The master terrorist was backed up against the transom at the stern, nowhere to go, waving the rusty fish knife around as if daring Stokely to try to take it away from him. Stoke told him to relax. Then he put both his hands in the air and started slowly toward him in as nonthreatening a fashion as a man his size was capable of.
'Ozzie, listen up, partner. You're fighting way outside your weight division. Flyweights should not get into the ring with heavyweights, it's a well-known fact. Ask anybody.'
He spat out something unprintable in Farsi or whatever.
'Just throw the knife down and no one else has to get hurt,' Stoke said. 'Drop it on the deck and-'
Screaming the now all-too-familiar Islamic war cry, 'Allahu Akbar!' the terrorist charged Stokely, the bloody fish knife raised above his head. Stoke calmly waited for him to strike, then shot out a plate-size hand and vice-clamped al-Wazar's right wrist just as his knife hand started down, pivoted, yanking his arm violently enough to dislocate his shoulder.
In a single, fluid motion Stoke whirled completely around, still gripping the man's wrist, and flung Azir al-Wazar high into the air, whereupon he dropped into a frothing frenzy of the bloodthirsty sharks still circling about twenty yards off Maiden Voyage's stern.
'Hey, Stoke,' Harry said, taking a front-row seat on top of the bait box. His fist pressed deep into his flesh wound to stanch the bleeding, he was watching with some interest the flashing fins circling ever nearer to the screeching and wailing terrorist, now flapping about like a pregnant pelican trying desperately to get airborne.
'Yeah?'
'I think you forgot to inform our little buddy out there of his Miranda rights.'
'Did I? Damn, I think you're right, Harry.'
Stoke lumbered up onto the wide teak transom, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out to the man in the water now boiling with his own blood, the man who'd just tried to kill him and his pal Harry.
In a loud, clear voice, Stoke said, 'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?'
Stoke heard only a very garbled response.
'What'd he say?' Brock asked.
'Hard to tell. If I had to guess, I'd say he's going to exercise his right to remain silent.'
FIFTY
BRIXDEN HOUSE, ANCESTRAL HOME to Lady Diana Mars, and countless forebears both illustrious, nefarious, and notorious, was off the Taplow Common Road. Hawke slowed for the entrance gate, a massive black iron affair topped with numerous large gilded eagles atop marble columns, the birds sufficiently weathered over the centuries as to be discreetly unobtrusive.
Hawke rolled his gleaming black 1956 Ford Thunderbird to a stop just outside the gates and waited for the plainclothes detective to come out of the small guardhouse. While the man checked their names against the guest list, Hawke was content to sit and listen to the sweet rumble of the automobile.
The car had proved a worthy stand-in for the battle-scarred Locomotive, still undergoing massive bodywork after being pummeled with bullets in the assassination attempt. The T-Bird, as he lovingly called it, had the removable hardtop and he'd left the top at home so he and Sahira could enjoy the early August sunshine.
It was clear and unseasonably cool, with late afternoon sunlight like great bars of gold, laying upon the green hills and valleys.
He particularly liked the vintage American car for the lean beauty of its lines, its snarling mouth, and the single flaring nostril of the air intake centered on its bonnet. He'd replaced the stock Ford engine with a huge, low-revving Mercury V-8 of five-liter capacity, and the result was rock-solid performance; the T-Bird was definitely not a precision instrument like a good English sports car, but he counted that a virtue.
'Dr. Karim, Commander Hawke, welcome to Brixden House,' the Scotland Yard man said, smiling as he ticked their names off against their identification and the big iron gates swung inward. 'I hope you enjoy your evening.'
'I'm sure we will,' Hawke said, returning the professional smile. He put the car in gear, accelerated, and turned to Sahira to say, 'Welcome to the infamous den of spies. You'll feel right at home.'
Hawke motored slowly up the long, meandering drive. Sahira seemed to be enjoying the view over vast acres of parklike grounds offering occasional glimpses of classical statuary, sloping green lawns, lakes, and one or two small Greek temples.
'I'm sorry. Did you say 'den of spies'?' she asked a few moments later.
'I did. This place will be full of them tonight, but that's not what I meant. Over the years, Brixden House acquired a very sketchy reputation-you've heard of the 'Brixden Set'?'
'Not really, no.'
'In the prewar years, a circle formed around Diana's great-grandmother, the Viscountess. Brixden House became a de facto salon for a right-wing, aristocratic group of politically influential individuals. The Viscountess hosted splendid parties for her friends, which surely included hot-and cold-running Germans, some of them undoubtedly spies. This Germanophile cabal was not only in favor of the appeasement of Adolf Hitler, but also of promoting friendly relations with Nazi Germany.'
'Fascinating,' she said, her eyes on the magnificent Italianate palace standing atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a graceful bend in the gently flowing Thames. Dusk was near, and every window, large or small, was blazing with light.
'Ah, but the best was yet to come. The 'Swinging Sixties' brought fresh scandal to the house. It was apparently the scene of wildly decadent sex parties. Including the one where Cabinet Minister John Profumo met and bedded Christine Keeler. A woman who just happened to be simultaneously sleeping with a Soviet agent. Profumo went down in flames and so did Harold Macmillan's government.'
Sahira smiled. 'Well, you've certainly given me a gold mine of information for dinner table conversation.'
'Diana wouldn't mind, I assure you. She's a splendid lady, feet on the ground, a woman who seldom lets anyone or anything bother her. Ambrose is a very, very lucky man to have found her.'
'He is lucky, isn't he, Alex? So very lucky,' Sahira said, a sudden sadness in her eyes. It was, he thought, a shared sadness for both of them.
EVERY ROOM WAS ALIGHT WITH CHANDELIERS, flaming candles, sparkling diamonds, and bubbling crystal flutes of pink champagne; clinking wineglasses, laughter, and music filled every room with sounds of honest joy for the happy couple. In a far corner, a society band flung Gershwin memories into the smoke and chatter.
Hawke and Sahira made their way through the crowded great hall, a splendid room with its grand fireplace, soaring ceiling, and the famous John Singer Sargent portrait of Diana's great-grandmother that hung to the left of the wide hearth. People would turn to smile in appreciation when they entered new rooms. Hawke and Sahira saw in their eyes the flattering reflection, as if the two of them were some kind of double Narcissus.
Hands touched jeweled arms over and under the white tables. Under the spell of music, the vivid gowns and starched white shirt-fronts swayed together, a vibrant rhythm of dancers circulating in the semidarkness of the candlelit ballroom. Among the passive observers around the edge of the floor, suits of gleaming armor stood guard against walls hung with faded tapestries and large gilt-framed portraits of Lady Diana's long forgotten royal ancestry.
Countless searching eyes instantly shifted toward the exquisite Indian woman on Hawke's arm. Sahira looked resplendent in a simple sari of blazing crimson embellished with gold embroidery. It was the first time Hawke had ever seen her with her dark hair up, held in place by two golden combs, and he had to admit it only made her all the more alluring.
'Ready?' Hawke asked her, looking for an opening in the crowd. He'd seen Diana and Ambrose across the room, receiving guests by the fireplace. Having plucked two champagne glasses from the liveried steward, he moved in their direction.
