by Ted Bell
“You think I’d miss this trip, Shel?” Sharkey said, holding out his fist for a pound. “This thing is freaking awesome, man.”
“You ready for this meeting, Shark? Fancha’s right over there if you want to wish her luck.”
“Luck is for losers, man. These guys won’t know who ate them for breakfast. Sharkman O. Selznick at your service,” the little Cuban said, tipping his hat.
Stoke laughed, assessing Shark’s get-up.
“You look good, little brother. I like this style on you, son. It says, ‘Gone Hollywood but got off the bus in Vegas to do some shopping first.’”
Luis was rocking what Stoke called his Frank Sinatra look, his straw hat cocked over one eye the way Frank used to do, with a pink blazer, white trousers, and his trademark white suede loafers. Kind of the ring-a-ding-ding outfit you might see on a Sinatra album cover from the fifties, with a TWA Super Constellation parked on the tarmac in the background.
Fancha saw Luis and came over to give him a peck on the cheek.
He said, “Do you guys believe this freaking batship? I’ve been all over this thing, man. Stem to stern, up and down. It’s just unbelievable.”
Stoke said, “You see our new pals from La-La Land?”
“Yeah. Nick is here, anyway. No sign of Putov. Nick was looking for you during the presentation. Dying to get with Fancha. He’s got a little meeting room all set up for us in a private lounge all the way in the back on the promenade deck. He said we should meet him there about fifteen minutes after we shove off. They’ve got lunch coming in.”
“Good, good,” Stoke said, looking at the model in the glass case. “Hey, Shark, what’s up with this model airship? Pushkin? Man, that big zeppelin is sick. Is it for real? I mean, they built it?”
“Damn right, it’s real. It’s being launched this week! Five times the size of this one. At least. Yeah, you missed the whole presentation, man. They had that guy from American Idol, Ryan Seacrest, up on the stage as emcee. It’s their new passenger liner. Biggest airship ever built, more than nineteen hundred feet long. Going to be the new standard in transoceanic travel, the Seacrest guy said. New York to London, Paris, whatever. Carries seven hundred passengers. Five restaurants. Staterooms, suites, the whole deal. Very deluxe, seriously.”
Suddenly, Fancha lurched and grabbed for Stoke’s arm, a look of terror on her face. “Baby, is that an earthquake?” Stoke felt light in his shoes, as if his heels were going to come right up out of his loafers. But it wasn’t any earthquake. He pulled her to him and gave her a hug.
“No, baby, we wouldn’t feel any earthquakes up here. Look out the window. We’re just lifting off, separating from the tower. Take it easy. Let’s go over to the window, and maybe we can see your house down there, huh? Relax, baby, stay cool.”
STOKE SIPPED HIS Diet Coke, listening to Nick schmooze Fancha. When they’d arrived at the meeting, Nick had said hello to Luis, nodded in Stoke’s general direction, and then proceeded to ignore the two men for fifteen minutes or so. But he was all over Fancha, practically spoon-feeding her caviar and refilling her glass with champagne. That was lunch. Caviar and Cristal, a lot of both.
Nobody had any bubbly except Fancha. Luis, who was at the far end of the table taking notes on the meeting, was drinking Perrier. Stoke had told Sharkey that for this meeting, he should let Stoke do all the talking.
But it seemed as if Nick was doing all the talking.
He said he’d seen the local dramatic production Fancha had done for Univision. She had everything, all the tools in the actor’s box. She could play sophisticated comedy, low comedy, straight drama, she could sing every possible kind of song, and she looked enchanting, the kind of face and body the camera would love. And Storm Front was sure to be a hit, with him, Nick, producing and Ed Zwick directing. It was going to be a period picture, set in the 1930s, about a handsome rumrunner who falls for this babe singing in some joint in Key West during the worst hurricane on record. Romantic but with a lot of action. All of this in his Hollywood schmooze voice with the Russian accent on top.
He told Fancha she was going straight to the top; with her looks and her angel’s voice, nothing could stop her. He said he was just glad he happened to be at the birthday party that night and heard her sing, because he wouldn’t trust her Hollywood career to anyone but Miramar. He, Nick Duntov, would personally focus his full laser-beam attention on her alone, turn over all of his other clients to other producers at the firm.
“Nick, tell me something,” Stoke said when it seemed as if he’d wrapped up the big schmooze. “How did you happen to be at the birthday party that night?”
“What?”
“No big deal, I’m just curious. Wasn’t exactly a Hollywood crowd over there in the Grove, right? Just a bunch of mobbed-up Russians, from what I could tell. Gangsters and Chechen gang bangers.”
“Mr. Levy, I don’t want to be rude. But what the fuck would you know about Hollywood? Sun Coast Artist Management isn’t exactly a player in that league.”
“Did he just use the F word, Shel?” Sharkey said, looking up.
“I believe he did drop an F bomb.” Fancha giggled.
Stoke said, “No, it isn’t. I’m just a naturally curious individual. I’m just looking out for my girl.”
“So am I. Look, we both have Fancha’s best interests at heart, Mr. Levy. So, why don’t we all try to get along, huh? Good idea? I have something here that will make you both happy.”
He pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket, opened it, and slid a yellow check across the table. It was made out to Suncoast, payable to Fancha. It took a sec for the amount to register. It was made out for a quarter of a million dollars.
“What’s this for?” Stoke said, looking at the name of the bank and the payee. It was a Swiss bank, small, private.
“Consider it a demonstration of my total belief in Fancha’s career, Mr. Levy. I have booked a one-night engagement for her. That’s her fee.”
“One night? A quarter of a million dollars?” Stoke said. “Come on.”
“Sheldon Levy, behave yourself,” Fancha said. “Let’s hear what the man has to say.”
“Fancha, thank you. Let me tell you about this one very special and historic night. Are you both with me?”
“Hit it,” Stoke said, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Sharkey and rolled his eyes.
Nick paused a moment before he spoke, looking for some drama.
“Fancha, you missed this morning’s presentation, but I assume you saw the model of the TSAR company’s new passenger liner in the forward lounge? The Pushkin?”
“Yes, I did. Beautiful.”
“I’ve been aboard her. Let me tell you, the Pushkin is the most luxurious passenger ship ever to sail the skies. Named in honor of the famed Russian poet. She will make her maiden voyage on December 15. She will sail from Miami on a transatlantic flight, arriving at Stockholm on December 17 in time for the Nobel Prize award ceremony that evening at the Stockholm Stadshuset. It may interest you both to know that the owner of this vessel himself is to be awarded a Nobel Prize for his work in astrophysics.”
“She’s going to sing at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” Stoke asked.
“No. She’s going to sing onboard the Pushkin on her first night. There will be a gala dinner that night honoring the owner and all of the other Nobel laureates and nominees who will be joining us for the inaugural crossing. Many distinguished guests will be aboard, including the presidents of the United States and Russia and the premier of China. Not to mention their royal highnesses the king and queen of Sweden.”
“I’m going to sing for the president?” Fancha said.
“Yes, Fancha, you are. You’re going to sing for the world before we’re done. Does that sound interesting to you?”
Fancha looked at Stokely. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Baby, I’d do this gig for free!”
Nick smiled and pulled another envelope out of his pocket.
“What’
s next?” Stoke said.
“Yeah, what’s next?” Sharkey echoed, getting into it.
“I have here a letter of intent saying that Fancha agrees to enter contract negotiations to star as the female lead in the upcoming Miramar production Storm Front, directed by Ed Zwick and also starring Denzel Washington and Brad Pitt. Executive produced by yours truly, Nikita Duntov. Accompanying the letter is a certified check from Miramar Pictures for two million dollars.”
“Oh, baby,” Fancha said, grabbing Stoke’s hand. “Is this for real?”
“I don’t know, Boo,” Stoke said, looking hard at Nikita Duntov. “Is it real, Nick?”
“Take it to the bank and find out, Mr. Levy.”
“You want to do this, baby?” Stoke said, looking at Fancha. She looked as if she was about to come out of her shoes.
“Do I want to do this, baby?” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I was five years old!”
She jumped to her feet, grabbed Stoke’s head, and crushed it to her bosom. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“It’s happening, just like I always imagined it. It’s real, baby, can’t you feel it? It’s real!”
Stokely gently wiped away her tears, then held up his hand in front of Nikita’s face.
“What’s that wet stuff on my hand, Nick?”
“Teardrops?”
“Correct. Real tears, Nick. Remember the lady’s tears, what they look like. Remember what’s real and what isn’t. Because if you forget, Nick, forget what’s real, something bad is going to happen.”
“Tears dry, Mr. Levy.”
“Not these tears, Nick. Bet on it.”
27
BERMUDA
The midnight-blue Gulfstream IV was cruising at 45,000 feet. She’d slowed a bit for initial descent and was doing 400 kilometers per hour with a good tailwind due to the prevailing westerlies. She was less than an hour from her destination, Bermuda. The cabin lights were dimmed, and the two passengers were sound asleep. The attendant, a pretty young woman named Abigail Cromie, was making tea preparatory to landing, when a yellow light flashed in the forward galley. The captain wanted a word.
“Yes, Captain?” she said, poking her head inside the dark cockpit.
“I’ve got Diana Mars calling for his lordship,” Captain Tanner Rose said, turning to look at her. The young Scotsman’s usual smile was missing. Something was clearly wrong.
“He’s sleeping, I’m afraid. He asked to be awakened a few moments before landing. I’ve just put the tea on.”
“Well, you’d best wake him up, Abby. Lady Mars sounds desperate. She’s calling from a sat phone aboard some sailing vessel. Tell him it’s an urgent call.”
“Right away, Captain.”
Miss Cromie, a woman with ginger-colored hair and a well-tailored pale blue uniform, went aft to where Hawke was sleeping. His seat on the aircraft’s port side was reclined to horizontal, and he was snoring lightly. Forward of him, on the starboard side, Harry Brock was snoring loudly.
“Telephone for you, m’lord,” she whispered into his ear, simultaneously patting him firmly on the shoulder.
“What’s that?” Hawke said, his eyes opening drowsily.
“Lady Diana Mars for you, sir. A sat-phone call from Bermuda. Captain says it’s most urgent, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” Hawke said, coming fully awake and bringing his seat upright. “Yes. All right, then, Abby, I’ll take it.”
There was a mounted telephone right beside Hawke’s seat. Abby pressed the flashing button and handed the receiver to Hawke.
“Alex Hawke,” he said.
“Thank God!” Diana said, her voice quavering.
“Diana, are you all right? What is it?”
“It’s Ambrose, Alex. Ambrose and David have gone missing. I’m afraid something terrible has happened. The two of them went ashore. Fifteen minutes later, I heard gunfire, and then—”
“Went ashore where?”
“Nonsuch Island. At the entrance to Castle Harbour. They decided to have a good look round. See what was going on with those damn Rastafarians, whatever they’re called.”
“Disciples of Judah. What happened, Diana?”
“They went ashore, as I said, whilst I remained aboard.”
“Aboard what?”
“Swagman. You know, my father’s old yawl. That’s where I’m calling you from now. She’s got a sat phone at the nav station, thank the good Lord.”
“They went ashore, and then what happened?”
“I watched them make their way east along the coast. I was desperately worried about Ambrose stumbling around in the dark on his bad leg. He’s only just got it working again, you know, after what that bastard did to him in the Amazon. Toward the southern end of the island, where we’d seen some lights in the interior, I lost track of them. They’d disappeared around the tip of the island, I imagine. There’s a dock over there, and we’d seen a launch headed that way with no navigation lights. Then, about ten minutes after I’d lost sight of them, I heard shooting.”
“Were they armed?”
“Sir David had his handgun. That’s it.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Half an hour ago, maybe forty-five minutes. I can’t stand it any longer, Alex, just sitting here. Should I go ashore and look for them?”
“No, Diana. Do not do that. Have you called the police?”
“Y-yes, of course, I did that first. I didn’t want to bother you with this. I mean, it may very well turn out to be nothing, you know, but still, I—”
“Diana, calm down. It’s going to be all right. Are the police coming?”
“I don’t know. The chap I spoke to sounded…indifferent. They said they’d send the marine unit around to investigate, but they didn’t sound any too urgent about it. It’s been more than twenty minutes, and no sign of them.”
Hawke looked at the digital map displayed on the small monitor beside his seat. It told him his location, air speed, and time to arrival and showed a real-time image of the plane’s eastbound position approaching Bermuda.
“Diana, listen, I’m about half an hour out from Bermuda right now. This time of night, there’s no other traffic, so I could be on the ground in less than twenty-five minutes. I’ll tell the pilot to push it. Can you pick me up at the airport?”
“How would I do that?”
“You’ve got a dinghy, right?”
“Well, they took it ashore. But I could swim over and get it.”
“Good girl. You say Castle Harbour. Can you see the airfield from where you are?”
“Barely. Nonsuch is way out at the harbor mouth. Next to Castle Island.”
Hawke pressed a button and saw a Google Earth image of Bermuda. He quickly located Nonsuch Island.
“Outboard motor?” he asked.
“On the dinghy?”
“Yes.”
“Right, a fifty-horsepower.”
“Perfect. You’ll see me land. My plane is a dark blue Gulfstream IV. I’ll be coming in hot, right over Swagman’s masthead. I should be on the ground by the time your dinghy reaches the field. Just beach the dinghy wherever you can at the east end of the runway. Have you a flare pistol aboard, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Take it with you. When you beach your dinghy, fire a parachute flare to mark your location. I’ll come right to you. I’ve got someone with me, Diana. Fellow named Harry Brock. He and I can take care of this, all right? So don’t worry. Ambrose and David are going to be fine.”
“Oh, Alex, if anything happened to him, I just don’t know what I would do. With his bad leg, he’s so vulnerable, and…he means everything to—”
She was crying now, sobbing.
“Diana. Please listen to me. Ambrose is my best friend in the world. Sir David is my employer and the chief of the world’s most formidable intelligence service. Believe me, I will not let anything happen to either one of them. I’ll see you on the ground in twenty-five minutes, max.”
“Please hurry, Alex. I’m so sorry to bother you. Good-bye.”
HAWKE QUICKLY GOT up, pausing to rouse Harry Brock on his way forward to the cockpit. He quickly explained the situation to the captain and told him to forgo the performance parameters, firewall the throttles, and get him on the ground as rapidly as humanly possible. He held on to the back of the copilot’s seat for a few seconds as the aircraft shot forward, then moved aft. He collected Brock, and they went to the aftmost part of the second cabin.
There was a head back there, with a full-length mirror on the aft bulkhead. The mirror, to Harry’s surprise, swung open to reveal a tall gun safe with two wide drawers beneath, one for ammunition, the other containing camo clothing and other gear that one might use in an emergency like this one.
Hawke punched in a code, and the heavy safe door swung open.
“Guns,” Harry Brock said with a grin, pulling an M349 light machine gun from the safe. “I like guns.”
“Never leave home without one,” Hawke said, grabbing an identical weapon.
The guns were called SAWs, which stood for squad automatic weapons. Hawke much preferred them in the field, because they could be used either as automatic rifles or machine guns. The gun had a regulator for selecting either normal (750 rounds per minute) or maximum (1,000 rounds per minute) rate of fire. Hawke pulled a few standard M16 magazines from the ammo drawer and inserted one of them into the mag well in the 5.56mm SAW.
Hawke also donned a black Nomex jumpsuit and urged Harry to do the same.
“Nomex,” Harry said, holding one of the suits up. “I like black Nomex, too.”
“Why?” Hawke asked.
“High CDI factor.”
“CDI factor?”
“Chicks dig it.”
“God help me,” Hawke said, strapping on a Velcro thigh holster.
The jumpsuits had lightweight ceramic and Kevlar body armor sewn inside and were designed for jungle warfare. By the time the two men were dressed and fully armed with SAWs, assault knives, and SIG Sauer 9mm sidearms strapped to their thighs, the speeding plane was on final.
“Tea, gentlemen, before we land?” Abby asked as the two men in black returned to the main cabin and took their seats. Both were busy checking and rechecking their weapons.