action comedy was one of Hawke’s favorites and he’d watched some of it himself before becoming embroiled in a two-inch thick LATAM file marked MOST SECRET. This he’d been given by C for his in-flight entertainment.
He plowed through his files, studying the charts and tables, mentally rehearsing his upcoming remarks at the Key West conference. It was not as dry as he’d feared. Whoever had prepared it knew their stuff. Having digested three-quarters of the file, he’d nevertheless fallen asleep. Having slept for a few hours, he then resumed studying the thing at first light before falling into Congreve’s sticky web of aces and deuces, kings and queens.
“Good morning, Miss Guinness,” Ambrose said heartily. “How did you sleep?”
“Most comfortably, thank you,” she said. “This certainly beats economy on Virgin Atlantic.”
“Indeed it does,” Ambrose said. “Hawke Air abounds in creature comforts. Would you like some tea, my dear? Coffee? We’re having breakfast on the ground, but I’m sure the galley could scrounge up a scone or two if you’re so inclined. Eggs and toast?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you. I’ll just pop into the loo and freshen up if I have time.”
“You do. We’re landing in about half an hour.”
“Brilliant,” she said, climbing deftly out of her seat considering the length of her skirt. “How was your gin rummy game? Did you win, Chief Inspector?”
“Handily, my dear, thanks very much.”
After she’d disappeared from the cabin and closed the door to the head, Hawke, who’d been feigning sleep throughout this conversation, brought his seat upright and looked at Congreve.
“Handily?” Hawke asked. “Is that what you said to her, Constable?”
“Mmm.”
“Handily, my arse. Deal the bloody cards.”
29
PORT OF MIAMI
H alf an hour later, Hawke was on the ground. He stepped off the plane onto the tarmac at Opa-locka Airport. The small field handled general aviation overflow from Miami-Dade and was located just seven miles from Miami International. Hawke saw a dark blue Suburban with heavily tinted windows parked just outside the FBO building, about twenty yards away. The familiar figure of Sergeant Tom Quick was striding his way.
“Welcome to Miami, Skipper,” Quick said, extending his hand. The young blond American fellow, an ex-Army sniper, was Hawke’s chief of security and had been overseeing Blackhawke’s refit in Miami these last few months.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Quick said, taking Hawke’s canvas travel case and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Good to be here,” Hawke said, and meant it. “Cheated death once again, Tommy,” he added, looking back at his gleaming midnight blue airplane. He was always happy to have it on the ground, passengers and airplane all in one piece.
Quick leaned forward and said softly, “A quick update, Skipper. I just got a call from Stokely Jones saying he was on his way to Port of Miami to meet you and wondering if you’d landed. He says he’s got someone he’d like you to meet. A Venezuelan he met down in the Keys. He arrived late last night from Key West where he and his new friend had been in the hospital.”
“Stokely was hurt? How much damage?”
“Nothing life-threatening, I don’t think, but they kept him overnight for observation. According to him, just a scratch. He was badly cut diving on a wreck day before yesterday. Lost a lot of blood. But he sounded upbeat as usual. He says you’ll find his new friend extremely interesting.”
“You have Stokely’s new mobile number here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll call him from the car.”
Congreve had emerged from the plane and, ever the gentleman, was offering Miss Guinness a hand as she descended the few remaining steps to the ground.
“Mr. Congreve, great to see you again,” Tom said, going over to shake hands with Ambrose and relieve him of his carry-on luggage.
“Young Tom, I am delighted to see you as well,” Congreve said, giving Quick his bag. He looked around at the grassy palm-fringed field, stretching his arms skyward and rising up jauntily onto his toes. The man hated flying and was always thrilled to find himself returned to terra firma.
He turned to Quick and said, “Sergeant? May I present Miss Pippa Guinness? Miss Guinness, this strapping young lad is Thomas Quick, formerly of the United States Army and now the man primarily responsible for your security while you’re aboard Blackhawke.”
“Tommy Quick, Miss Guinness,” he said, shaking her hand. “Welcome to the tropics. I’ve got transportation waiting just over there. If everyone’s ready, the stowed luggage will be transferred from the plane while we clear Customs and Immigration. Then we’ll head over to the Port of Miami. We’ve got a piping hot breakfast waiting for you aboard ship.”
“Ship?” she said, eying Hawke. “He owns a ship too?”
“You’ll see,” Quick replied, relieving her of her carry-on luggage.
ABOARD HIS BELOVED Blackhawke at long last, Hawke excused himself shortly after breakfast and made his way forward alone. After an extended journey sealed at high altitude inside an aluminum tube, he was eager for fresh air and solitude. His boat was the only company he needed at present. He wanted to see all of her, feel her, smell her, run his fingers along her varnished rails and gleaming chrome fittings.
Stopping briefly in his aft quarters, he’d gotten quickly out of the gray slacks and black cashmere sweater he’d worn on the flight and slipped eagerly into a familiar old pair of khaki shorts and a faded Royal Navy T- shirt.
The teak decks were warm beneath his bare feet as he made his way toward the bow. Nothing beat the fragrance of freshly scrubbed teak for making a man feel whole again. It signified another trip over the horizon, a new adventure around the next turning. Smiling a salute at passing members of his crew, old friends all, he could literally feel the tension of the last few weeks and months seeping out of him. He reached the deserted bow and gazed down at the sunlit panorama of the great harbor and the blue Atlantic beyond.
Thank God for the sea and the simple light of morning.
Hawke considered for a time how very fortunate he was to be here in this place at this time. And what blessed moments of consolation there sometimes were for all the dark and dangerous hours, the harsh realities of his chosen profession. He was happy to have at least a few days of sun-drenched respite before the grim black work began again. Gray London, the narrow streets shining with rain, was already beginning to recede into distant memory.
Now, standing alone on the foredeck, some thirty feet or more above the water, it was time to widen his horizons a bit. The sun was warm. The clean air, briny with salt, was fresh and cool on his cheek. A tumble of white clouds hid a morning sun climbing the brilliant blue bowl of the eastern sky. Gulls and terns wheeled and cried, diving and swooping over the wrinkled surface of the blue waters of Government Cut.
He took a deep gulp of the salt air, pulled it down the bottom of his lungs and held it until it burned, feeling a purifying fire deep inside his chest.
The boy stood on the burning deck.
Alex smiled at the games his mind played. He was not a man for deep introspection or any kind of angst- ridden self-analysis. He simply didn’t have time or inclination for such stuff. Emotions and feelings were transitory and not to be trusted. Let his actions bloody well define his character, he’d always thought, because, for better or for worse, that’s who he was.
It suddenly occurred to him, as he stood there in the brilliant sunshine, that it wasn’t until a man reached his stage in life that he was ever fully aware of beauty or nature or even changes in weather. It dawned on him that it
