by Ted Bell
“Sí, sí. But the mountain is in the way, no?”
“Claro que sí,” Castro said in agreement, looking down through the lexan nose of the cockpit at the green mountain now fast disappearing between his feet.
“They have surveyor’s maps. Showing three or four possibilities, no one better than the others. So, he asks them what they would do, since they have no basis for a decision. The pilot says he would clear the forest on the left side of the mountain and put his railroad there. The copilot says no, it would be simpler to go around to the right where the river has already cleared the trees. I paraphrase, of course, but this is the point. No one is sure.”
“It’s an excellent parable, Comandante.”
“It’s not finished, Manso,” Castro said sharply. He looked at his pilot. “Is something wrong? You are pale. You sweat.”
“No, no, Comandante, I feel fine. A little too much chorizo at lunch, I think. Please. Continue with the story.”
“If you’re ill, it’s dangerous. We should land.”
“Is nothing, I promise. Please tell me the end.” And, after regarding his pilot carefully for several seconds, Castro did.
“This producer, Monroe Stahr, he was a boy genius. He said to the pilots that since you can’t test the best way, you just do it. Pick a way, any way, use powder and nitroglycerine and simply blast your way right through. He said that, then he left the cockpit.”
“Ah,” Manso said.
“You do not understand the parable, my old friend, neither did the two pilots in the story. They thought it was valuable advice, but they didn’t know how to use it. It is the difference between us, Manso. I learned long ago that the best way out is always through. Never around.”
Madre de Dios, Manso thought. Does he know? Suspect? What is the point of this story if he does not?
Manso elected to make no reply, and they flew for another hour in silence. It was the longest hour of Manso’s life.
When they were some fifteen minutes away from landing at Telaraña, Manso finally broke the silence.
“Comandante,” he said, “do you remember a certain Petty Officer Third Class Rafael Gomez? The American sailor Rodrigo recruited in Havana some time ago?”
“Of course I remember him. I read the reports. Rodrigo believes he could prove to be one of our most productive moles inside Guantánamo Naval Station. Is there a problem? Is he compromised?”
Manso took a deep breath and stepped off the wide platform that had been his support, his life, for almost as long as he could remember.
“More of an opportunity, Comandante.”
“Tell me.”
“This Gomez, he is…more than a mole. I have ordered Rodrigo to make arrangements for Gomez to smuggle a weapon inside the U.S. base. A biological weapon. A bomb containing a completely new strain of weapons-grade bacteria developed by the Iraqis. The bacteria are only a diversion. In addition to the bacteria, the bomb contains an indescribably powerful nerve toxin. With a delivery system also created by the Iraqis unlike anything seen before. Expands to cover any predesignated area, kills, and then expires.”
Castro looked stricken. His face suffused with blood as the enormity of what he’d just heard sank in. He turned in his seat and glared at his trusted friend and comrade.
“You? You ordered such a thing without my consent?”
“Sí, Comandante. I ordered it. The Cuban people have suffered the indignity of the Americans on their sovereign soil for over forty years. And you allowed them to do it! I intend to rectify this insult!”
“And Rodrigo? Don’t tell me the deputy chief of Secret Police has complicity in this? Rodrigo has aided you in this madness?”
“I have his support, yes.”
“Have you both gone insane?”
“Comandante, it is you who has allowed the American presence on our island! You should have forced them out decades ago!”
“Your ignorance of political realities would be laughable if it were not so pathetic.”
“There is a new political reality, Jefe.”
“Yes. You and your fellow traitors would rain fire down upon our heads, just like the Al Qaeda brought to Afghanistan!”
“No, Comandante. It is a brilliant plan. We will give the gringos forty-eight hours to evacuate. If they do not—well, once exploded, this bomb will kill every man, woman, and child inside the American compound within hours. Then, it simply expires.”
“My God, Manso,” Castro said, collapsing back against his seat.
“What drives you to this?”
“Vengeance, my comandante. I watched Escobar. I watched you. I spent my life watching two magnificent performances. I was inspired, but I was patient. I saw how brilliantly you picked your enemies. How you would toy with them and bring the spotlight upon yourself. But this humiliation at the hand of the fucking yanquis must end. It’s my time, now. I feel this.”
“You feel it? Your time? To do what? You’re a madman! You have no credible support around you. No political infrastructure. You can’t even control your two brothers! Carlitos is totally unstable. A borderline psychotic. The state will spin out of control!”
“I will deal with my brothers when the storm subsides. I have assembled a cadre of young and trustworthy advisers. As for now, I am ready to wreak havoc and seek vengeance. I am ready to fulfill my destiny.”
“It is not vengeance you seek, Manso,” Castro said with a bitter laugh. “It is only the limelight.”
“Be careful what you say, Jefe.”
“You are beyond transparent. You think you are unique? You have a destiny? You are nothing but a pathetic cliché! You merely want the world to see your face on CNN! Once a man has all the money and power in the world, the only thing left for him to seek is fame.”
“I learned from the master, Comandante.”
“And once you blow up your little bomb, Manso, what then? What’s to stop the Americans from obliterating our country in the space of an hour?”
“They won’t lift a finger, Comandante.”
“You will not succeed, Manso.”
“I think I will. Have you ever heard of the submarine the Russians call Borzoi, Comandante?
14
Hawke carefully folded his linen napkin and pushed himself back from the table. An hour ago, he’d been knocking on death’s door. Now, he felt bloody marvelous. His speedy recovery from the strange malady had been nothing short of miraculous. Whatever had gotten into him up on deck was gone.
“My compliments to the chef, Ambrose,” Hawke said. “What was in that sauce?”
“A simple blend of butter, lime juice, and a lot of Appleton rum. The one-fifty-one proof.”
“That explains it. Feeling tipsy and I’ve only had one glass of wine.”
He wasn’t tipsy at all, but the Russians were. At first, they’d been quiet, a little awed by their surroundings perhaps. But now, having imbibed large quantities of vodka and some of the flashiest wines in the ship’s cellars, they’d acquired a rosy glow and gone quite chatty.
The dinner, from Hawke’s point of view, had gone off well. There’d been no talk of business, and Ambrose had carried on the bulk of the conversation completely in Russian, with only the odd “I say” or “Hear, Hear!” necessary on Hawke’s part. As the steward cleared the table, Congreve refilled the Russians’ glasses with vintage Sandeman port, saying something or other which they found amusing.
Hawke sat back and savored his surroundings, nursing his own small port wine. He loved this room and everything in it. The Minton china and porcelain currently gracing the table had been in the Hawke family for generations. White, with gold trim, each piece of china featured the same magnificent black hawk on a circular field of gold. The same symbol was on Hawke’s flag, the massive ship’s burgee, painted in gold leaf on Blackhawke’s twin smokestacks, and it adorned the crew’s uniforms. The symbol was even emblazoned on the cufflinks Hawke was wearing at this very moment.
But this room. He’d taken
great pains with the room itself, making every effort to reproduce a small study at his grandfather’s home on Greybeard Island. This cabin was filled with artifacts from that very room. The paneled walls were of black walnut, hung with the tattered battle flags of regiments of yore.
In an illuminated corner display case were rows upon rows of lead soldiers, a collection Hawke had started as a boy. On occasion, even now, he would re-create famous battles on the dining room table, challenging Ambrose’s own formidable generalship.
There was, too, the magnificent sword collection that had been in the Hawke family for centuries. The swords were mounted everywhere, the most valuable of them locked up inside illuminated glass cases.
Hawke’s eye fell on one sword in particular. His favorite. It was an ornamental rapier with the most exquisite provenance. One of his ancestors had taken it from the body of Marshal Ney, the bravest of Napoleon’s generals. The sword had been in Ney’s hand when he led the last French charge at Waterloo.
His grandfather had taught him the art of fencing with it. Later, at Oxford, he’d mastered the sport and been thrice champion. He still practiced it fiendishly.
He rose from his chair and removed the sword from its pride of place above the small fireplace. Amusing himself, he made a few parries and thrusts.
“Brian,” Hawke whispered to the tall, sandy-haired steward hovering by the door, “that black case that Tom Quick stowed in the pantry? Would you mind?”
“Certainly, sir,” Brian said, with a smart salute, and pushed through the swinging door that led to the pantry.
Brian Drummond was only one of the many “stewards” aboard whom Hawke had recruited from various branches of the British military. Royal Navy, SAS, and the Special Boat Squadron, where Brian had served, an elite unit on a par with the Navy SEALs. The stewards on board Blackhawke were, in fact, a small, highly trained fighting force under the joint command of Brian Drummond and Tom Quick.
Hawke, in a jolly mood not to be knocking on heaven’s door, after all, raised the gleaming sword and pointed it directly at the bearded Russian called Golgolkin.
“Do you fence at all, comrade?” Hawke said to him, and Congreve, highly amused, translated.
“Nyet,” said Golgolkin, and that was good enough for Hawke.
“Pity, it’s my favorite sport,” Hawke said, and, drawing his dinner jacket aside, he slid the rapier through his cummerbund so that he was now wearing it on his hip. “Rather rakish, don’t you think, Ambrose?” Hawke had donned black tie and evening clothes, a tradition he kept whenever company came to supper.
“Everyone should wear one,” Congreve replied with a sly grin. “You never know when you might want to make a point.”
Standing at the stern just as the launch arrived, Congreve and Hawke had come up with a novel way of extracting the desired information should their guests prove less than forthcoming. Congreve could see that Hawke now felt it was time to put their plan in motion.
“Ambrose, please tell our guests that we’re about to serve dessert. Something I whipped up especially for them,” Hawke said.
The Russians, whose cheeks were flushed with vodka and wine, smiled broadly as Congreve spoke. They had never expected to be invited aboard the famous Blackhawke. And, now, to be served a dish created by the famous owner himself? Well, they’d be dining out on this tale back in Moscow for years to come, that much was certain.
Hawke pushed a button mounted under the dining table. In the pantry, Brian saw the flashing light above the door and entered the room, carrying the small Halliburton metal case. As Hawke had instructed, he placed it on the dining table in front of the two Russians and stepped back.
“Gentlemen,” Hawke said, walking around the table toward the Russians, “we have a special treat for dessert this evening. I think you’re going to enjoy it.”
As Congreve translated, Hawke reached across the table and released the two latches. The case lid cracked open.
“Tonight, we’re serving”—he opened the case with a flourish—“money.”
The Russians’ eyes went wide, startled at the sight of the neatly wrapped and arranged stacks of U.S. currency that filled the case.
“Not at all fattening,” Hawke said. “Only twenty million calories, after all.”
The Russians were speechless. They kept looking at each other, the money, and then each other again. This Hawke was unlike anyone else they’d dealt with. Neither was quite sure how to respond to a man so cavalier with his cash.
Hawke closed the case, locked it, and handed it back to Brian.
“Ambrose,” Hawke said, “our guests are invited to continue discussing this transaction up on deck. Perhaps a brief tour of the yacht while we talk.”
While the translation was in progress, Brian walked to the bookcase beside the small hearth and reached up to a large leather-bound volume, Life of Nelson, and pulled it halfway out. There was a faint whir somewhere, and the bookcase slid back and to one side, revealing a small elevator.
“This goes directly to the bridge, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “We’ll begin our tour there.” He stood back and let the astonished Russians and Ambrose enter, then stepped inside and hit the button for the bridge deck. The elevator started up.
The door slid open to reveal the bridge, a massive room, inky black save for the vast array of multicolored display screens that filled an instrument panel stretching some thirty feet across. Above the screens, large black windows ran from one side of the room to the other. The windows were tinted, but you could see the starry skies beyond.
A single captain’s chair was mounted before the center of the panel.
A large screen just to the right of the chair seemed to show a live view from space. Through the moving cloud layers, you could see a scattering of small winking lights below in the darkness.
Hawke, seeing the guests eyeing the screen, said, “A live satellite view of our precise location. Were I to zoom in, we could see the lights of Blackhawke itself.”
Congreve translated this to noises of amazement from the Russians. Hawke hated showing off, but with these two he had no qualms.
“Captain Robbie Taylor is normally in charge of this ship. I gave the captain the night off,” Hawke said, escorting the Russians into the room. “So the ship is essentially running itself. There are twenty-two mainframe computers monitoring every system aboard and talking to each other twenty-four hours a day.”
“Frightfully boring conversation, I should imagine,” Ambrose whispered to Hawke, and then translated what Hawke had said to the Russians.
There was a sudden low screech in the darkness, and then a dark shape was darting toward the larger of the two Russians. The man cried out, more in fear than in pain, and Hawke quickly shouted, “Sniper! Release!”
The Russian—it was Golgolkin—was cursing loudly, and Congreve touched a wall panel that brought up a soft, diffused lighting from the domed ceiling.
Hawke’s beloved parrot had Golgolkin’s right wrist clamped in his sharp beak.
“Sniper!” Hawke shouted. “I said ‘Release’!”
When the bird still did not obey, Hawke said mildly, “Ambrose, Sniper has taken a strong dislike to this fellow. Ask our guest if he is carrying a weapon of some sort, won’t you?”
The Russian replied to Congreve’s question, and Ambrose said, “Pistol. Right pocket of his jacket.”
“Take it,” Hawke said, and Congreve pulled a small automatic pistol from the man’s pocket. He handed the weapon to Hawke. The parrot immediately released the Russian’s wrist and removed himself to perch on Hawke’s outstretched forearm.
“Mr. Golgolkin, I’m disappointed. I didn’t subject either of you to the ship’s metal detector out of common courtesy. And now I find that you come to my dinner table with a gun in your pocket. What were you planning to do with it?”
Ambrose questioned Golgolkin, who was grimacing, rubbing his wrist, and replied, “He says he always carries it. He has many enemies. He offers hi
s deepest apologies.”
“These enemies,” Hawke said, stroking his parrot’s head, “trouble me. Are they the unhappy result of any recent transactions?”
Congreve asked, and said, “He says they are political enemies, not business enemies.”
“Mildly reassuring, I suppose,” Hawke said. “His gun will be returned to him at the launch. In the meantime, we’ll continue our little tour.”
After the translation, Congreve said, “He apologizes once more and hopes this unfortunate mistake on his part won’t have a negative effect on this transaction.”
Hawke waved the notion away.
“Come, gentlemen, I’d like to show you the view of the islands from the bow of the ship. It’s magnificent.”
Hawke touched a panel on the wall, and a giant gullwing section of the starboard-side bulkhead opened upward out into the night sky, silently above the deck. He stepped through and waited for the others to follow.
“This way, please,” Hawke said, striding briskly forward along the teak decks. The others had to hurry to keep up.
“They should know,” Hawke said over his shoulder, “that they are free to take five million dollars cash with them tonight when they leave the ship. In return, I want a written commitment for three things. A delivery date six months hence. The right to see the actual submarine prior to commissioning. And acknowledgment that the boat will be finished precisely to my personal specifications. Still with me, Ambrose?”
“Of course.”
“Splendid,” Hawke continued. “In addition, as I said earlier, I want to speak directly with their most recent purchaser. Assuming he’s a satisfied customer, and they fulfill the other obligations, they will receive my commitment for the balance. To be determined, of course.”
The foursome had reached the bow of the ship. There was a narrow bow pulpit extending some ten feet out over the water. The pulpit itself was some forty feet above the ocean’s moonlit surface.
“They agree to all conditions,” a slightly winded Congreve said, “save one. They cannot divulge the names of any prior purchasers. It is, apparently, a no-no in their trade.”