by Ted Bell
Reaching the top floor, the very kingdom of spookdom, Hawke returned the salutes of two more marines standing duty by the double doors to the secretary’s outer office. Both wore odd expressions, he thought, until he looked down at his own wardrobe.
Marines, apparently, were unaccustomed to visitors wearing flip-flops.
“Ah. Yes. Just flew up from the Bahamas,” he said as one of the marines pulled the door open. “Called the secretary from the plane. Wanted me to come directly from the airport. No time to change, you see.”
Entering the outer office, now feeling self-conscious about his appearance, he thought he saw a familiar face behind the reception desk.
“Sarah?” he said hopefully. Sarah? Sally? “It’s Alex Hawke. Remember me?”
A pretty, heavyset woman in her mid-forties looked up into his face. “Good Lord,” she said. “I mean, why, Lord Hawke! Well. What a surprise! I certainly don’t have you down in my book this early! Wonderful to see you, your lordship!”
Hawke started to say something, then bit his lip. He’d always found his title a little embarrassing and off-putting. He allowed no one to use his title except his butler, Pelham, who threatened to quit if he could not use his employer’s proper title. Still, this was hardly a time to press the issue.
“And you as well, Sarah,” Hawke said. “Now, look at you. You’ve changed your hair. It’s most becoming, I must say.”
“And look at you,” Sarah said, fighting the pink flush she knew was rising up her throat. “You look—”
“Dreadful,” Hawke said. “I know. Sorry. I just flew in, actually. Your boss insisted I come here straightaway so I had no time to, you know, tidy up.”
“They must be expecting you, Lord Hawke,” Sarah said. “Please go right in.”
The double mahogany doors swung open and Hawke strode into the secretary of state’s office.
“Hello, good looking! Bienvenidos!” the secretary said, moving toward him with her slender arms outstretched. She was tall and elegantly dressed. Something from Paris, Hawke guessed. Her glorious hair fell in a blue-black curtain to her shoulders.
Consuelo de los Reyes, only in office a few months, was already the most photographed secretary of state in history. You were just as likely to see her on the cover of W or Vanity Fair as on the cover of Time. Alex embraced his old friend and inhaled the familiar perfume.
“The new secretary, herself. You look absolutely gorgeous, Conch,” Alex said.
“And you look absolutely ridiculous, Hawke.”
Despite the wardrobe, she still found him impossibly attractive. Six-three and right around 180 pounds. The wavy black hair, going the slightest bit gray at the temples. The bushy black eyebrows over those intense blue eyes. The imperiously straight nose above the firm lips, the constant hint of mischief in the grin lurking around the mouth. In that cursory appraisal, she instantly remembered why she’d fallen so hard.
“Reporting as ordered, sir.” Hawke grinned, executing a snappy salute. “Straightaway from the airport. Your assistant said you told her to, quote, ‘get his ass over here.’”
“Yeah, well, pardon my effing French. I haven’t got all that bureaucratic protocol crap down yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Suggestion. Don’t ever get it down.”
Conch smiled. “Bingo. So you flew up here in that get-up?”
“The marines outside considered it quite a fashion statement. Not the foggiest what that statement is, nonetheless a statement.”
“Let’s see,” she said, rubbing her chin and eyeing him carefully. “I would call it Haute Margaritaville, as a matter of fact. Cute. Wildly inappropriate, but cute.”
The secretary was a huge fan of the American singer Jimmy Buffett. She’d gotten Alex hooked on him to the point where he now played Buffett CDs aboard his yacht and in his planes constantly. His current favorite, he noticed, was now playing softly in her office. “Beach House on the Moon.”
“Do me a small favor, Conch?”
“Name it.”
“Turn up ‘Beach House’ just a smidge?”
“No way,” she whispered. “And, please. I know it’s difficult but try and act professional. I’m the secretary of state now, Alex.”
Hawke smiled at her. “Oh, right. I forgot.”
“Yeah, well. Next time you see your pal the president, tell him to stop playing grabass with me every time I’m alone with him in the Oval Office, okay?”
“Yes, Madame Secretary.”
The secretary’s family, de los Reyes, was one of the oldest sugar families in Cuba. They’d lost thousands of acres when Fidel entered Havana, and the secretary’s father had moved his whole family to Key West. Bought a large Victorian just across the road from Truman’s Little White House. Consuelo had grown up a true citizen of the Conch Republic, bonefishing, drinking beer, swearing like a sailor.
After earning her doctorate in political science at Harvard, and before entering politics, Conch had taken a few years off. Returning to her beloved Florida Keys, she’d become one of the best bonefishing guides in the islands. Hawke had spent a week under her tutelage at Islamorada Key and fallen for her almost immediately.
In addition to being the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, she could spot the mere shadow of an elusive bone sliding over the shallows at sixty yards. After a glorious week in the Keys, fishing the flats, drinking beer, and listening to Buffett while the sun went down, he was hooked. That was all long ago, but it was a time neither of them had forgotten, nor were they likely to forget.
Conch took Hawke by the hand and led him across an expanse of richly colored Aubusson rug to the large windows overlooking the Lincoln Memorial. It was still snowing, but you could see the majestic structure where Lincoln sat.
“I see you’ve moved your office,” Hawke said.
“I did,” she replied. “To be able to see my hero over there. He helps me, Alex, I promise you. Now, let me introduce you to my colleagues.”
They entered a small anteroom the secretary often used for meetings like this one. On a large silk brocade sofa, two men unfamiliar to Hawke were seated, sipping coffee. Both stood up as they approached, and Consuelo did the introductions.
“This is Alexander Hawke, gentlemen. An old fishing buddy of mine. Alex, this is Jeremy Tate from the CIA and Jeffrey Weinberg, the deputy secretary of defense for nuclear matters. Both of them have been wetting their pants at the idea of meeting you.”
Both men uttered small coughing noises at this remark and stuck their hands out.
Alex shook hands with Weinberg, then Tate. The CIA chap had small eyes set in a porcine face. Aggressive type, Hawke thought, withdrawing his hand from Tate’s grip before any fingers were broken. Weinberg was tall, thin, and bushy-browed, looked like a rumpled academician from Harvard come to Washington with the new administration. Which is exactly what he was.
“What’s this? The latest from Savile Row?” Tate said, smirking at Hawke’s odd outfit. “I’ve always admired the British flair for understated elegance.”
Hawke had taken an instant dislike to the man. He ignored the comment and turned to Weinberg.
“What, exactly, do you do, Mr. Weinberg?”
“He’s a bomb baby-sitter,” Tate said.
“That’s not far from the truth,” Weinberg said, smiling. “I keep track of all our nuclear weapons, making sure every single one is under the command and control of the president.”
“Don’t fall for this false modesty bullshit, Alex,” Consuelo said. “He also monitors every single nuclear weapon possessed by any nation on earth. It is his primary task to identify and locate any weapon that may have fallen into the hands of terrorists. He’s the one that noticed a Borzoi had disappeared.”
“And once you’ve located them, what then?” Hawke asked Weinberg.
“I develop techniques and strategies to seize or neutralize such weapons. I believe the use of a nuclear weapon is a sin against humanity. I’m the lucky guy in charge
of global sin prevention.”
“I think I may have found you a whole boatload of sinners, Mr. Weinberg,” Hawke said. “Shall I begin?”
“Yes, of course,” Secretary de los Reyes replied. “Sit down, please, everyone. Coffee, Alex?”
“This Fiji water is fine, thank you,” Hawke said, pulling up a side chair and sitting down. He looked at each of them in turn before he started speaking.
“Yesterday afternoon, on Staniel Cay in the Exumas, I met with two Russian arms dealers. Based on information I’ve gathered since receiving the assignment, I felt they might be very helpful,” Hawke began. The CIA fellow pulled out a notebook and pen and started noisily turning the pages of his book. Hawke stared at him until he looked up. “Ready?” Hawke asked.
“Sure. Sorry,” Tate said, but he didn’t look it.
“Their names are Golgolkin and Bolkonski. The former being the one who did all the talking. Both are ex-Navy, Soviet Submarine Command at Vladivostok, childhood friends, classmates at the Academy. Am I going too fast for you?”
“No, no,” Tate said. “Go ahead.”
“I was shown a portfolio of weapons for purchase which I can describe in detail should anyone want to hear it. Soviet scuds, scud launchers, SAM-7’s, hovercraft. All the usual hardware and materiel, I can assure you.”
“Submarines?” Weinberg asked.
“No. I had to make that request specifically,” Hawke replied. “I told them I was interested in purchasing an Akula-class bomber.”
“You mean ‘boomer,’” Tate said.
“No. I mean bomber. You call them boomers. In the Royal Navy, we call them bombers.”
“Whatever. And what did the Russkies say?” Tate asked.
“They said they had an Akula. 1995-vintage Typhoon. Fifty million, half up front, half on delivery. Six months to get the vessel seaworthy and assemble a trained crew. Then delivery to the specified location.”
“I’m wondering,” Weinberg said. “Did you get any sense at all for whom they might be working?”
“None,” Hawke said. “I got the feeling they were independent agents. Of course, I could be wrong. Obviously, there’s some kind of infrastructure behind them. What they do is a bit more complicated than selling used autos.”
“What happened next, Alex?” the secretary asked.
“I told them I really wasn’t interested in the Akula I. I really wanted a Borzoi. They denied any knowledge of such a craft. After a bit of unpleasantness, they admitted the possibility that such a submarine might be purchased. I invited them aboard Blackhawke to continue negotiations. You’re looking for a Borzoi, these are your guys, all right.”
There was a heavy silence in the room. The secretary of state looked at Weinberg and mouthed the word bingo.
“Blackhawke?” Tate asked.
“My yacht,” Hawke said.
“Of course,” the CIA man said. “Your yacht.”
“Quite. I invited them to join me for dinner. I showed them the money provided me by your CIA station man in Nassau. After dinner, I invited them on a tour of the yacht. It was then that I offered them an immediate five million in earnest money if they met my conditions.”
“Good strategy, Alex,” the secretary said. “Bait the hook immediately.”
“Thank you. I told them I wanted a guaranteed six-month delivery. I wanted to personally inspect the boat before any commissioning took place. And, finally, as the secretary and I discussed, I said that I wanted to speak directly to their last purchaser as a confirming reference.”
The two men and Consuelo de los Reyes leaned forward to hear what he had to say next.
“How did they respond?” the secretary asked.
“They refused to reveal any names, of course. But, after a little, how shall I put it, prodding, they reconsidered.”
“Tell me. What did you find out, Alex?” the secretary asked, lines of anxiety forming around her eyes.
“That payment for the last submarine Mr. Golgolkin sold was wire-transferred to Golgolkin’s numbered account in Switzerland—”
“When would that have been?” Weinberg asked.
“He claims about six months ago.”
“Shit,” Tate said. “It’s on its way.” “Maybe,” Weinberg said. “Maybe not. Things happen to schedules. Anyway, please continue, Mr. Hawke. This is very good stuff indeed.”
“According to our boy, Golgolkin,” Alex continued, “the money was wired from a bank in Miami. The Sunstate Bank.”
“Were you able to get the account name?” Weinberg asked. He was leaning forward, excitement plain on his face.
“As a matter of fact, I was. The money was wired from an account in the name of Telaraña.”
“Telaraña,” the secretary said, standing and moving to the window. “Unbelievable!” She gazed out at the swirling snowfall. “Look out this window, Mr. Tate. See it? There goes your pan–Islamic jihad theory.”
Jeremy Tate frowned and sat back in his chair. It occurred to Hawke that he seemed almost disappointed to discover that the combined nations of Islam weren’t purchasing a weapon capable of killing millions.
“You’ve heard of this Telaraña, I take it, Madame Secretary?” Weinberg said. “I have not.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re damn right I’ve heard of Telaraña. A coterie of generals at the very top of Castro’s ladder. Three brothers, all dirty. Cocaine cowboys. I ordered our Cuban station to get all over them like white on rice, starting six months ago when we started getting sporadic tips of a possible coup. They take their name from a small island fortress they’ve been pouring tens of millions into. Telaraña. It means ‘the spider’s web.’”
“Sounds like these guys wouldn’t be much of an improvement over the status quo, Madame Secretary,” Weinberg said.
“Remember the old Cold War expression about dealing with the Russians?” de los Reyes asked. “‘Two steps forward, three steps back’? Should Telaraña successfully topple Castro, we would be looking at three steps backwards followed by three hundred steps backwards.”
“How’d you get all this stuff out of them?” Tate asked.
“Let’s say the Russians were encouraged to be forthcoming in our conversations,” Hawke said. “I didn’t hurt them, just scared them a bit. I might add that they didn’t take it very well.”
“What do you mean?” the secretary asked.
“I mean this little chap Bolkonski, a dead ringer for the mad monk, Rasputin, tried to kill me. Twice, actually.”
“Both unsuccessful attempts, obviously,” Tate said.
Alex looked at the man and held his eyes for a long moment before speaking. “This Telaraña. Anyone you know personally, Conch?” Alex asked.
“Not personally, no,” the secretary replied. “It’s basically the mafia. The Cuban-version mafia at any rate. The personal narco-fiefdom of Cuba’s top generals. They’ve built a huge military installation on an island just off Manzanillo. Telaraña is built on the site of one of the rebel general’s haciendas.”
“But of course you knew that,” Hawke said, smiling at Tate.
“All right, all right,” Conch said, quickly riding over the obvious animosity between Tate and Hawke. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I want immediate U-2 and Predator surveillance flights over the entire southwest coast of Cuba. I want a twenty-four-hour bird in the sky snapping pictures and gathering thermals of the Telaraña complex.”
“No problem,” Weinberg said.
“How many guys do we have on the ground in Cuba, Jeremy?” she asked Tate.
“A ton in Havana,” Tate said. “Out in the sticks, nada.”
“Rectify that. Like, today. I want our people fucking crawling all over Oriente province.”
“Right. And I’ll get us on the president’s calendar immediately,” Tate said.
Conch looked at him until he literally squirmed.
“Unless, of course, you’d rather handle that one personally, Madame Secretary?” Tate said.
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br /> She ignored him. “Good job, Alex. The president will be delighted to get this off his ‘to do’ list.”
“This Borzoi, it’s that bad, huh?” Tate asked.
“Our worst nightmare. Borzoi is huge,” Weinberg said. “She carries forty warheads, twenty on each wing. All sharp angles and planes, so no round surfaces to bounce back radar or sonar. Coated stem to stern with a three-foot-thick coating of some new absorptive substances the Russians developed. Vastly superior to the old Anechoic rubbercoating.”
“What’s that do?” Tate asked.
“Well, it means she’s virtually invisible to sonar, radar, you name it. She’s also got what’s commonly called a ‘decoupling’ coating, which dramatically reduces the amount of sound she puts into the water. She was going to be the Soviets’ last-ditch effort in an Armageddon showdown with the U.S. Navy.”
“A desperate come-from-behind finish,” Tate said, rubbing his chin.
“And now this nightmare contraption is in the hands of some very unstable Cubans,” Conch said, getting to her feet and walking over to the window overlooking Lincoln’s memorial. “Sweet Jesus.”
Snow had become a hard sleeting rain beating against the windowpanes of Dr. Victoria Sweet’s two-hundred-year-old brick townhouse. In her ground-floor office, a crackling fire kept the chill outside at bay. It was late afternoon, and the gray light was fading rapidly from the skies of the nation’s capital, especially the snowy, tree-lined streets of Georgetown.
Still, the woman lowered the light from the red-shaded lamps by the couch where the man was lying, and said, “Enough light?”
“It’s fine, thank you.”
She pulled a chair closer to the couch and sat down, crossing her long legs. There was the faintest whisper of silk on silk as she did so.
“Comfy?” she asked.
“Quite.”
“Then let’s begin, shall we?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“What would you like to talk about today?”
“My addiction.”
“Addiction? I wasn’t aware that you had one.”
“Neither was I. Until quite recently, that is.”
“Are we talking about drugs? Food? Alcohol?”