Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  “Franklin De Marco, Harry,” he said, shaking his hand but looking over Brock’s shoulder at two spangled and suntanned blondes in stacked heels just sliding in right through the front door. Cougar Cruisers headed for the bar, but God bless ’em, they pulled in the gents. Short, most of them, Franklin joked privately, until they stood on their wallets.

  Franklin tore his eyes away from these two human commercials, flicking them briefly at Harry, and said, “I am the owner of Taboo. Mr. Jones here is one of my favorite customers. Never orders just one of anything. Detective Garcia has already arrived, Mr. Jones. I gave her one of our very best banquette tables in the Jungle Room. Follow me, won’t you?”

  “Driver?” Harry hissed at Stoke as they trailed Franklin past the long bar, every stool occupied by beautiful human females with a wide variety of breasts and with large frothy cocktails on the bar in front of them.

  “What?”

  “You just introduce me to the owner as your driver?”

  Stoke said, “Yeah, well, whatever.”

  “Wait, is that a fireplace?”

  “Yep.”

  “In July? What the—?”

  “Hey, Michelle,” Stoke said, kissing her cheek as he slid in next to her on the banquette. Harry took the chair facing the two of them. He couldn’t quite get over the surprise of Detective Garcia. She was a total babe. Silky black hair that fell to her shoulders, beautiful face, and a body that—

  “Harry, this person you’re staring at is my old friend Detective Michelle Garcia, Palm Beach PD. Michelle, Harry Brock, CIA spook, Washington.”

  She extended her hand across the table and shook Harry’s hand, giving him a friendly smile. And, wait, she’s nice, Harry thought, already moving into a rose-covered cottage and having plump pink babies with her. You never knew. Stranger things have happened.

  The waitress came over, smiled knowingly at Stoke, and took their drink and food orders. “Be right back,” she said.

  Harry said, “So, Detective. Nice to meet you.”

  “Call me Michelle, okay? Nice to meet you, too, Harry.”

  “Palm Beach PD. Tough gig, huh? So, how do you and Stokely know each other?”

  Stoke glanced at Michelle, rolling his eyes—This guy is not my fault.

  “Well. We worked a few cases together over the years. I started out with DEA down in Key West after Quantico, before I came up here to paradise. I’m the one who arranged to find Stokely a nice room out at the Glades Motel. I’ll be driving him out Southern to Belle Glade and officially turning him over at three.”

  “Nice, really nice,” Harry said for no apparent reason.

  She looked at Stoke, who was no help at all, and said, “Well, you know, we’re old friends, and—”

  High society. Everybody in the place chatting up a damn storm while Stoke, thinking only about Sharkey and the danger he’d put him in, sat and watched the clock over the bar. He looked across the table at Brock, saw all his sunny charm and California surfer sunshine beamed at Michelle.

  “Harry, listen up. You know that fat dickhead tried to kill me in my own damn condo? Bashir al Mahmoud or whatever? Turns out Bashi used to own one of the largest houses on the beach here in PB. Billionaire’s Row, they call it. Rod Stewart was his next-door neighbor. I ran his name, saw the former address, ran it by Michelle, and it turns out she busted him once. Few years ago. It didn’t stick, but she learned a whole lot about him.”

  “What’d you bust him for, Michelle?” Harry asked, big smile, trying really hard to be a swell handsome guy who, at the very same time, was just, darn it all, naturally curious about law enforcement matters.

  “Drugs. White slavery, child prostitution. And soliciting minors. Bashi, that’s what he called himself, had some woman recruiting little girls for him. She’d cruise some of the poorer neighborhoods over in West Palm, parks, playgrounds, chat up pretty young girls on the sidewalk, tell them how easily they could make a few hundred dollars. In one hour. Just go with her over to Palm Beach to this really rich guy’s mansion on the beach and give him a massage. No sex, just a straight massage. Of course it was always more than that.”

  “What a dick.”

  “Tell him the rest, Michelle.”

  “Well, Mike, that’s when Mike Reiter, our former chief, now FBI director, had us put a surveil on the woman who worked for Bashi. Every week she’d drive over to PBI airport in West Palm, sometimes even Orlando or Lauderdale, and meet planes coming in from Morocco, Saudi Arabia, or Caracas via New York.

  “We’d check them out, alert Immigration. Young guys, all clean-cut, clean visas, no Interpol red flags, nothing. She’d take them to the Marriott up in Jupiter, check them in, then she’d head back to Bashi’s beach blanket bingo party pad over on South Ocean till the next batch flew in.”

  Harry said, “This woman, what’d she look like?”

  “Oh, you know the type. Blond, Victoria’s-Secret-model type. Tall.”

  “We know the type all right,” Stoke said to Michelle. “She’s working South Beach now. Or, at least she was. Right, Harry?”

  “We’ve got Bashi in custody, Michelle,” Harry said, a teeny bit defensive. “Illegal entry, attempted murder.”

  “Who the hell he try to off?” Michelle asked.

  “Me,” Stoke said.

  “Why?”

  “I know what his girlfriend looks like.”

  “And now?”

  “Not talking. He’s all clammed up.”

  Brock said, “Waterboard the fat piece of shit, then.”

  “Can’t. Now illegal to get prisoners wet. Might catch a case of the sniffles. End up in their jammies in sick bay. Do you know how much that would cost the government in Cold Care Plus alone?”

  “God save America,” Brock said. “I think we’ve lost it.”

  “Airboard him,” Stoke suddenly said, “is what I’d do.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. These guys Bashi’s been bringing in from the Middle East,” Stoke said. “They come here, scatter, disappear after a month or so. Maine to California. But one thing. Know where they all end up? Same damn place. Stir. Commit some crime, armed robbery, assault, anything sufficient to land them in the joint. So you gotta ask yourself why?”

  “Missionaries,” Michelle Garcia said. “That’s what we call ’em anyway.”

  “What’s that?” Harry asked.

  “It’s what they are in prison for,” Detective Garcia said. “Spread the word of radical Islamism throughout this country. And tell the newly converted what they are supposed to do with that new knowledge. Primarily, what these young men are brought to America for is to spread the gospel. It is ridiculously obvious. But you think anyone in D.C. is concerned about this? Masses of immigrants here to recruit naive U.S. prisoners, in effect, captive audiences, to earn the Islamic Gangbanger Ph.D. degree? Doctorates in hating the American infidels? No one is even looking at this problem, much less talking about it. It is, or will be, a huge problem for this country when these guys start hitting the street and spreading the word. Believe me.”

  “I believe you, Michelle,” Stoke said.

  “Great. I got one guy who thinks this is serious.”

  Harry said, “So this is the deal. They do the crime to do the time, get released, hit the Greyhound stations, get anonymous jobs all over the country, and then—”

  Stoke sighed and rubbed his reddened eyes with his knuckles and said, “Blow us up. Scare the living shit out of all of us. From the inside out. Cheapest damn form of warfare in history. Get enough of these assholes operating around the country, raising hell in every town, sooner or later they shut us down, the whole damn country. Nazis couldn’t do it. Japanese couldn’t do it. Russians couldn’t do it. But these guys? Shit.”

  Harry said, “I’m with you, Stoke. I’m down with everything you just said. I really respect what you’re doing today. Going inside, I mean.” Stoke just stared at him until he turned away.

  Garcia said, “Big Black Musl
im gang operating inside the Glades. Recruiting migrant workers, hardened cons, and anyone else they can get their hands on. It’s one of the first fully franchised gangs we saw in the system. Now they number in the thousands. Sword of Allah. Get cane workers, local black and white farm kids, in for minor offenses, kids who don’t know any better, talk about how America enslaves them all, always has, how to do something about it. Strike back at the Great Satan.”

  The food came and Stoke was happy to see it. He shut up, just thinking about not this gorgeous cheeseburger, or the next one after that, but the one after that. When he was out. When he’d learned whatever he had to learn inside the Glades, got his friend Sharkey out alive, his virginity intact. But first he’d figure out who was behind the radical gang culture growing in the prison system.

  Not just Florida, either, or California; these gangs were everywhere, ultimately threatening everybody in his whole damn country. It was just a matter of time until they started running around like those ragheads in Kabul, blowing shit up. These guys really pissed him off, threatening Americans on their home turf, still the home of the brave and the land of the free.

  He hadn’t spent the best years of his life in Nam for this. Lost all those brave boys, his buddies, the SEAL platoon he commanded and loved with all his heart, all those young kids calling out to their mamas when they died, ripped to shreds by Charlie, guts spilling out of their stomachs, Stoke trying to hold their insides inside them with his hands.

  This new enemy would pay, all right, just like he’d made the VC pay, one way or another. You could listen to the media. Or you could listen to your heart. This was the greatest country the world had ever produced. And anyone who wanted to try and bring it down was going to pay dearly for the privilege.

  He knew a whole shitload of people who felt exactly the same way he did. Take the fight to them. Wherever you found them, get right up in their face. And keep fighting until every last one of the bastards bit the dust.

  He stuck an onion ring inside his burger and took a big bite, feeling a whole lot better about what he was about to do inside the Glades. He was doing his duty and that was the only thing he knew that was really worth doing. One thing for damn sure. He was going to penetrate these radical Islamic sons of bitches, learn their plans, and break their goddamn backs on the wheel of American justice.

  And if he couldn’t waterboard ’em, he’d airboard their asses. At night. That’s right. Threaten to throw them the fuck out of Black Hawk choppers deep into the Everglades. Talk, or you’re gator bait, pal. Congress hadn’t outlawed that yet, had they? Airboarding? You always had to stay one step ahead of these criminal-coddling nannies up in Washington, else they’d put an end to America soon as they could.

  “Stoke?” Michelle said. “Sorry. Time to go.”

  “Yeah,” Stoke said, looking at his watch. “Listen up, Harry.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You take the turnpike back to Miami. Not 95, OK? Safer. No trucks allowed. You keep your speed at 55. Not 56, 55. You don’t talk on your cell, you don’t text anybody, you don’t even turn on the radio. All you do is drive. Okay? Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Thing is, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, see? You’re my bud, right? We partners, right? Got each other’s backs?”

  “And all this has got absolutely nothing to do with the GTO, right, Stoke?”

  “The GTO? Damn, you insult me. That GTO sitting out there? Stopping traffic on Worth Avenue even as we speak? That’s just metal, my brother. Metal and rubber and plastic. You? You’re a human being, Harry. You are a gift from God.”

  “Gee, thanks, Stoke. I love you, too, man.”

  “But I swear to God, Harry, you put one scratch on that car and I will rip your tiny testicles off and feed them to you one at a time. I will then stick cotton so far down your throat it will come out your ass, make you look like a goddamn Playboy Bunny. Are we clear?”

  “You two boys having a problem or something?” Michelle asked innocently.

  “Problem? Nah, we cool,” Stoke said. “Cool Hand Brock here is driving my GTO back to Miami. Most likely with the top down. While I’m going straight to goddamn jail. You see a problem?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  LONDON

  C’S OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR of MI6 Headquarters, an odd architectural mix of the new, the newer, and the newest, was located at 85 Albert Embankment in Vauxhall on the banks of the Thames. It was a far cry from the Service’s rather grotty old digs near Regent’s Park, but then Hawke usually preferred the old rather than the new when it came to architecture.

  Sir David Trulove’s private sanctuary, however, was pleasantly reminiscent of a captain’s cabin dating from Admiral Lord Nelson’s era. Varnished wood paneling, electrified oil lamps on gimbals, period mahogany furniture, valuable marine art on the walls, a brass chronometer and barometer standing to either side of the model of Admiral Lord Nelson’s Victory atop the carved mantelpiece.

  The only things missing in C’s lovely office, Hawke observed once to Congreve, were portholes.

  It was Monday morning, a few days following the harrowing but profitable visit he and Congreve had paid to Mutton Island. After Hawke had a series of meetings with British Army intelligence officers for Northern Ireland, Ambrose had remained in Ireland, he and Drummond returning to the island with the Yard’s Scene of Crime lads for a thorough forensic examination of the entire scene. Lab results from the human gallstone found at the scene had not yet been released.

  Hawke, who loathed meetings of any type, now found himself in the middle of yet another one, no matter how congenial he found the surroundings. In addition to Hawke, C had invited his protégé Montague Thorne to this command performance. Thorne, the reigning expert on all matters Pakistani, Indian, and Afghani, and an American fellow, CIA, who introduced himself to Hawke as Abdul Dakkon.

  Dakkon was tall and lean with black eyes, swarthy good looks, and a neatly trimmed black beard. Hawke put him in his late thirties. He was Moroccan, he said, born in Tangier. Despite his navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, he had the unmistakable look of an agent who’d spent most of his life out in the field. An unremittingly harsh field, Hawke surmised from the looks of him. Somehow, he’d lost his right arm. The empty sleeve of his jacket was sewn across his chest, in the same fashion that Admiral Lord Nelson had dealt with the issue.

  Also present, his old friend and new lover, the nuclear physicist and counterterror expert from MI5. Sahira seemed to have dressed knowing Hawke would be present. A short blue skirt and a tight-fitting white silk blouse that left little to the imagination. She was wearing glasses, perusing an impossibly thick binder, presumably filled with schematics of fission-fusion thermonuclear weapons. Fascinating stuff, Hawke imagined, from the intensity with which she studied each page. He could hardly wait to read it himself.

  Anything to keep him from staring at Sahira.

  Genius, Hawke had read somewhere, was the ability to hold two completely discrete thoughts in your mind at the same time. Miss Karim, in addition to studying her binder, was simultaneously carrying on a very involved conversation with Montague Thorne regarding the resurgence of the Taliban in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

  The only one missing at the moment was Sir David himself, running late apparently, and Hawke contented himself with sipping the horrid company coffee and gazing surreptitiously at Miss Karim while she and Thorne now chatted about the very real possibility of war breaking out between Pakistan and India.

  The Allies were tiring of this seemingly unwinnable war even though the consequences of losing it could be apocalyptic.

  C burst in suddenly, apologized in his typically perfunctory manner, and eased himself into his leather chair just to the right of the fireplace. He looked frightfully cheerful for this ungodly hour on a Monday morning, and Hawke’s guard went up involuntarily.

  Sir David got his pipe going, smiled at Hawke, and said, “How was your abbreviated island holiday in Northern Ireland, Alex?”<
br />
  “Adrenaline fueled, I would say, sir.”

  “So I gather. You made good progress, however?”

  “We did indeed.”

  “If you could possibly spare a few minutes after this meeting, I’d like to hear about it in some detail. Are you available?”

  One was always available.

  “Of course, sir,” Hawke said.

  “Well, then, let’s get down to the matters at hand, shall we? In light of the current events in his specific region of interest, Mr. Thorne has agreed to provide a brief overview of the current political situation vis-à-vis Pakistan. Monty?”

  Thorne stood and began passing around thin MI6 binders marked “MOST SECRET” on the red covers. Even his physical movements, Hawke noticed, were polished, at once economic and elegant. He glanced at Sahira to see if she was watching him too. She wasn’t.

  Thorne sat down and said, “Thank you, sir. Inside those binders you’ll find a summary of what we in my section have taken to calling the ‘Second Nuclear Age.’ To say what we’ve learned is ‘disturbing’ would be a grave understatement. We estimate that Pakistan has at least one hundred nuclear warhead-tipped missiles hidden inside the country. Some of them are known to be located just beyond the perimeter of the Islamabad airport. The infamous Dr. Khan has reestablished a facility for creating nuclear weapons there as well.

  “We have no idea where, of course, and their government refuses to tell us despite our expressed concerns about the security of those weapons. To make matters worse, they are building more all the time in laboratory compounds on the edge of the Islamabad airport. You will find sat recon photos of the referenced area in Section Two.

  “What happens or fails to happen at those two compounds is far more likely to save or lose a British or American city than are the billions our two countries spend each year maintaining our nuclear arsenals. Designed for a different age, America and Britain’s combined nuclear arsenals are, in my opinion, the new Maginot Line in the age of terror: huge, scary, and, I’m afraid, fundamentally useless.