by Ted Bell
Warlord
Ted Bell
For Page Lee, who makes it magic
An eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind.
MAHATMA GANDHI
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
About the Author
ALSO BY TED BELL
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
BERMUDA, PRESENT DAY
ALEX HAWKE HELD THE BATTERED GOLD Dunhill to the tip of his cigarette. First of the day always best, he thought absently, inhaling, padding barefoot across the polished mahogany floor. Expelling a long, thin plume of blue smoke, he sat down, collapsing against the sun-bleached cushions of the upholstered planter’s chair.
Pelham, his friend and valet of many years, had all the glass doors of the semi-circular living room at Teakettle Cottage flung open to the terrace. Had Alex Hawke bothered to notice the view, he would have found the riot of purple bougainvillea climbing over the low limestone wall, and, below and beyond that wall, the turquoise sea, ruffled with whitecaps, typically lovely for this time of year in Bermuda.
But he seldom noticed such things anymore.
He’d tried all the usual antidotes for sorrow. Endless walks on endless beaches, the headlong expedition deep into drink, seeking refuge at the bottom of a rum bottle. He’d tried everything, that is, except women. Ambrose Congreve, the retired head of Scotland Yard and Hawke’s oldest friend, had unsuccessfully tried no end of schemes to lift Alex’s spirits. The latest being women.
“Women?” Alex had said, regretting a dinner party Ambrose and, his fianceé, Diana, were throwing in honor of Diana’s beautiful young niece, a recent divorcée from London. “That part is over for me, Ambrose,” Hawke said. “My heart’s in the grave.”
His life had become a sort of floating dream, as most lives are when the mainspring’s left out.
His house was a long-abandoned sugar mill, with a crooked chimney on the domed roof that looked like the spout on a teakettle. The whitewashed stone mill house stood against a green havoc of banana trees overlooking the Atlantic. You could hear the waves crashing against jagged rocks some thirty feet below. Familiar Bermuda seabirds were darting about overhead, click-clicking petrels, swooping long-tails and cormorants and frigate birds.
Hawke inhaled deeply, holding the smoke inside his lungs for as long as he could. God, he loved cigarettes. And why not? He rued all those years he’d wasted abstaining from tobacco. That first bite of nicotine afforded life an intense immediacy he seldom felt these days; the whole grey world suddenly awash in colors fresh as wet paint.
Cancer sticks. Yeah, well, nobody lives forever, he said to himself, taking another drag and lazily stretching his long legs.
Alex Hawke, even knee-deep in malaise, was a striking figure of a man. He was tall, well over six feet. He had a full head of thick black hair and a fine, high brow. His nose was long and straight above a sensuous mouth with hints of suppressed cruelty lurking at the edge of every flashing grin. But it was his ice-blue eyes people remembered, eyes that could suddenly widen and send a searing flash across an entire room.
“Up bright and early this morning, m’lord,” Pelham Grenville, Hawke’s snowy-haired octogenarian butler, said, toddling in from the terrace. He had obviously been out hacking away in the banana groves for he was cradling a fresh-cut bushel of ripe bananas in his arms as he headed for the kitchen.
“Bright and early?” Hawke said, taking a puff and letting his gaze fall on Pelham, irritated despite himself at the man’s obvious sarcasm. “What time is it, anyway, you old possum?” He’d stopped wearing his wristwatch long ago. Watches and clocks were an anachronism, he’d informed his friend Ambrose, when Congreve had chided him for his habitual tardiness. The criticism fell on deaf ears. Nine times out of ten, what’s the bloody point of knowing the time, anyway? It’s not like you’re going to miss something worthwhile.
He’d come to a conclusion: Nothing ever happens.
Pelham said, “Just going on twelve noon, sir.”
Hawke jammed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and raised his arms above his head, yawning loudly and deeply.
“Ah. The crack of noon. Nothing makes a man feel more in the pink than to be up and about when the blazing sun is fully risen in the azure sky. Wouldn’t you agree, young Pelham?”
“Indeed, sir,” the old fellow said, turning his face away so Hawke couldn’t see the pained look in his eyes. Pelham Grenville, like his father and grandfather before him, had been in service to the Hawke family all his life. He had practically raised young Alex after the tragic murder of his parents at the hands of drug pirates in the Caribbean when the boy was but seven.
“Besides,” Hawke said, “I’ve a doctor’s appointment on for this afternoon. There’s a treat. Get the eagerly anticipated results of my recent physical. One’s health is almost a good enough reason to get out of bed, I suppose. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“What time is your appointment, sir?”
“Two o’clock or thereabouts,” he said, waving his cigarette in an airily vague manner.
“Your friend former Chief Inspector Congreve will be taking you to the hospital, one hopes.”
“Congreve? No, no, don’t be ridiculous, Pelham. No need to bother Ambrose. I don’t need a Scotland Yard escort. I’m perfectly capable of getting over to King Edward’s and back under my own steam. I’ll take my motorcycle.”
Pelham winced. It had been raining early that morning. The roads were still slippery. The antique Norton motorcycle had become a sore subject between them. His lordship had been arrested at least three times for speeding, somehow charming his way out of being charged with driving under the influence on each occasion.
Pelham said, “I’d be glad to take you round in the Jolly, sir. There’s more rain in the forecast. The Jolly might be preferable to a motorcycle jaunt on those slick roads.”
“The Jolly? You must be mad.”
The bright yellow Jolly was a tiny Fiat 600, no doors, sporting a striped and fringed canvas roof. It
was the “circus car” once well beloved by Lord Hawke. It no longer seemed to suit his ever-shifting moods.
“Pelham, please, do try not to be such a fusty old nanny. That motorcycle of mine is one of the very few things I enjoy anymore. I damned well will take my motorcycle and that’s the end of it.”
“Indeed, sir,” Pelham said, turning away. Fusty old nanny, indeed! He was wholly unaccustomed to insult, and, although he knew Hawke never really meant to offend, such comments still stung.
“Do you know what I’d especially like on a splendid morning like this?”
“No, sir,” Pelham said, not at all sure he wanted to find out. At one time it might have ranged from a simple pitcher of Bombay Sapphire martinis to flying in a chorus line of Las Vegas showgirls for the weekend. One hardly knew what to make of things any longer. But a grey pall of sadness and despair had settled over Teakettle Cottage, and Pelham was not at all sure how much more of it he could withstand.
“A nice, frosty daiquiri, Pelham. Made with those lovely bananas. Gave me the idea, just seeing that splendid bushel of yours, fresh cut from the grove.”
“I intended to bake banana bread, sir.”
“Well, you’ve got more than enough there for both, I should think. Throw a couple in the blender will you, and whip up something frothy to get my juices flowing. The old ‘eye-opener,’ as your famous literary relative’s character Bertram Wooster used to say. By the way, what time did I get home last night? Any idea at all?”
“None, sir.”
“He strikes again, does he not?”
“Who strikes, sir?”
“The Midnight Kamikaze. Isn’t that what you called me the other night? Misplaced my key so I climbed in through the kitchen window as I recall.”
“Such colorful phraseology is well beyond the limits of my verbal palette, sir, but perhaps if the shoe fits.”
Pelham ducked behind the monkey-wood bar and started making the daiquiri. His lordship, much heartened, smiled at the all-too-familiar whir of the antique Waring blender. Tempted as he was, Pelham knew better than to try to fudge on the silver jigger of Gosling’s rum. His lordship would notice, then fall into one of his black moods, thinking everyone, even Pelham, was out to deprive or deceive him in some fashion.
The “black dog,” Hawke’s euphemism for his periodic bouts of depression, was back, and the once cheerful little bungalow was now the snarling canine’s fiercely guarded turf.
Mistrust and paranoia had been the common threads running through Hawke’s existence ever since he’d returned to Bermuda from the tragic events in Russia and Stockholm. It had been over a year ago now. Pelham shook his head sadly, switching off the blender. There was nothing he could do for the poor man. Nothing anyone could do, really. Not anymore. And many had tried.
To Pelham’s chagrin, Ambrose Congreve, a man who had practically raised Hawke from boyhood, had had no end of heart-to-heart “talks” with his lordship about his self-destructive behavior, all to little or no avail. Congreve’s fiancée, Lady Mars, had even taken him to see some kind of “nerve specialist” a few times in Hamilton, but there’d been some kind of a dreadful row at the office and they’d never returned to the doctor.
Hawke said, “Must have been out quite late, then. I suppose I had a marvelous time. I always do. I’ve an absolute gift for jollity, it seems. Always have had.”
He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh and mercifully short-lived.
“Yes, sir. Shall I make luncheon? If your medical appointment is for two, you should leave here by half one, latest. So you won’t be rushed.”
“Yes, I suppose I should eat something, shouldn’t I? I can’t seem to recall if I ate anything yesterday or not.”
“What would you like, sir?”
“I don’t really care, to be honest. Whatever’s in the fridge that hasn’t turned black should do nicely. I think I’ll take that marvelous daiquiri down to the beach. Get a bit of sun. I’m looking dreadfully pale these days, wouldn’t you agree? A mere ghost of my former self.”
Indeed you are, sir, Pelham thought, but kept his mouth shut. If not a ghost, then soon to be one.
Pelham handed Hawke the frosty rum cocktail. “Sunshine is a splendid idea, sir. Perhaps a swim as well. Do you a world of good, a bit of exercise. Why, I remember when you’d swim six miles every single day, m’lord. All the way up the coast to Bloody Bay and back. Nothing better for one than a good long open ocean swim, you always said.”
“Mmm, yes. Well. Perhaps a dip, if I can summon the energy for it. Call me up when luncheon is served, dear fellow. I might be napping down there. Dreadfully tired, lately. Don’t know the reason. Perhaps the good doctor can shed some light on it. Middle age creeping up on one, like a thief in the night, stealing one’s vim and vigor, I suppose. How old am I, Pelham? Last birthday, I mean.”
“You recently turned thirty-three, sir.”
“My birthdays are celebrated with ever-diminishing pomp and even less circumstance, have you noticed that, Pelham?”
“You specified cake, no candles, sir.”
“Well, there you have it, don’t you? The inevitable downhill slide begins! God, let’s hope it’s short and sweet.”
And with that Pelham watched as Alex Hawke rose unsteadily from his chaise longue. He made his way, shuffling at a snail’s pace, out onto the terrace, headed for the steps leading down to the beach, the crescent gleam of his daiquiri glass glinting ominously in the noonday sun.
TWO
AT TWO THIRTY THAT SAME FRIDAY afternoon, late for his appointment as usual, Alex Hawke roared into the parking lot of King Edward VII hospital, the old motorcycle going much too fast, and he skidded dangerously on a patch of loose gravel, almost dropping the bike. Almost. He recovered, quite nicely, he thought, dismounted, and leaned the lovely old Norton Commando still unscathed against the trunk of a shady mango tree.
He pulled a packet of Morlands Special Blend from his breast pocket and fired one up with the old gunmetal Zippo he’d carried ever since his navy flying days. One of the great attractions of smoking once again, he thought, was that his old Zippo was back in service again. He even loved the feel of it in his trouser pocket once more, a small comfort perhaps, but still.
His right hand was shaking pretty badly, but he got the damn thing lit and it calmed him considerably while he crossed the car park toward the hospital’s main entrance. He was definitely not looking forward to this encounter with Dr. Nigel Prestwicke. The man was an internist recommended to him by his boss at MI6, Sir David Trulove, otherwise known as “C.”
Prestwicke, before coming out to Bermuda, had been C’s personal physician in London. Hawke had no doubt the results of his recent physical had already been privately forwarded to a disapproving Trulove. It was against the law to share medical information without patient approval, of course, but then, C thought he was the law.
Hawke was already twelve months into an extended medical leave from the Service. He’d not been out to his office at Bermuda’s Royal Navy Dockyards once. Red Banner, his own covert intelligence unit of MI6, ran agents in Moscow and, now, in Havana and Caracas as well. He’d heard his young staff, Benji Griswold and Symington Fyfe, were chafing under the iron rule of the velvet-handed Miss Pippa Guinness, an old flame, but he had done nothing about it. He’d recently told C he needed a bit more time to pull himself together.
C would not be happy with his notable lack of progress.
“Good afternoon, Alex,” Prestwicke said, perhaps a bit too cheery getting to his feet, a formless Colonel Blimp, tall and unevenly bulbous in his long white jacket, with twin shocks of white hair sprouting from his bald pate. He extended a reasonably dry hand and Alex shook it across the desk and took a chair.
“A cup of tea?” the man asked, reaching for a cup. “Fresh brewed.”
“No, thank you.”
A silence ensued as Prestwicke fussed with his own tea and lemon, glancing at the charts and reports scattered about his desk. He was
too shocked at his patient’s appearance for words. Lord Alexander Hawke had once been one of the more startlingly good-looking men he’d ever seen in his life. Now, sitting there in the strong sunlight from the window, his face looked as cold as stone and his eyes looked three days dead.
Six feet plus and not an ounce of fat on him, he’d been in remarkable shape for a man in his early thirties. Hunter-killer type, professional, although no one on the island save Ambrose Congreve and a few others knew his real background. Still, Hawke had long been considered a devastating prize, even by women who’d not the slightest clue as to his lordly identity or the size of his fortune.
No more. His speech was slurred and rough. His normally sun-bronzed skin was greyish, his eyes bleary, his dark hair long and unclean; and his strong-boned face was charred with the black of a three-day-old beard that did nothing for him. He’d gone to fat, too, having gained a considerable amount of weight around the middle since his last visit. Obvious, despite the navy blue guayabera, a pleated Cuban shirt, worn outside the waistband of his white linen trousers.
“How are you feeling, Alex?”