“Not even an airbag?” Congreve said, running his fingers along the wicker dash.
“Oh, I daresay it’s got one now,” Hawke said, engaging first gear. “On the passenger side at any rate.”
“Go, go, go,” the detective said, searching in vain for a seatbelt. “Let’s get this Mad Hatter’s wild ride over with.”
Hawke laughed, popped the clutch, and started off along the gently winding drive that traversed the shaded narrow length of Lady Mars’s Shadowlands estate. They drove the first few minutes in silence, the famous detective somehow maintaining an immutable scowl despite his deceptively innocent baby blue eyes and rakish mustache.
“Looking rather gay for our luncheon with C,” Hawke said finally, glancing over at his friend’s natty attire. Congreve was wearing lime-green Bermuda shorts with navy-blue knee socks, a Navy blazer, a pink shirt, and a pink and white madras bow tie. Tortoiseshell sunglasses completed the look. On his head was a straw boater.
“
“As in festive, Ambrose. It was meant as a simple compliment. Shorts are a bit nancy for my taste, but what do I know?”
“Exactly.”
Hawke turned left out of Shadowlands’ bougainvillea-covered stone portals and onto the South Road. They were heading east past the Spittal Pond Nature Reserve on their left. It was another perfect day in paradise, Hawke thought, brightly colored birds darting about flowering woods and tropical gardens on either side of the road. When he came to Trimingham Road, he whipped the little yellow buggy around to the right, coming to the first of two roundabouts that would lead him to the town of Hamilton proper.
Two cruise ships were moored along Front Street, and the charming old town was crowded with automobile traffic, motor scooters, and pedestrians. He looked at his watch. They were already ten minutes late, and C did not like to be kept waiting. He’d sounded very serious when he’d called, wanting Hawke and Ambrose to join him at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club at noon sharp. He wanted to discuss the status of Red Banner and hear their thoughts on getting the thing up and running.
“Ah! Hold on to your hat, Constable!” Hawke had spied a fleeting opening between an enormous cement truck and a taxi and inserted the little Jolly between them, just catching the green light by so doing.
“I say!” Ambrose said, giving him a stern look.
“Sorry. Look, here we are, and you’re still intact.”
“Shaken to the core by that last maneuver.”
Hawke smiled as he put the wheel hard over, and the little Jolly sailed into port. He pulled into the yacht club’s car park, finding a spot beneath a large ficus shade tree, and they climbed out. The club was at the end of a short street, situated at Albuoy’s Point, right on the harbor. The RBYC was a large, distinguished building, painted what Hawke could only describe as an odd Bermudian shade of plum. Like many things here, it would certainly look strange in London, but somehow it worked on the island.
They passed through the entrance where stood a beautiful old binnacle atop a compass rose in inlaid marble. A portrait of the queen hung to the left of the door leading to the small paneled bar where C had asked Hawke to meet him. It was a charming room of highly varnished Bermuda cedar, filled with ancient silver regatta trophies and faded yacht burgees from decades past. An elderly barman smiled at them as they entered.
C was waiting at a corner table beneath a window overlooking the club docks beyond. He stood up when the two men entered.
“Alex, Ambrose, hullo! Please order a drink, won’t you both?”
He didn’t seem at all aware of the fact that they were fifteen minutes late. Or, if he was, he was certainly nonchalant about it. Bermuda was good medicine for Sir David Trulove. Hell, it was good for all of them, Alex thought.
The beautiful little bar was empty. Still, Hawke thought it a strangely public place for discussing the establishment of a top-secret British counterintelligence operation.
“Don’t worry, Alex,” C said, seeming to read his mind. “We’re not lunching here. My dear old friend Dick Pearman, whose guest house I’m using, has generously offered the use of his yacht
“Pearman?” Congreve said. “Is he Bermudian?”
“Sixteenth generation. Why?”
“Had Dick and Jeanne for tea last week. Lovely couple. Did you know he’s the All-England croquet champion, Sir David?”
Hawke smiled at all this benign gentility and turned his attention to the faded yacht burgees hanging round the room. He’d once invited Ambrose to a croquet match at Hawkesmoor and Congreve, who loved only golf, had replied, “Croquet? Do you think I’m a barbarian?”
Congreve and Hawke got their drinks and followed C outside into the bright sunshine, headed toward the club docks.
When the three men were comfortably seated at the semicircular banquette on
Trulove said, “First, I’m extremely grateful to both of you for agreeing to this scheme. I predict Red Banner will one day prove critical in our dealings with this former foe, now reinvigorated.”
“Alex and I are deeply gratified by your confidence in us,” Ambrose said.
“Indeed, sir,” Hawke said. “I’ve been reading the dossiers Miss Guinness provided. I think your assessment of a renewed Russian threat to her neighbors is well founded. We’d both appreciate some sense of how you see Red Banner coming together to combat it.”
“Yes,” C said, forming a temple with his fingertips and resting his prominent chin on it. This was, of course, his subject, the one true love of his life, and he warmed to it quickly and with enthusiasm.
“First things first, lads. Let’s touch on the status of our adversary for a moment. Russia is, of course, our old enemy, and from all appearances, she still regards us as such. It will no doubt come as a shock to you to learn that the firm’s recent intelligence indicates Russia is again contemplating some future war with the United States and NATO. We know this because we have intercepted her new military doctrine, replacing the one published in 2000. Doctrines, as you both well know, let military commanders know what they should be preparing for.”
“Old habits die hard,” Hawke said.
“Yes. Russia clearly still sees herself and her former client states as under siege by the U.S. and NATO and a target for domination by the West. This is the result of seven decades of Communist insecurity and paranoia regarding the West. When East European nations began joining NATO and the European Union, well, this got the Russians extremely peeved. They liked their old borders. My guess is they’d like to have them back.”
“Understandable,” Hawke said. “Were I in their shoes, I might feel exactly the same way.”
“Fair enough. At any rate, the Kremlin fired off all manner of nastygrams and sent them westward. They were not happy about losing the Cold War, Alex, and they are still clearly nervous about aggression from Western Europe, especially Germany and France, both of which have invaded Russia in the past two centuries.”
“Germany, I understand,” Hawke said with a wry smile, “but France?”
“The French recently invaded Oman at the behest of the Chinese, as you should remember, Alex.”
“I can understand Russia’s residual anger at having lost the Cold War,” Congreve said, “but this level of paranoia is perplexing, if not downright ludicrous.”
“It is, indeed, from a Western perspective. But it’s our job to understand what makes this new Rostov regime tick, and that will be a big part of Red Banner’s mission.”
“Sir David,” Alex said, leaning forward, “how do you envision Red Banner from an organizational point of view?”
“Ah, that will be your primary responsibility, Alex. I myself see Red Banner, or RB, as a straightforward OPINTEL organization. Operations, supported by intelligence. Basically, here on Bermuda, a real-time watch floor and support organization. One that will provide instant information and support during covert operations vis-a-vis the Russians.”
“Similar structure to America’s NSA for SIGINT support to OPS?” Alex said, slipping easily into the jargon he so
