Hawke: A Novel

by Ted Bell

  She looked at her watch but somehow couldn’t see what time it was. Her watch seemed to be shimmering, hazy. Couldn’t be that late anyway, she thought, and called Amen over to order another of whatever they were called.

  “Good evening,” a man said, suddenly appearing on the stool next to hers. “I buy you drink?”

  He had a thick accent, Hungarian or something Slavic, she decided. Russian? Dark hypnotic eyes and long straight hair pulled back into a ponytail. Thin face, long nose, all dressed in black. Exotic. Interesting. A little scary, but interesting.

  “I have one very strict rule,” Vicky said, smiling at her new friend. “I only drink when I’m alone, or with somebody. So, I guess I’ll accept.”

  It was one of Alex’s old jokes and she laughed even though he didn’t. She thought she was funny and if nobody else did, so what? He just kept staring at her with those crazy eyes. Good thing she couldn’t focus very well because she’d swear he was trying to hypnotize her.

  “What’s your name?” Vicky asked him.

  “I’m Grigory.”

  “Nice to meet you, Grigory. I’m drunk.” She giggled and stuck out her hand. He shook it and his hands were hot and moist.

  “You stay here, on this little island?” he asked, leaning toward her. He was stirring his drink with his long white finger.

  “Me? Oh, hell no. I’m on the QEII out there.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Elizabeth, Mary, some old queen. See it out there, all lit up?”

  “Oh. Such a beautiful yacht. To whom does it belong?”

  “Oh, a friend of mine.”

  “Not Alexander Hawke?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not well. Only by reputation, of course. He is famous, you know.”

  “Really? For what? Oh, thanks, Amen. Cut me off after this one, okay? I’ve bagged my limit. Sorry, what did you say, uh, Grigory, is it?”

  “Is not important. You and your friend are here long?”

  “A week or two, I think.”

  “That long? How boring. Whatever will you do all day?”

  Boring? His eyes were boring into hers. Is that what he meant? Boring? No. He wanted to know what she was going to do all day. That was it. Well, something exciting and glamorous, that’s for sure. What? This European sophisticate expected something exotic, she was pretty sure about that.

  “Well, I don’t know, exactly,” she said finally. She was having trouble remembering why she was even here. “Oh, I know! Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to a place called Hog Island. Doesn’t that sound like fun? There’s a blind pig there named Betty. Have you heard of her?”

  “Oh yes, she’s quite famous in these islands. Well, good-bye. My pleasure speaking with you, Miss—”

  “Sweet,” she said. “Like sugar.”

  The strange man was gone. Poof, like in a horror movie.

  She scanned the dance floor for Stoke, but everyone looked the same. She thought she saw Ambrose chatting up the blonde in the far corner but he was a bit blurry. She felt uneasy. She looked for Amen. Maybe some coffee would be good. She called him but he couldn’t hear her above all the hubbub.

  Suddenly, she needed air.

  She climbed off the stool, pressed herself into the writhing mass on the dance floor, and headed for the door, smashing through the bodies, desperate for a gulp of fresh air. She was outside. She seemed to have acquired a glass of delicious dark rum. The moon was so bright, it seemed like another day had begun.

  Steps led down to the beach. She walked along the surf and found a little stand of palms with a great view of the harbor. Soft, powdery white sand in the moonlight. Blackhawke all ablaze out on the horizon. She sat beneath the whispering palms, sipping the rum, enjoying herself immensely, finally drifting into a lovely tropical dream.

  Stokely and Ambrose, having searched most of the island, finally found her on the beach about half an hour later, sound asleep under a coconut palm. Stoke threw her over his shoulder and they carried her back to the waiting launch.

  “Girl fell asleep,” he said to Brian, who was driving the boat. “Long day. Needs a good night’s rest and she’ll be good as new.”

  Vicky woke briefly, said something incomprehensible, and then collapsed with her head on Ambrose’s shoulder. She snored deeply all the way across the bay.

  Stoke was right.

  It had been a long day. But the long days were really just beginning.

  34

  At eight o’clock in the morning, Commander Zukov was summoned to the main finca to breakfast alone with General Manso de Herreras. Two heavily armed guards posted outside the dining room waved him inside. Manso was seated at the huge table all alone, drinking a solitary glass of fruit juice. A place setting of solid gold had been set opposite the general and he motioned for Zukov to sit down. He did so, but waved away the approaching waiter. The general stared at him for an eternity before speaking.

  “This fucking Russian who sold me the submarine. Golgolkin. You know him?”

  “Yes, slightly,” Zukov said. “Black Fleet. Vladivostok. At one time, a promising officer.”

  “Then?”

  “The cliché Soviet scenario. Peace, vodka, and women. One night he surfaced without periscope surveillance and struck one of our own destroyers in the South China Sea. Considerable loss of life. That was it.”

  “He has come here, the idiot, begging for his life.”

  “General. Tell me. What has he done?”

  “Done? Put everything in jeopardy! Everything! Met with some fucking Englishman named Hawke in the Exumas a week ago. Trying to peddle the second Borzoi, I hear. The Englishman apparently asks a lot of questions and Golgolkin gives a lot of answers. My sources in Washington say the Englishman was in the American capital the very next day! Bastard! I initiated reprisals against this Hawke, using Golgolkin’s contacts at the Russian embassy. But they, too, were disastrous.”

  “What will you do?”

  “What I always do. Go through, not around.”

  “I will deal with Golgolkin. He is an embarrassment.”

  “No. Bring him to me. I may have one last use for him.”

  Zukov opened the door to the fat Russian’s room without knocking. There were three naked girls in his bed. One leapt up, a short, chubby little thing with enormous breasts bouncing, and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Zukov couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.

  “The majordomo told me you were ill and could not come down for your breakfast,” Zukov said. “You were missed.”

  “I am better now,” Golgolkin said, the two men speaking in Russian. Leaning back against the pillows, one fat pink arm around each of the two girls, he said, “Room service.”

  “Fidel is scheduled to go before the cameras in three hours. He is refusing to step down. Two of the brothers want to shoot him.”

  “I have bigger problems,” the Russian said, and drained a beaker of orange juice and vodka.

  “Yes, you do, comrade. El nuevo comandante, General Manso de Herreras, wants to see you. Now.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m to bring you to him. You’d better tell your little playmates goodbye and come with me.”

  “Comrade Zukov, I need help. I have made a mess of this. I am probably a dead man. But you owe me, Zukov. You have a submarine under your feet again, thanks to me.”

  “I will do what I can, Comrade Golgolkin. That’s all I can promise. I work for the Cubans, now, not the Russians.”

  “That fucking Englishman Hawke is responsible for this mess! He made me tell. It wasn’t vodka talking. I swear it. I was going to die. He was going to kill me and Grigory without a thought.”

  Zukov looked away from the pitiful spectacle on the bed. He had other things on his mind.

  “Get dressed. He’s waiting. I’ll be outside.”

  Golgolkin sighed, climbed out of the bed, and pulled on a bathing suit imprinted with cartoon exploding Cuban ciga
rs. He saw his soiled white guayabera on the floor at the foot of the bed and he shouldered himself into it. Fear was rising in his stomach and the sour taste of it overpowered the vodka and orange juice he’d been drinking since sunrise.

  Golgolkin did not expect to see the sun set on this day. He turned to the two girls remaining in his bed.

  “If I’m still alive at sundown, we’ll go for a nice swim,” he said, patting them both on their heads. He smiled and walked out into the sun. Zukov was just outside his door, leaning against the balcony rail of the finca, smoking a yellow cigarette.

  “Want one?” he asked, offering the pack. “Egyptian Deities. You can only find them here.”

  “It may be time for me to start smoking,” Golgolkin said. “Life being so unpredictable, eh, comrade?” He took one. Zukov thrust his lighter at him and the man flicked it, lighting the cigarette. The lighter was solid gold, with a ruby hammer and sickle, and Golgolkin turned it over in his hand, the sun striking the red stones.

  “There was one pretty good Marx, you know, comrade. Julius Henry Marx. Groucho,” Golgolkin said.

  “Follow me,” Zukov said, and strode off, making his way through thick stands of palm trees toward the beach. Golgolkin struggled to keep up, huffing and puffing his cigarette. Most Muscovites find it hard to learn to walk in sand, he’d noticed. Not Zukov.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the beach,” Zukov said, expelling a cloud of smoke that wafted back. “You see that big yellow finca over in the trees? With all the guards? That is where they are holding Fidel and his son Fidelito. The Maximum Leader’s future, too, is very uncertain at this point.”

  “There is no need to torture me, Zukov.”

  “Cheer up, comrade. The odds are in your favor. Two out of three brothers want to kill Fidel. Only one wants to shoot you.”

  They arrived at a small crescent of a bay, rimmed with palms leaning almost horizontally out over the surf. Manso sat with his back against one such tree, quietly smoking a cigar. He had his old machete next to him, the blade buried halfway in the sand.

  “Please sit,” he said, and Zukov translated the Spanish into Russian.

  “Cohiba?” he asked, pulling a crocodile cigar case from his shirt pocket and offering it to both men. “El jefe’s favorite.”

  “No, gracias,” Zukov said for both of them. Golgolkin’s complexion was already green enough from the cigarette. A cigar would not help.

  “Comrade Golgolkin,” Manso said, leveling his eyes at the arms dealer. “I am sorry to hear that you are not feeling well.”

  The Russian nodded. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees. He seemed incapable of speech.

  “This should help,” Manso said, and he picked up a large ripe coconut lying in the sand directly in front of Golgolkin.

  “The macheteros say the milk of the coconut has miraculous powers,” Manso said. “It can cure practically anything. All you have to do is cut its head off and drink. Like this.”

  As Zukov translated this, Manso tossed the coconut high into the air, waited for it to begin its descent, and then whipped his machete from the sand. The blade of Manso’s machete caught the sun as it slashed the falling fruit in mid-air, neatly clipping off the top third of the coconut. Manso caught the coconut itself in his free hand, splashing some milk into Golgolkin’s lap.

  “Cures everything except, of course,” Manso said, getting to his feet and handing the dripping coconut to Golgolkin, “a stupid fucking cowardly heart. Drink!”

  “Colonel, please! I beg—”

  “Shut your mouth. I said drink!” Manso stepped behind the Russian and held the machete at his throat. A thin red line of blood appeared where the knife pierced his flesh.

  “Drink!”

  Golgolkin looked at Zukov, pleading with his eyes, and said nothing. He splashed some coconut milk into his trembling mouth.

  “You must be curious, comrade, as to why you are still alive, no?” Manso said, releasing him.

  Golgolkin, his head lowered, whispered yes.

  “You were incredibly stupid to come here to Telaraña, Golgolkin. One wants to say suicidal.”

  “I-I wanted to warn you about the Americans. Prove my loyalty. And this man, Hawke. Help you to—”

  “Silencio! First, you betray me to this fucking Englishman,” Manso said. “Then you and your personal geniuses at your Russian embassy in Washington somehow bungle a simple assassination. You blow up a fucking waiter instead of the target, but still manage to bring both the CIA and the FBI down on our heads. And your response to all this? At an exact moment in time when everything for my country, I mean everything, hangs in the balance? Climb in bed with some whores and get drunk.”

  “In fairness, Colonel,” Zukov said after translating. “He was—”

  “Fairness? Don’t be ridiculous. I am not finished with this cowardly pig. Is he still listening to me?” Manso forced more coconut milk down the gagging man’s throat. “Does he listen?”

  Zukov nodded as a red-eyed Golgolkin swallowed, heaved, and sputtered, spewing the whitish liquid on the sand and making mewling noises at the same time.

  “He’s listening.”

  “Tell him I am giving him one final chance. One. Does he understand?”

  “He says anything, Colonel. He will die trying anything to redeem himself to you.”

  “Yes, he probably will. Listen extremely carefully. I want this Alexander Hawke neutralized. His nose out of my fucking business. My people in Washington say Hawke has returned with his woman to the Caribbean.”

  Golgolkin uttered something in guttural and unintelligible Russian.

  “He wants to kill this man Hawke for you, Colonel,” Zukov said. “He swears that he will bring you his head or die in the trying.”

  Manso threw down the coconut and looked up into the whispering palm fronds, composing himself.

  “I’ll have Hawke’s head. Believe me, Zukov, I will. But, for the present, no. Hawke has too many friends in Washington, including the White House. I don’t care how it’s done, but I want this Hawke out of the picture until the time is right for his execution.”

  “There is another plan. Rodrigo’s. He says some kind of a kidnapping—”

  “Rodrigo has told me this new plan. Execute it. He has a genius for these things, Commander Zukov. He is my most trusted and valued comrade. Keep him close by you.”

  “Sí, Comandante. He is waiting now aboard the José Martí. We shove off for the Exumas in three hours. Immediately after the dedication ceremony.”

  “You will not fail me. Nor will Rodrigo. Do you understand me, Zukov?”

  Zukov nodded his head.

  Manso stuck the machete back inside his belt. As he turned to go, he slammed his fist against Golgolkin’s nose. The sound of the small bones breaking and the resulting gush of blood made him smile for the first time all morning.

  “Won’t you join me, Commander?” he asked Zukov. “On this lovely morning?”

  Manso and the Russian submarine driver strode off through the palms, leaving Golgolkin blubbering in the sand. They headed in the direction of the large yellow finca. El jefe would be coming around by now. After last evening’s heavy sedation, Manso had ordered the doctors to give him a cocktail injection of methamphetamines at sunrise.

  “I must speak of something delicate. I can count on your discretion?”

  “It goes without saying.”

  “It is regarding my brother, Admiral de Herreras.”

  “Sí, Comandante?”

  “He is—how to say it—unpredictable. You would do well to keep an eye on him. I have told Rodrigo the same thing.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  “The navy is his. The José Martí is yours. You understand me?”

  “Sí, Comandante.”

  “The Cuban naval officers you’ve interviewed, they are ready to go?”

  “They have much to learn, but they are eager.”

  “These are your
orders,” Manso said, withdrawing a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket. “The Borzoi shakedown cruise now becomes your first active mission as a commander in the Cuban navy.”

  “Muchas gracias, Comandante,” he said. “I can never thank you enough for this great opportunity.”

  “I leave you to the final preparations for your fabulous submarine’s first real sea duty. I am going now to have a word with el jefe.”

  Manso turned to go, stopped, and looked Zukov in the eye.

  “One more thing,” he said. “I never want to lay eyes on that fat Russian traitor again. I would dearly love to lop off his ugly head. But he knows this Hawke, and he knows his boat and its location. Use him on your mission, if you can, and then feed him to the fishes. Or I’d be happy to introduce him to Rodrigo and his little silver scissors.”

  “He may prove useful,” Zukov said. “Either way, you will never see him again, General.”

  Manso walked away, whipping his pistol out of his holster. A magnificent weapon. It was a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter, plated in solid gold with pearl handlegrips. It had been a gift from Escobar. All the pilots had received one on the final Christmas. He had not killed anyone with it yet. Out of habit, he checked the clip to see if it was loaded.

  It was.

  He found el jefe sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. His breakfast tray, untouched, sat on a table by the open window. Manso pulled up a chair and sat facing the old man.

  “Jefe,” Manso said, “I have something to show you.”

  The comandante looked up at him, his eyes shot red with blood.

  “I have nothing left to see,” he said.

  “No. You have this left to see.” Manso handed him a yellowed manila envelope, tied with string.

  “What is this?”

  “Open it.”

  His fingers were shaking as he untied the string that sealed the flap. He was muttering something under his breath but Manso didn’t bother to try to understand. He was watching the old man’s eyes as he pulled out a sheaf of faded brown-and-white photographs.

  “Mercedes Ochoa,” el jefe said.

  “You recognize her.”

  “Of course.”