THREE
HAD TO BE THE MIDDLE of the night, but Hawke awoke with no memory of falling asleep. Pelham must have put him to bed again. Given him a blue pill. He cracked a wary eye. Pale blue moon-beams streamed through the seaward windows onto his bedcovers. Odd. There seemed to be a persistent knocking at his door. At this hour? He could hear the sea below, boiling and hissing on the rocks. More knocking. Real knocking, or a dream?
A dream, he decided, but, clawing for the surface, he called out anyway, 'Yes? Who is it?'
'Pelham, m'lord. A call for you, sir.'
'Call? At this hour of the night? You must be joking. Christ in heaven. Well, then, do come in.'
His old friend pushed into the small bedroom and came to stand at Hawke's bedside where he turned on the table lamp. There was a half-empty bottle of Gosling's Black Seal 151 rum standing there, guilty, on the table. No glass, no ice, no water. Just the bottle. No dream, just more awful bloody reality.
Hawke said, blinking up at the Pelham phantasm hovering just beyond the light, 'Take a number, please, Pelham. Tell them I'll ring back in the morning. First thing. There's a good fellow.' He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.
Pelham sat on the edge of the bed. He put his hand on Hawke's shoulder and squeezed it gently.
'I really do think you should take this call, sir. I wouldn't dream of disturbing you otherwise.'
'I really don't want to talk to anyone. Leave me alone. I'm asleep.'
'You want to take this call, sir. I promise you. He's waiting on the line.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, Pelham. Who in God's name is it?'
'The Prince, sir.'
'The prince? The prince of bloody what?'
'His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, sir.'
'Charles?'
'Indeed, sir. His Royal Highness is on the phone right now. Very insistent on speaking with you. I told him you were…indisposed.'
'I bloody well am indisposed. Waiting, is he? On the phone?'
'I believe I mentioned that,' Pelham said, giving it Hawke's exact intonation.
'Well, why didn't you say so? Charles, you say? Christ in heaven.'
Pelham hurried toward the door, wrapping his thin woolen robe round his frail body, his leather bed slippers slap-slapping the floor. 'I'll tell His Royal Highness you'll be with him momentarily, sir. Meanwhile, perhaps a pot of coffee?'
'Yes, yes, black coffee. Where the hell did I put that blasted terry robe of mine?'
'You don't own a terry robe, sir.'
'I don't? My rugby shirt, then. The good one with the hole in it.'
'Hanging on the bedstead, sir. Here, I'll give you a hand with it.'
Hawke shouldered into the crappy old thing and trailed Pelham down the hall and into the main room. Teakettle Cottage had but one ancient telephone, an old black Bakelite model that sat on the monkey-wood bar where Flynn and Niven, Fleming and Hemingway once reigned.
Hawke plunked down on one of the tall wicker bar stools, picked up the receiver, covered the mouthpiece with his hand, coughed once or twice, and then, as cheerfully parched as he could manage, said, 'Charles?'
'Alex? Is that you on the line?'
'It is, indeed, sir. Lovely to hear from you.'
'Sorry about the dreadful hour.'
'I was just turning out the light, sir. Reading Trollope. Heavy sledding.'
'Are you quite all right, Alex? I understand you've been not at all well.'
'All the better for hearing your voice, sir. Seems an age since we've spoken.'
'All my fault, I'm afraid. I'm brutally terrible at keeping up with old friends. I was so completely devastated to hear about your dreadful loss in Stockholm last year. Heartbreaking news. I do hope you got my note.'
'I did. Thank you for that.'
'Any rate, marvelous to hear your voice again.'
'And yours as well, sir.'
'Alex, look here, I am so awfully sorry to be disturbing you at this ungodly hour, but I'm afraid I need your help. Need it quite badly in point of fact. You're the only one I can turn to now.'
Pelham had handed Hawke a mug of steaming coffee and he'd downed it in one draught and raised the mug for a refill.
'Anything at all, sir. You know that. What can I do for you?'
'I need you back here in England.'
'What on earth is the matter, Charles?'
'I'm afraid my boys, perhaps even my mother, are in danger. Mortal danger, in fact. Of course, Scotland Yard, MI5, MI6, all are ramping up to speed as best they can. But it may not be enough. It's a sense I have. A deep foreboding that someone is brutally determined to murder the entire Royal Family. They simply must be stopped.'
'Are the police watching anyone? Any suspects?'
'Of course.'
'But it's not enough.'
'Precisely.'
'Of course I'll be there, Charles. You might have to give me a week or so to pull myself together. I'm a bit of a wreck lately, to be honest.'
'You're going through a rough patch, Alex, I know. I've talked to Sir David only this morning. Take whatever time you need to get your strength up, but do come as quickly as possible. Time is not on our side, I fear.'
Hawke paused a moment, trying to assemble what was left of his wits. It was a ragtag scattering, and it took every last ounce of his mental energy.
'Charles, one thing. You must have some sense of where this threat is coming from?'
'I do. Some weeks ago, I was here in my library at Highgrove, randomly paging through some old books left me by Uncle Dickie, my godfather, Lord Mountbatten.'
'Yes.'
'Something fell from the pages of one of the books as I opened it, a book by an Irish author he admired. A History of the Troubles. These volumes had been among those in his library at Classiebawn Castle. You remember it, his summer home in Northern Ireland. I think you visited with me more than a few times as a child.'
'On Mullaghmore Head. Of course, I remember.'
'Where he was assassinated, that IRA operation. After the investigation, two men were arrested, Francis McGirl and Thomas McMahon. Professional bomb makers for the Provisional IRA. McGirl was cleared, reasonable doubt. McMahon was sentenced to life imprisonment. However, at the time of the explosion he was seventy miles away-in police custody, no less. He's out now, by the way, Alex. Early release.'
'Obviously a suspect.'
'One of many.'
'Why in God's name was McGirl freed?'
'Good question. Lack of evidence. We need to find out who was behind that.'
'What did you find in Uncle Dickie's book, Charles?'
'A handwritten note, some mad scrawl. I have it in my hand. I'll read it.
''Your family bled us white, our blood is eternally on your hands. You cut us to pieces. You will all die. If it takes forever. Revenge is best savoured slowly.''
Hawke drew a sharp breath, gathering his wits about him. For the first time in months he could actually feel his blood coursing through the veins again. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong.
'Good Lord, Charles. Was the thing signed?'
