Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  The gunfire followed him and he moved farther back, sensing instantly that this was a stupid idea. Like the doggie who finally caught the car, now he’d caught it he didn’t know what the hell to do with it. He was facing at least four heavily armed assailants who had a huge advantage in this confrontation. The police jargon for this kind of thing was an asymmetrical situation. Basically, it meant you were fucked. This day wasn’t going at all like he’d planned.

  He crouched and waited, slammed a fresh mag into the Glock, hoping to God the Miami-Dade cops would respond soon. He needed help and needed it right that second. Anybody listening out there? Or, God help me, up there? He crossed himself, using his Glock hand.

  Then a shot came from the side of the parked truck on his left and he knew he’d been flanked. He whirled around to see a young, muscular man in jeans and a T-shirt point a pistol and fire another three rounds at him.

  This was a tight spot and he obviously had no backup. He was dicked and re-dicked. He knew it, they knew it. Advantage, assholes. He fired two rounds back at the man, mainly to keep the guy’s head down and then looked for any other position that might be safer.

  The blond Amazon queen had stayed by the Charger and had a MAC-10 sighted down on him. The other two men were moving in a fast crouch to his right.

  Was this how his career was going to end?

  Maybe, but not without a fight.

  Stokely strained to hear any hint of approaching sirens but with all the guns going off, every damn one of them pointing at him, it tended to drown out any chance he had of hearing help on the way. The only reason he was still alive today was that he was really good in situations exactly like this one. He took comfort in that, stopped feeling sorry for himself, and put his damn brain and instincts to work.

  Time to man the hell up, Stoke.

  He decided to make them come to him and use his handgun in the smartest way possible, up close and personal.

  Then he got his wish as this muscle-bound dirtbag popped up right next to him. Where the hell had he come from?

  Stoke turned, raised his pistol, and fired before it was all the way up. The first round hit the man in the knee, stunning him for a second. The next round blew out his hip, sending him sprawling onto the rough asphalt, his pistol loose at his side.

  Stoke kicked the unfamiliar semiautomatic away from the wounded man, now twisting and moaning in pain on the ground. Before he could even assess the guy’s injuries, more rounds bounced off the truck near his head, making him duck. He was still seriously outgunned and outnumbered.

  He quick-peeked around the rear of the truck and saw the long-haired man with the heavy assault rifle start to advance on him, moving fast. Shit. Then it got weird. Without any action from Stoke, more shots rang out and suddenly the advancing ponytail dropped straight to the ground in the parking lot, his big black rifle clattering to the asphalt and blood pooling under him.

  What the hell?

  More shots came from a car somewhere behind and to the right of Stoke. Then this bloody-faced guy pops up, firing at the blonde with the MAC-10 as he advanced. He was good, sent her scrambling for cover. Satisfied, he dove behind the truck right next to Stoke.

  Harry Brock said calmly, “You doing okay, little buddy?”

  Stoke stared at him silently and nodded his head at his partner. “How the hell—?”

  “I requisitioned a civilian vehicle, got your position from Miami-Dade. A brand-new Corvette convertible, actually. Scared that poor sumbitch to death when I reached in and pulled his keys. Sorry I’m late but I got stuck at that railroad crossing where you almost bought it. Longest goddamn train I’ve ever seen. You’re lucky you made it, partner.”

  “Jesus, Harry.”

  “Stay cool, all right?”

  Without another word, Brock scrambled away, reached down, grabbed the badly injured man on the ground, hoisted him onto his shoulders, and then ran flat out across the parking lot, using the man as a makeshift shield, firing steadily at the others as he crossed the lot.

  Stoke naturally thought Harry was crazy because no one in his right mind would pull a stunt like that. But Harry could shoot, no one disputed that. Stoke snuck another peek and saw the bearded Charger guy aiming where Brock had already dumped the guy and disappeared behind a pimped-up Ford 150 truck with chrome dubs glinting in the sun.

  The blond chick, too, was shielding her eyes, lining up on the position where Harry was crouching.

  Stoke took a second to carefully line up the long shot with a handgun and fired three times at the blond woman. She dove for cover, yelled something to the remaining accomplice, and stayed low, starting to move toward the Charger. First the bearded asshole ran out to drag back his lifeless comrade.

  Stoke scrambled to the other side of the truck and saw Harry Brock stand up behind the truck bed and take dead aim at the Charger as its engine roared to life. He fired twice, two long bursts, then ducked to avoid a spray from the MAC-10. Seconds later he popped up again, looked over at Stoke, smiled, shot him a thumbs-up, then ducked down again behind the 150.

  The black Charger left a lot of rubber behind peeling out of the lot and screeched to a halt on the far side of the street. Stoke saw them load the other injured man into the backseat and then speed off.

  Then he heard sirens.

  Finally.

  Just the end of another perfect day in paradise, baby.

  And how was your day, darling?

  THIRTEEN

  HIGHGROVE

  TWO SPECIAL BRANCH DETECTIVES WERE STATIONED on either side of the closed dining room doors. Officers of SO14, or the Royalty Protection Squad, were charged with providing high-level security for at least twenty members of the Royal Family. Two more were stationed outside, working in the shrubbery beneath the windows, disguised as gardeners. All were discreetly but heavily armed.

  Security was always tight at Highgrove, but after what had happened to Lord Hawke this morning, Special Branch had gone to another level entirely. Nearly half the people on the estate at this moment were Special Branch, many of them disguised as farmers in the fields, gardeners, gillies, and horse trainers.

  “I should like to begin this afternoon’s meeting by once again welcoming everyone to Highgrove,” Prince Charles began.

  They were all comfortably seated at a round dining table in a large windowed bay. This was the small dining room that overlooked the kitchen gardens. Luncheon had been efficiently served and was being cleared. A few luncheon plates remained on the carved mahogany table, but they were quickly being replaced with pads and pens at each place, crystal pitchers full of iced water, tumblers for seven, and the red leather portfolio containing the two death threats discovered by the Prince of Wales.

  Seated at a small desk located at a discreet distance behind the Prince was his private secretary, Sir Hugh Raleigh, a thin, balding fellow in a shapeless tweed jacket, quietly taking notes. Hawke watched him, realizing that this unremarkable amanuensis was in reality the true keeper of the gate. And, thus, the source of enormous power.

  Conversation during luncheon had naturally consisted of events surrounding the ambush of Hawke and Congreve on the road earlier. Next to nil had been said about the topic that had brought them all together. The room went silent as the door was opened by a footman and a beautiful black-haired woman in a severely tailored pink Chanel suit appeared, striding purposefully toward the table.

  “Sorry to be late, sir,” she said with a shy smile and a little bob of a curtsy to the Prince of Wales.

  Charles got to his feet and walked across the room to greet her.

  “Sahira Karim,” he said. “We’re so glad you’re here, Doctor Karim. Welcome to Highgrove.”

  She bowed her head slightly and said, “A great honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Come sit down and have a bite to eat. You’re not too late and you must be starving. You know most everyone here, I assume. Have you met my dear friend Lord Hawke and Chief Inspector Ambrose Con
greve?”

  “Lord Hawke and I are old friends,” Sahira said, going over and shaking his hand. “But I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting the famous Chief Inspector Congreve. It’s a great honor, sir,” she said extending her hand and smiling warmly.

  Without being asked, a liveried steward put a fresh place setting on the table for the new arrival. Hawke suddenly found himself seated next to Lord Malmsey’s MI5 assistant, this youngish, extraordinarily attractive Indian woman who had been engaged to one of Hawke’s closest friends.

  Anthony Soames-Taylor had been at Fettes with Hawke and they’d shared a common love of shooting and foxhunting while at school and then later in life. Tony had been tragically killed in the terror holocaust at Heathrow the year prior and Hawke had not seen his fiancée since.

  He’d forgotten what an extraordinarily good-looking woman she was. He’d always been slightly mesmerized by her lambent beauty.

  “Miss Karim,” Prince Charles said, “I wonder if you could update us on your findings at the scene of the ambush this morning?”

  “Yes, sir. Five of the six attackers escaped in the Jaguar sedan. We’ve got police checkpoints on all roads leading out of Gloucestershire, but we imagine they’ve ditched their clothing and the original car and are now driving a stolen vehicle, possibly two. I think they may have slipped the noose, unfortunately, otherwise we’d almost certainly have them by now.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Hawke said, “but you should reduce the number you’re looking for from five to four. I shot one in the Jaguar during the chase.”

  “Dead?”

  “Very.”

  “Thank you, makes our job a bit easier. On the other hand, there is some very good news. We managed to get the vehicle ident number off the burned Rover. We’ve already run it against MI5’s national terror database. Belongs to a man named Sean Fahey, one of the assassins involved in the recent murder of the two British Army soldiers in Northern Ireland.

  “We now know for certain that the attack on Lord Hawke and Chief Inspector Congreve was an IRA operation. We’ve no idea how they learned of this meeting, but clearly the attack was meant as a warning shot across our bow. We know who the attackers were, and our investigation is thus off to a flying start, I’m happy to report.”

  Hawke and Congreve looked at each other across the table. Hawke, astounded, mouthed the letters IRA? and Congreve nodded. If the IRA knew about this most secret of meetings, one had to wonder just how far up the political ladder this treachery went. Still, he reminded himself, there could easily be a horse groom or trainer here at Highgrove who was an IRA sympathizer and paid informant. Anything was possible at this point.

  “Excellent, Sahira,” Charles said. “Good work! Now please don’t let good manners spoil good food. The lamb is marvelous, I think you’ll find.”

  The table fell back into general conversation and, after Hawke whispered his thanks to the beautiful Indian MI5 officer, they began discussing the ambush in great detail. It was the first real conversation he’d had with an attractive woman in over a year, and he found himself oddly ill at ease.

  “Alex,” she said softly, “I’ve never thanked you for the incredibly kind phone call you made after Tony’s death that night at Heathrow. Your funny stories and memories of your school days together touched me deeply.”

  “I’m still sorry for your loss, Sahira. One never gets over these things, I’m afraid.”

  She looked at him and placed her hand over his. “Alex, I never wrote to you after your own devastating loss. I couldn’t find words to express my sympathy, I’m afraid. I do hope you’ll forgive me someday.”

  Alex had no reply.

  Always difficult, talking to a beautiful woman, to be sure, but he noticed her eyes still lingering on him, a few seconds too long, and it was disquieting. Luckily, the conversation was soon cut short.

  Judging by the set of Prince Charles’s jaw, Hawke knew they would clearly be getting down to business. Charles rose to his feet.

  “Time to attend to matters at hand, I’m afraid. I would ask one thing. Please let’s do keep this discussion informal. As of this moment we are all simply colleagues, not Royals and subjects. Consider me one of the team and do not hesitate to pose any question to me at all. I will do the same. Do we all agree?”

  Everyone nodded heads, answering in the affirmative.

  “Obviously,” Charles continued, “my family have borne threats of greater magnitude before. In September 1940, a German Dornier bomber was moments from destroying Buckingham Palace. But RAF Fighter Command pilot Ray Holmes, whose Hurricane’s eight guns had just run out of ammo, had other ideas.

  “He deliberately rammed the German bomber in mid-air at 400 mph, taking off its tail section. Holmes parachuted to safety. The stricken Nazi bomber missed the palace entirely and slammed into the ground near Victoria Station with such force that it was embedded in the soil.”

  Charles paused a beat, looked around the table, and added, “My stalwart grandmother, who remained in London throughout the Blitz, was, needless to say, stirred, but not shaken.”

  There were polite chuckles and smiles all round and the Prince continued.

  “However, I can assure you that my family find this present circumstance most unpleasant. The Queen herself is sanguine. I am not. I am convinced that these past and recent threats to the Monarchy are real. And that the IRA killers behind them are keen, determined, and fully capable of achieving their ends. Witness this morning’s atrocity on the road to Tetbury. We are extraordinarily lucky to have Chief Inspector Congreve and Lord Alex Hawke here with us today.”

  There were quiet murmurs of approval around the table.

  “The first question I have is for you, Chief Inspector Congreve. You were part of the on-site team that investigated Lord Mountbatten’s murder in Ireland, were you not?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “And were you satisfied with the outcome of that investigation? An IRA operation?”

  “At the time, in the main, I would have to say yes, sir. We all were. However, subsequent events, the note you found in Lord Mountbatten’s book, for instance, might lead me to rethink our conclusions.”

  Charles said, “The two men charged with the murder were both IRA Provisionals, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But only one went to prison. McMahon. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Thomas McMahon, yes, sir.”

  “And the other suspect?”

  “The prosecution was unable to build a strong enough case against the second suspect, a man named McGirl, Your Highness.”

  Charles smiled at the inadvertent use of his title. He was accustomed to it. “But, still and all, your team were ultimately convinced that McMahon was guilty, am I correct, Chief Inspector Congreve?”

  “I certainly was at the time, sir. My Irish colleague, Constable Drummond, had learned that McMahon had trained as a bomb maker in Libya. And there were traces of nitroglycerine on his clothing when he was arrested. His fingerprints were all over that bomb. Molded gelignite was his signature explosive.”

  “Still, Chief Inspector, I have examined the record carefully. It clearly shows McMahon was some seventy miles away when the bomb that killed Uncle Dickie exploded. It’s certainly possible that a third party was involved?”

  “Yes, sir. We were forced to conclude that the bomb was detonated by a remote radio-controlled device. Operated by someone other than McMahon, watching from the shore. Hidden in the woods above the bay, but able to visually confirm Lord Mountbatten’s presence aboard Shadow V.”

  “In other words, it is entirely possible that the man who made the bomb was IRA, but the man who pushed the button was not even IRA?”

  “Entirely possible, sir. But I must say with the evidence we had, no one doubted this was an IRA operation. The IRA claimed sole credit for the assassination within hours of the explosion. And that was the end of it.”

  “Sir David, your point of view?”

&n
bsp; “I’d have to agree with your line of thought, sir. The death threat you found is reason enough to speculate that someone else, perhaps not even affiliated with the IRA, may have been involved in the murder. Sympathetic to their cause, perhaps, but not directly connected. A third party. Someone deeply aggrieved, and waging a personal vendetta against Mountbatten.”

  “So, a third suspect. Involved in the assassination, but perfectly willing to let IRA Provos take all the credit, Sir David?” Hawke asked his MI6 superior.

  “Something like that, yes. Deflect suspicion in order to carry out a personal agenda.”

  “But, why? Why commit the murder of the century, at that point, and not take the credit?”

  The Prince of Wales thought for a few moments and said, “Indeed, Alex. Someone with an altogether different, nonpolitical motive is a distinct possibility. Someone with an apolitical, deep-seated, personal grievance against Lord Mountbatten. A disgruntled employee, a stable groom, for instance. It happens all the time. Of course, all of this speculation certainly doesn’t preclude the fact that the perpetrator was simply a third IRA conspirator.”

  “It certainly does not, sir,” Congreve said quietly. “With all due respect, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

  Charles said to Thorne, “Monty, you’ve made a private study of Uncle Dickie’s murder. Your thoughts?”

  Hawke looked over at Thorne. He’d arrived at the luncheon in a startling three-piece white suit, beautifully tailored, a sky blue silk tie, and a pair of shoes to make even Congreve seethe with envy. Traditional wingtips, but made of snow-white suede. In the grey world that was MI6, here was a strutting peacock of the first order.

  Thorne gently cleared his throat, looking around the table until he was sure all eyes were upon him before speaking.

  “I’m sure you’re all aware that, despite his heinous crime, Mr. McMahon is today a free man, having been released in the Good Friday Agreement. Outrageous, but there you have it. And, shortly after his release, Prince Charles receives a second death threat with an identical signature to the Mountbatten threat. Mere coincidence? Perhaps. But, as Chief Inspector Congreve so eloquently put it, ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ Therefore, we are looking at him again, hard. It is my position that Thomas McMahon is the most plausible suspect in this new threat.”