Allah. Backwards. Da Vinci, Hawke had remembered, wrote backwards so that his words could only be read by looking at them in a mirror. Ambrose had given him what he needed. All he had to do was use it.
“Now shut this fucking thing down,” Hawke said, his voice low and full of menace.
Top moved his bloody finger across the keyboard, punching in a sequence of letters and numbers.
“TERMINATION. TERMINATION.”
Those two words appeared on the control screen in a continuous scroll.
The numbers on the clock had stopped at 11:59. The weapons that had been recently moved into the American capital were instantly rendered inert and useless. Even the unmanned submarine now circling in the Tidal Basin, under the watchful eye of Thomas Jefferson, shut itself down. It rolled over once, belly-up, and then banked swiftly into the muck below.
Hawke raised his eyes once more to the monitor.
The president stood his ground as the agents moved in to surround him at the podium. He had the look of a man who wasn’t going anywhere.
“AND WILL, to the best of my ability,” the president said, concluding the oath of office, “Preserve, protect, and defend the constitution of the United States…So help me God.”
THE MARINE BAND struck up “Hail to the Chief” as the cannons out on the lawn commenced firing the twenty one-gun salute.
Hawke, his eyes on the scene being played out in Washington, held the man’s head still as he drove his blade swiftly and deep into his brain.
“This is for Ambrose Congreve,” Hawke said.
Allah’s will was done.
Epilogue
W hile England slept, a soft blanket of snow had covered the countryside. The unexpected snowfall had continued all the next day. Surprise made it all the more beautiful. For a few brief moments, the sun came out from behind a cloud. It was low in the sky, about to slip behind the far western hills. Sunlight painted the gently rolling hills in shades of rosy gold and pink. The twisting road ahead was black and glistening.
It was pleasantly warm in the old Locomotive, and Conch was curled against the Bentley’s worn leather front seat, drowsy from her hectic schedule and the long-delayed flight from Houston. Hawke reached over and switched on the dashboard radio. The dial began to glow, and a song was playing, sweet and slow, faint in memory.
“It’s so lovely, Alex,” Conch sighed, her eyes half opened. “I’ve never seen the countryside like this.”
“England hasn’t had snow like this in decades.”
“So kind of Ambrose and Diana to invite me to their party. And of you to come pick me up at the plane.”
“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” Hawke said, smiling.
“How is he doing, Alex? Ambrose?”
“It’s been a painful recovery. But he’s walking again. He uses a cane now. Terribly embarrassed about it, but I keep telling him the swagger stick looks dashing.”
She smiled.
He looked over at her. “I’m glad to see you, kid.”
“Me, too. Thanks.”
“Do you want to sleep? We’ve got an hour or so before we arrive at Brixden House.”
“I want to talk, Alex. Shh—stop. Don’t worry, it’s not about us. I want to tell you about the funeral down in Texas.”
“Homer’s funeral.”
“Yes, I’m glad I went. It was small, just local people, and very…moving. Homer was a much-loved soul in that little town. Sheriff Dixon said a few words before I spoke. You remember-that wonderful man you met in Key West.”
“Kind of man who makes you believe in cowboys again.”
“That’s him. He talked about the law, mostly. How sacred it was in his life; how deeply he believed in it. How people have to respect it. He said Homer had given his life for something far more noble than a line drawn in the sand.”
“Yes. How is it down there now, on the border?”
“Better, I guess. Having the Guard so visible has helped a lot. The Mexican government is finally making an effort.”
“Arresting terrorists, so I hear.”
“It’s a start. The Texas Sheriff’s Association has asked Dixon to head up a new joint border security unit. He’ll be good at it.”
“I still find it absolutely terrifying, Conch, that somehow, in parts of America, borders have become politically incorrect.” Hawke said.
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
“I just don’t understand it, Conch. Without borders, we’ve got nothing.”
“Nothing but chaos.”
“Whatever happened to simply defending your homeland? Whatever happened to, ‘We shall fight on the beaches…we shall fight in the hills?’ ”
“It’s frightening. I feel like America’s on the verge of losing it, Alex.”
“I hope Jack McAtee doesn’t share that view.”
“No, he’s boundlessly optimistic. Full of confidence that we will ride out the storm. And so am I. Except when I spend time on that border…”
“What we just had was a close call. But I hope there was also a big wake-up call here, Conch. You had a chance to have an entire continent as your ally. But you either neglected them or meddled dangerously in their internal affairs. By not treating them as equals, you frittered away a lot of enormously valuable friendships and —”
Hawke glanced sideways at her. Her head resting against the seat, she was sound asleep.
So much for his speech-making ability.
HALF AN HOUR later, Hawke had his headlamps on as he turned off the Taplow Common Road and drove through the gates of Brixden House. He slowed, idling along the broad curving drive, while Conch did something to her make-up in the lighted vanity mirror.
There were untold acres of formal parkland, bare orchards, and evergreen gardens, all now covered with soft, wet snow. The house, when they finally caught sight of it in the distance, was imposing. The classic Italianate mansion stood atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a bend in the Thames below. It looked as if the entire house was alight, every room, and there was a hazy orange glow from every window.
As he pulled up to the porte cochere, he saw the government cars that had been following at a discreet distance pull into the car park. Agents hopped out and began talking into their sleeves the way they do. A valet took the Bentley at the covered entrance, and they made their way into the Great Hall. A fire was roaring at the far end of the room and to the left of the fireplace hung the famous John Singer Sargent painting of Lady Diana Mars’s great-grandmother.
There was a festive mood in the room and it continued throughout the house as they went in search of the host and hostess. Ambrose had been very excited about this soiree when he’d followed up Hawke’s engraved invitation with a telephone call. Hawke had a pretty good idea of what Ambrose Congreve was up to, but he didn’t share any of that with Conch. He didn’t want her disappointed in the event he was mistaken.
