and pronounced it “Extraordinary.” The food at Black’s, Hawke’s private club on St. James, was one of the many reasons he and Hawke often made it their meeting place of choice-especially when invited to lunch by Sir David Trulove. C was not a member but, knowing that Hawke had a personal budget roughly as large as that of MI6, never declined Hawke’s invitation to dine there.
They always chose a corner table in the lounge. It was extremely private, for one thing, and the tall windows provided exquisite lighting, rain or shine. Today the sun lay like golden bars across the ancient Persian carpets. The room’s dark walnut paneling rose magnificently to a white vaulted ceiling, the walls hung with portraits of distinguished members long dead, including the club’s first reigning arbiter elegantiarum, Beau Brummell (who claimed to take five hours to dress and polished his boots with champagne), Horatio Walpole, Edward VII, Randolph Churchill, and the brilliant novelist Evelyn Waugh.
The table was cleared of the luncheon china and as soon as the waitstaff had disappeared into the shadows, Congreve fired up his pipe, expelled a blue plume, and set his eyes on Sir David. It was a rule at Black’s that one did not discuss business, but Congreve still subscribed to historian Sir Michael Howard’s pronouncement in 1985 that “So far as official government policy is concerned, the British security and intelligence services do not exist. Enemy agents are found under gooseberry bushes and intelligence is brought by the storks.”
That being the case, the famous criminalist blithely returned to the matter at hand.
“Sir David,” he said, “please continue. You were saying that the CIA has come up with something that warrants attention. Something that has to do with the recent spate of attacks by some nameless, faceless enemy and apparently with the power to seize control of our own most sophisticated weapons systems and use them against us. As we saw in Israel just last week in the Negev Desert.”
“Indeed, it’s a bloody nightmare and it appears to be spreading,” C said, crossing his legs and adjusting the crease of his chalk-striped navy suit. “Director Kelly and I had a long chat last evening. I think he may have something of interest. The first break we’ve had. I know you’re both aware of the American Nobel laureate who recently committed suicide?”
“Yes,” Hawke said, “Dr. Waldo Cohen, a pioneer in the field of artificial intelligence. Did top-secret work for the American Defense Department looking for ways to utilize AI and quantum computing to leapfrog ahead in twenty-first-century cyberwarfare, to create weapons with the help of some kind of machine with superhuman intelligence.”
Congreve coughed discreetly and said, “Seems to me it’s our frog that’s been leaped.”
“It certainly does,” C said, “and I’m looking to the two of you to find out who the hell that bloody frog-leaper is. We can’t sit back and let the bastards continue these attacks unabated. We’ve got to get to the source. Find out who’s behind this and exactly what kind of technology they’ve developed. That’s your assignment. Understood?”
“Certainly, sir,” Hawke said. “You said Director Kelly mentioned a break in the case?”
“Yes. He attended Dr. Cohen’s funeral in California along with President McCloskey and the secretary of defense. After the service, he had a long and interesting discussion with Cohen’s widow. She’s convinced it wasn’t a suicide. She told Kelly her husband had been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Congreve said. “I read in the Times that he’d shot himself and his dog.”
C continued, “She believes he was acting in some kind of trance. Induced over the telephone, electronically. A call he received just after dinner.”
“You mean, sir, there’s a possibility someone took control of his mind and… used it against him,” Hawke said. “Just like the other attacks.”
“Precisely, Alex.”
“Good Lord,” Congreve said. “Mind control, too.”
Hawke looked at him and said, “Congreve and I will leave for the States immediately, sir. We’ll want to speak with the widow at length. I agree with Brick Kelly’s assessment. This could be a real break.”
“One more thing, Alex. She said she found a note. Not a suicide note, just something he’d scrawled on a pad beside the phone in his laboratory. On it was a single word scrawled in Cohen’s hand: Darius. And beneath that name, an equation. Something to do with the speed of light.”
At that moment a liveried steward appeared at their table, visibly trembling, his face as white as a sheet.
“My lord Hawke. Frightfully sorry to have disturbed you. We’ve just received a call from St. Thomas’s Hospital. I regret to inform you there’s been an accident. In Hyde Park, sir, and-”
“My son!” Hawke said, stricken, leaping to his feet.
“Your son suffered minor cuts and contusions, m’lord. But his nursemaid has been gravely injured. If you’ll come with me, the police at the hospital are waiting on the private line.”
Hawke raced from the room, grim-faced and angry.
“Good Lord,” Congreve said, deeply shaken. “The bloody Russians. Another attempt on the boy’s life. This is the third.”
“Chief Inspector. This cannot continue.”
“Indeed, Sir David. We need to find a way to send these people a very, very strong signal.”
“It may be too late.”
“Sorry?”
“One of my chaps in Moscow, SAS officer named Concasseur, code name ‘Wellington,’ has penetrated an organization called the Tsarist Society. A confederacy of ideologues, thieves, and killers for hire posing as a gentlemen’s club. They have a hit list long as your arm. Concasseur has managed to obtain that list through a paid informant inside the club. He reports three names at the top. Putin is number one. The child, Alexei Hawke, is number two. Alex Hawke himself is number three. Revenge murders for Alex’s assassination of their beloved Tsar. With Putin’s assistance, of course.”
“Bugger all.”
“Precisely, Chief Inspector. I suggest we get cracking. I’ll put in a call to Concasseur immediately. See what he can find out from his contact on the inside. We’ll need specific names before we can go after anyone inside that Society of Murder.”
Thirty-two
Miami
Stokely Jones Jr. was wearing mirrored Ray-Ban aviators and a XXXL Vineyard Vines bathing suit with red sharks all over it. He was stretched out on a pink-and-white chaise longue beside the infinity pool at his palatial home on Key Biscayne. His new wife, Fancha, had inherited the gorgeous bayside estate known as Casa Que Canta, when her late, extremely wealthy husband passed away some years earlier. The late and unloved Joey Mancuso had been a Chicago nightclub owner, among other things, and no one ever accused him of being strictly legit.
Fancha once told Stoke that Joey had always claimed to have invented the rum and Coke. The rum and Coke? What else was there to say about the guy?
Emerald-green lawns swept down from the pool to a white sandy beach fringed with palms. Out on the sparkling blue bay, scores of white sails crisscrossed, tacking to and fro in the fresh breeze. The walled estate was on a small private island called Low Key. You couldn’t find it if you tried, so don’t even bother.
Stoke called his new residence God’s Little Acre, although there were actually ten of them surrounding him. The large eleven-bedroom home was a dazzling white palazzo situated atop a small hill surrounded by dense green jungle. The architecture was, Stoke had learned, a blend of Spanish, Moorish, and Italianate influences, built around a tranquil garden courtyard, home to splashing fountains, bougainvillea, and colorful tropical birds.
He even had a cook, a gardener, and a houseman named Charles who wore white jackets with shiny brass buttons and called Mrs. Stokely Jones Jr. “Madame” for short.
He liked it here. It was, well, homey.
It was Sunday morning in Miami and Stokely was reading a long article in the Herald ’s sports section about how the Dolphins were poised for a winning season come September. Winning? Dolphins? In one sentence? He put the paper down and sipped his banana smoothie, his brow furrowed in thought.
