“I’m turning it on now.”
She heard the click of a switch and the whirr of the little fan on the lid.
She fought the restraints, twisting and turning her body on the bed, feeling the thin plastic cuffs cutting into her wrists, her ankles, knowing it was useless but fighting it until she had nothing left.
He watched her, looking down at her struggles with amused detachment.
Exhausted, she let her head fall back against the pillow, felt hot tears running down her cheeks, looking up at the monster looming over her bed, defeated.
“What about my-what about my children?”
“Already sound asleep,” he said, taking a clear plastic nose cone attached to a long hose and placing it over her nose and mouth. She screamed again and twisted her head violently from side to side, holding her breath, knowing she couldn’t allow this stuff down into her lungs, because if she did, she would surely just…
A moment later, she was asleep forever, too.
37
Pippa Guinness stuck her pert blonde head inside the door of Hawke’s new office at Blue Water Logistics. The Dockyard offices were nice enough. His own space was bright and airy, a corner office on the top floor, with sunny views on two sides overlooking the open ocean to the north and Hamilton Harbor to the south. On the ramparts, huge cannons stared out to sea. Furniture was a bit
“Alex? They’re almost ready for you in the Tank. C says ten minutes?”
Hawke and Harry Brock both looked up and nodded in her direction. She was wearing a short pink linen skirt and a tight-fitting blouse opened at the neck, and Hawke was viscerally aware of Brock’s spiking blood pressure.
“Ten minutes,” Pippa said again, smiling sweetly at the two men seated by the window, and then she pulled the door closed behind her.
“Who the living hell was that?” Harry Brock asked Hawke. Harry was leaning back in the ultramodern leather and steel Eames chair. His feet, shod in wildly inappropriate flip-flops, were propped up on the black leather ottoman covered with newspapers, sailing and motorcycle magazines, a few shipping trade papers, and copies of
“That?” Hawke said, affecting an air of boredom. “That, Harry, was Pippa Guinness. Why do you ask?”
“Why do I ask? Are you kidding me? That is the single most gorgeous piece of ass on the big blue planet, and you are asking me
“She has her good points.”
“Two at the very least. That is one tasty little creampuff, boss.”
“A creampuff made on a welding machine,” Hawke replied, skimming through his folder for the upcoming meeting.
“What’s she do around here, anyway? And don’t tell me that’s your secretary. I will have you killed, m’lord.”
“She runs the joint, actually.”
“I thought you ran the joint.”
“I do. Off the books. But Pippa is the acting chief of station. I plan to travel a lot, as you know. She’ll mind the store while we’re in Russia. Ambrose, when he recovers enough to leave his wheelchair, will pitch in as well.”
Harry clasped his interlocking fingers behind his head and started singing, “Back in the U.S.S.R., boys, you don’t know how lucky you are, boys,” he said, almost getting the Beatles tune right.
“Yeah. It’s been a while for me. I’m guessing Moscow has changed a bit.”
Harry laughed out loud.
“You will not believe your eyes, comrade. The Communist Party World Headquarters is now a dilapidated two- story dump on a side street. They serve warm champagne in the lobby, trying to get people to come inside. Read all the fascinating Stalin, Lenin, and Trotsky FAQ brochures.”
“I wonder what the most frequently asked question about Trotsky might be.”
“As if anyone had any questions at all anymore.” Harry laughed. “Right across the street is the new Ferrari- Maserati dealership. Much better brochures over there, believe me.”
Hawke smiled and got to his feet, glancing at his watch.
“How’s Stoke doing down in Miami, Harry? Happy?”
“Over the moon. His fiancee just got this big movie deal, but I’m not so sure about the two guys she’s signing with. The fucking Russian oligarchs bought the whole Miramar motion-picture studio with cash and are signing every beauteous babe in Miami, Vegas, and La-La.”
“Have they actually made a movie yet?”
“Hell no. But she’s signed on to do some singing gig on an airship. Flying with a bunch of celebs across the Atlantic. Something to do with the Nobel Prize, I think.”
“Airship?”
“Yeah. Called
Hawke looked at Brock but didn’t say anything.
“Let’s go, Harry. Doesn’t pay to keep the king waiting.” Hawke slipped into the grey and white seersucker blazer that he’d hung on the back of the door.
“The king? Is there a problem between you and your boss I should know about?”
“Yeah. Pippa. She’s driving me crazy. Always looking over my shoulder. But I can’t do a damn thing about it right now. C wants her here to keep an eye on things. Which means keep an eye on me, basically.”
“Want me to take her off your hands?”
“How would you do that, Harry?”
“Offer her a glamorous new life as the new Mrs. Harry Brock. Take her away from all this.”
“I thought you were already married.”
“My divorce finally came through. Only took seven years. It’s high time I married somebody else I hate and gave her a house.”
“But you were obviously in love with the Brazilian special forces woman we met in the Amazon. Saladin’s sister, Caparina. Now, there was a woman, Harry.”
“I am in love with her. Love is exponential, Alex. You should know that at your age.”
“Let’s go, Harry.”
THE TANK WAS the secure conference room on the second floor. It was in the very middle of the building, accessible only from the third floor by a single private elevator. The lift had a keypad and required a retinal scan to operate. Outside the secure room were cubby holes for all cell phones and BlackBerrys. There was a metal detector at the door and two Royal Marines standing guard on either side. This single room was probably the most secure place on the Atlantic Ocean, Hawke imagined.
C looked up as Harry and Hawke entered. He smiled, got to his feet, and shook hands, first with Alex, then with Brock. Hawke noticed three other men at the table, plus, of course, Pippa Guinness. He’d also noticed Sir David’s black eye, courtesy of the Jamaicans on Nonsuch Island. It seemed better today but was still visible. Ambrose had been in bed ever since that night, but he was recovering nicely.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Would you like any coffee? Tea?” Sir David said.
Brock and Hawke both declined and took the last two seats available at the round table in the center of the small, completely sound-insulated room.
“I’d like to introduce our friend Professor Stefanovich Halter, just arrived from Moscow,” C said, smiling at a tall,
