and Pelham was not at all sure how much more of it he could withstand.
'A nice, frosty daiquiri, Pelham. Made with those lovely bananas. Gave me the idea, just seeing that splendid bushel of yours, fresh cut from the grove.'
'I intended to bake banana bread, sir.'
'Well, you've got more than enough there for both, I should think. Throw a couple in the blender will you, and whip up something frothy to get my juices flowing. The old 'eye-opener,' as your famous literary relative's character Bertram Wooster used to say. By the way, what time did I get home last night? Any idea at all?'
'None, sir.'
'He strikes again, does he not?'
'Who strikes, sir?'
'The Midnight Kamikaze. Isn't that what you called me the other night? Misplaced my key so I climbed in through the kitchen window as I recall.'
'Such colorful phraseology is well beyond the limits of my verbal palette, sir, but perhaps if the shoe fits.'
Pelham ducked behind the monkey-wood bar and started making the daiquiri. His lordship, much heartened, smiled at the all-too-familiar whir of the antique Waring blender. Tempted as he was, Pelham knew better than to try to fudge on the silver jigger of Gosling's rum. His lordship would notice, then fall into one of his black moods, thinking everyone, even Pelham, was out to deprive or deceive him in some fashion.
The 'black dog,' Hawke's euphemism for his periodic bouts of depression, was back, and the once cheerful little bungalow was now the snarling canine's fiercely guarded turf.
Mistrust and paranoia had been the common threads running through Hawke's existence ever since he'd returned to Bermuda from the tragic events in Russia and Stockholm. It had been over a year ago now. Pelham shook his head sadly, switching off the blender. There was nothing he could do for the poor man. Nothing anyone could do, really. Not anymore. And many had tried.
To Pelham's chagrin, Ambrose Congreve, a man who had practically raised Hawke from boyhood, had had no end of heart-to-heart 'talks' with his lordship about his self-destructive behavior, all to little or no avail. Congreve's fiancee, Lady Mars, had even taken him to see some kind of 'nerve specialist' a few times in Hamilton, but there'd been some kind of a dreadful row at the office and they'd never returned to the doctor.
Hawke said, 'Must have been out quite late, then. I suppose I had a marvelous time. I always do. I've an absolute gift for jollity, it seems. Always have had.'
He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh and mercifully short-lived.
'Yes, sir. Shall I make luncheon? If your medical appointment is for two, you should leave here by half one, latest. So you won't be rushed.'
'Yes, I suppose I should eat something, shouldn't I? I can't seem to recall if I ate anything yesterday or not.'
'What would you like, sir?'
'I don't really care, to be honest. Whatever's in the fridge that hasn't turned black should do nicely. I think I'll take that marvelous daiquiri down to the beach. Get a bit of sun. I'm looking dreadfully pale these days, wouldn't you agree? A mere ghost of my former self.'
Indeed you are, sir, Pelham thought, but kept his mouth shut. If not a ghost, then soon to be one.
Pelham handed Hawke the frosty rum cocktail. 'Sunshine is a splendid idea, sir. Perhaps a swim as well. Do you a world of good, a bit of exercise. Why, I remember when you'd swim six miles every single day, m'lord. All the way up the coast to Bloody Bay and back. Nothing better for one than a good long open ocean swim, you always said.'
'Mmm, yes. Well. Perhaps a dip, if I can summon the energy for it. Call me up when luncheon is served, dear fellow. I might be napping down there. Dreadfully tired, lately. Don't know the reason. Perhaps the good doctor can shed some light on it. Middle age creeping up on one, like a thief in the night, stealing one's vim and vigor, I suppose. How old am I, Pelham? Last birthday, I mean.'
'You recently turned thirty-three, sir.'
'My birthdays are celebrated with ever-diminishing pomp and even less circumstance, have you noticed that, Pelham?'
'You specified cake, no candles, sir.'
'Well, there you have it, don't you? The inevitable downhill slide begins! God, let's hope it's short and sweet.'
And with that Pelham watched as Alex Hawke rose unsteadily from his chaise longue. He made his way, shuffling at a snail's pace, out onto the terrace, headed for the steps leading down to the beach, the crescent gleam of his daiquiri glass glinting ominously in the noonday sun.
TWO
AT TWO THIRTY THAT SAME FRIDAY afternoon, late for his appointment as usual, Alex Hawke roared into the parking lot of King Edward VII hospital, the old motorcycle going much too fast, and he skidded dangerously on a patch of loose gravel, almost dropping the bike. Almost. He recovered, quite nicely, he thought, dismounted, and leaned the lovely old Norton Commando still unscathed against the trunk of a shady mango tree.
He pulled a packet of Morlands Special Blend from his breast pocket and fired one up with the old gunmetal Zippo he'd carried ever since his navy flying days. One of the great attractions of smoking once again, he thought, was that his old Zippo was back in service again. He even loved the feel of it in his trouser pocket once more, a small comfort perhaps, but still.
His right hand was shaking pretty badly, but he got the damn thing lit and it calmed him considerably while he crossed the car park toward the hospital's main entrance. He was definitely not looking forward to this encounter with Dr. Nigel Prestwicke. The man was an internist recommended to him by his boss at MI6, Sir David Trulove, otherwise known as 'C.'
Prestwicke, before coming out to Bermuda, had been C's personal physician in London. Hawke had no doubt the results of his recent physical had already been privately forwarded to a disapproving Trulove. It was against the law to share medical information without patient approval, of course, but then, C thought he was the law.
Hawke was already twelve months into an extended medical leave from the Service. He'd not been out to his office at Bermuda's Royal Navy Dockyards once. Red Banner, his own covert intelligence unit of MI6, ran agents in Moscow and, now, in Havana and Caracas as well. He'd heard his young staff, Benji Griswold and Symington Fyfe, were chafing under the iron rule of the velvet-handed Miss Pippa Guinness, an old flame, but he had done nothing about it. He'd recently told C he needed a bit more time to pull himself together.
C would not be happy with his notable lack of progress.
'Good afternoon, Alex,' Prestwicke said, perhaps a bit too cheery getting to his feet, a formless Colonel Blimp, tall and unevenly bulbous in his long white jacket, with twin shocks of white hair sprouting from his bald pate. He extended a reasonably dry hand and Alex shook it across the desk and took a chair.
'A cup of tea?' the man asked, reaching for a cup. 'Fresh brewed.'
'No, thank you.'
A silence ensued as Prestwicke fussed with his own tea and lemon, glancing at the charts and reports scattered about his desk. He was too shocked at his patient's appearance for words. Lord Alexander Hawke had once been one of the more startlingly good-looking men he'd ever seen in his life. Now, sitting there in the strong sunlight from the window, his face looked as cold as stone and his eyes looked three days dead.
Six feet plus and not an ounce of fat on him, he'd been in remarkable shape for a man in his early thirties. Hunter-killer type, professional, although no one on the island save Ambrose Congreve and a few others knew his real background. Still, Hawke had long been considered a devastating prize, even by women who'd not the slightest clue as to his lordly identity or the size of his fortune.
No more. His speech was slurred and rough. His normally sun-bronzed skin was greyish, his eyes bleary, his dark hair long and unclean; and his strong-boned face was charred with the black of a three-day-old beard that did nothing for him. He'd gone to fat, too, having gained a considerable amount of weight around the middle since his last visit. Obvious, despite the navy blue guayabera, a pleated Cuban shirt, worn outside the waistband of his white
