Sharkey and his old man had stumbled on the jackpot.
Yakhont, called Firefox by U.S. military, was the new Russian anti-ship missile. It scared the hell out of everybody in Washington. Death with wings. Unstoppable ship-killer. And, precisely what the U.S. government did not want was for even one of these damn things to find its way into the hands of somebody who didn’t have America’s best interests at heart. That’s why it was at the top of the list Brock had given him.
Firefox combined all the qualities of future anti-ship missiles. It was designed to fly at supersonic speeds, be invisible to radar, deaf to jamming, and was guided autonomously on a “shot-forgot” principle. Fire a Firefox and fugheddaboudit, game over. It had a range of up to 300 km at an altitude of about 15 meters. The missile would drop down to about fifteen feet seconds before it hit you.
Flying at roughly 750 meters a second, and performing complex tactical maneuvering during flight, the Firefox would reach its target no matter what. Just one of these damn things could sink a supertanker or an aircraft carrier. And, no navy in the world had an effective means of defending against the Russkis’ new missile. Not one.
The missile was designed to be carried by Russian Su-27 and Su-35 fighter aircraft. This was the new Sukhoi Flanker, a front-line fighter that was one of the mainstays of Russian airpower. Sophisticated and extremely expensive. Now, who the hell had planes like that down here in the tropics? Castro certainly couldn’t afford any damn Su-27s. Cubans could barely afford breakfast in that island utopia.
But his bosom buddy, Latin America’s new Daddy Warbucks, Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, sure could.
Two minutes had been used up. Stoke swam up to Sharkey who was tapping on his watch and staring at Stoke like he was crazy which was no newsflash. Stoke knew he’d lost a hell of a lot of blood but he wanted to get this done in one dive and get on the horn to Washington as quickly as possible.
Stoke opened his dive bag and pulled out a small digital camera designed to work underwater. He gave it to Luis and then pointed at the two cruise missiles. Sharkey understood and swam down to photograph the things.
The big barracuda, thank you very much, had left the premises when Stoke got up to the cockpit. He’d chewed up el Capitan a little more but Stoke wasn’t interested in the man anymore, only his uniform.
It was light blue. Military, but if Stoke expected to find insignia identifying the pilot’s outfit, he was mistaken. Anything that could have identified rank or national origin had been removed from the corpse’s uniform. And it wasn’t fishies who’d done it. Someone had used a knife to cut the patches away. Stoke knew that because he saw the knife still lying in the pilot’s lap.
Very interesting. The deceased had been stripped of ID. Somebody had survived the crash. Yeah. Somebody who’d kept his wits about him before he disembarked.
Stoke checked his remaining air. Time to go. He looked at the pilot one last time before he swam out of the cockpit.
Hasta luego, amigo, he said silently.
Fly below the radar.
Die below the radar.
17
HAMPSTEAD HEATH
C ongreve pushed back from the table and laced his fingers atop the plump pillow of his tightly buttoned yellow waistcoat. Suppressing a sigh of pleasure, he surveyed the sunny scene of domesticity before him. Basking in the morning light, shafts of pure gold streaming through his windows, the famous detective had the look of a man who had finally grabbed life by the lapels and shook it for all it was worth.
Life was worth, he was now convinced, a very great deal. He’d had a near miss a year ago. A would-be killer’s bullet had lodged very near his spine. It had all been quite touch and go for a while. To be honest, though he’d never told a soul, there were not a few times, lying there in the dark in his hospital bed, when he’d heard the angels calling. It was sweet and seductive, the music from heaven. But he’d turned a deaf ear, and it had finally stopped.
Yes, yes, Ambrose thought. Life was certainly hurrying by, running away at breakneck speed. Too fast to stop, and too sweet to lose.
May Purvis, his housekeeper, who’d been quietly arranging a dozen dewy peonies in a silver jug, was suddenly up on her toes. She had her hands clasped to her bosom, and seemed on the verge of a pirouette.
“Well, well, Chief Inspector, look who’s come to call of a morning,” said a beaming Mrs. Purvis. Ambrose looked over his shoulder and saw Alex Hawke framed in the doorway.
“Ah, good morning, Alex,” Congreve said, putting down his Times crossword. The man was half an hour early. He’d called the night before. Something about visiting some diplomat in hospital. Very tight-lipped about it and wouldn’t say more.
Hawke, never one for a lazy entrance, didn’t falter now. Before you could blink, he was kissing the back of Mrs. Purvis’s fluttering hand.
“Mrs. Purvis’s younger daughter, are you not?” Hawke said, bowing slightly from the waist. “We meet at last!”
“Oh, my! Don’t be ridiculous! It’s only me, of course. It’s poor old May, you silly boy!” she said, giving a half- curtsy.
Hawke took a seat.
“Tea?” May asked Alex, pouring.
She was buzzing about his lordship, teapot in hand, like a bee round a stamen. It was a bit much this early in the morning.
“You might put a patch on mine as well, please, Mrs. Purvis,” Congreve said, holding up his cup, a trace of peevishness in his voice.
“Did I tell you I bumped into C, of all people,” Hawke said, putting down his cup and passing the linen over his lips. “After our splendid luncheon at Black’s yesterday.”
“Did you indeed?” Congreve affected his most innocent smile, his baby blue eyes conveying nothing but simple curiosity. For now he’d decided to let the green ink on the dropped note remain where it had fallen.
“Yes. Bumped into him at Harrods, believe it or not. Buying a tie.”
“Harrods?”
“Yes, Harrods. Rather large emporium in Knightsbridge. Surely you know it?”
“Alex. Please. Spare me this day your ridiculous sense of humor.”
“Anyway, I saw him.”
“Hmm. Anything in particular on his mind? Other than neckwear?”
“Nothing in particular, really.”
“I don’t believe you for a moment. Marching to the colors again, are we? That’s my guess. Drawing steel once more. Is that right, Alex?”
“Hmm.”
“What was on that formidable mind?”
“This and that.”
Hawke looked at his watch. “We’re late. Our meeting with this German chap. We’d better shove off.”
“German? Who said anything about Germans?”
“I did. Let’s take your Morgan, shall we? The Yellow Peril?”
“ZIMMERMANN IS his name?” Ambrose asked above the wind and engine noise. “This chap I’m to interrogate?”
“That’s it.”
“Why does that name sound so familiar?”
“Just thinking that very thing. Something to do with the Great War, wasn’t it?” Hawke replied.
“Hold on, it will come to me. Ah, yes, the Zimmermann Telegram. The cryptographic lads in Room 40 at
